Professional Marxist revolutionary Rupert Whittington, 58, has realised that he is, in fact, The Man.
“It came as quite a shock, yeah?” he told reporters on Friday evening, over a nice little dinner at the Auberge du Lion d’Or. Washing down foie gras and filet de bœuf « Angus » d’Irlande asperges vertes, poêlée de chanterelles, gnocchi dorés with a bottle of Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon White Gold, Whittington laughed off rumours that he has left his Marxist roots for a life of capitalist indulgence. “The struggle has to continue. There are literally tons of disenfranchised minorities, blacks, gays, Pakis, lesbians, women, retards, Muslims, terrorists, I mean what Americans call terrorists, three-legged dogs, they have a lot of those in Greece, because of capitalism, and they have fleas so you shouldn’t touch them. And as a politically correct socially conscious human being, and a high-ranking member of the UN, it is my responsibility to continue the fight on their behalf.”
Whittington was born into a white middle class household. After graduating from Oxford, he made a career as a UN bureaucrat, presenting himself for decades as a poor, downtrodden, marginalised, starving, beaten, oppressed freedom fighter in a world full of rich fascists. “Then I realised I live in a 10-bedroom house, not a mansion by any means, actually we’re thinking of moving up the property ladder to a nice little chateau, has its own vineyard and we can get some Arab workers in cheap, but it’s quite nice all the same, and then there’s my little cottage in the country, and the Bentley, and I can send the sprogs to Harvard. My eldest, Tristan, just emptied a bucket of offal over a white professor. Little rascal!” Whittington helped himself to a generous soufflé léger aux framboises passionnées. “Yes, alas, I can no longer say of myself, I am extremely disadvantaged and oppressed, not like the old days where I just had an Audi and had to eat pizza, and drink that frightful rot they have in the supermarkets. I don’t know why people shop in supermarkets. And why does everyone think they need a car? It takes me an eon to drive to work in the morning. All these people in their Volkswagens. Why don’t they just take the bus, or stay at home?”
Whittington waved across the restaurant at a red-faced man in an Armani suit. “That’s David. He’s a judge. All the judges and the politicians and the pigs, I mean the police, are on our side now, all good socially-conscious types, progressive. It is, with some surprise, that I must admit, I am ‘the Man’. But the fight must continue. Another drink? Don’t worry, it all goes on expenses anyway.”
As Whittington stumbled to his Bentley, he confided, “We are now in the position of the Allies in 1945. We have won. And we must treat the conservatives, the Christians, the white people, the fascists, as the Allies treated the Nazis and the Japs. Bomb them to extinction. Destroy their culture. We have a duty, a proud duty, an onerous proud duty, to stamp the Nazis down into the ground, to fight for the minorities. Look at all those Muslims in jail, 70% of prisoners in France are Muslim, that’s terrible, these poor people, we have to protect them, I have to nurture them. They can all live with me, that’s why I need a big car, to carry them all in the boot, and that’s why I need the chateau, and my wine cellar. Muslims don’t drink wine, do they? Must get some beer in, or whatever they fancy. Ciao!”
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