Abergavenny man goes in search of a Far-Right dog!

WHEN Labour’s Nature Minister Jenny Riddell-Carpenter announced quite solemnly at last week’s party conference that she “stays awake at night” haunted by a “very far-Right nostalgic vision of Britain” littered with black Labradors, pints of ale, and pubs that don’t exist, for a lot of people who live outside the confines of Labour’s mothership, it was a WTF! Moment.

However, where some see the fantastical ravings of a disturbed mind, others see opportunity.

And one such person was Abergavenny man Johnny Turnip.

The down-on-his-luck entrepreneur and aspiring time-lord told the Chronicle, “Like most right-thinking people, I take the clown show that is the Labour Party with a pinch of arsenic, but now and then one of those political chumps will come out with something that gets right under my skin.

“And when I heard Karen Carpenter waffling on about rural communities and pubs with dogs that don’t exist propping up a vision of far-Right Britain I thought, ‘That silly mare needs to stick to singing, what the hell is she on about?

“Anyhow, after an afternoon session at the Hen & Chicks where I counted at least five dogs hanging about, looking apolitical and waiting for a stray pork scratching, I slowly supped my sixth pint and got to thinking that if you could find a canine with political leanings, there could be a tidy bit of wedge in it.

“I know a fella from Channel Five who’s always on the lookout for unusual content, and a far-right dog would be right up his street, especially in the current climate.

“So I put my thinking cap on and had a eureka moment. My dwarf mate Fast Eddie had a black lab called Dandy. Admittedly it wasn’t a particularly far-right name, but if we could get him to pretend it was called Goebbels or something, and train it to howl enthusiastically every time it saw Hitler’s face, it could be quite lucrative.”

Turnip told the Chronicle that he left the pub and headed straight to Fast Eddie’s with the get-rich-quick scheme, but it all fell apart at the first hurdle.

“Eddie was very open to the idea, but he told me that Dandy was gay and that could be problematic when trying to sell him as a far-right mascot.” Said Turnip.

“Apparently, he has a habit of snarling at bitches, and will often try to mount other male dogs. “Bizarrely, he’s also a big fan of Graham Norton, and whenever he appears on TV, he rolls on his back and begins playfully whimpering.

“‘I don’t think you’re going to convince anyone that Dandy’s far-right,’ said Fast Eddie.

“‘Far-right dogs can be gay too,’ I suggested half-heartedly.

“‘I don’t think it’ll wash,’ Said Ed as he supped his ale, and Dandy lay contentedly snoozing at his feet, surrounded by my friend's extensive collection of fox-hunting memorabilia.

“‘Oh, well, never mind.’ I said. ‘Onwards and upwards.’ And left Eddie to slowly enter a state of early-evening intoxication as he finished his latest biography of Winston Churchill. ‘Dear god!’ I thought. ‘The man was obsessed.’”

Turnip explained that as he roamed across Castle Meadows and watched a random drug dealer languidly peddle his bike through the mists, he hit upon the idea of calling on Nanny ‘Horror-Show’ Turnip.

“Horror-Show didn’t have a black lab, but she had a nasty fat little sausage dog called Peaches.

“Peaches was a brutal and hot-headed little bitch, and if any dog could be politicised, it would be that horrible little hound. She always reminded me of General Woundwort from Watership Down, but in a pink tutu, if that makes sense?” Said Turnip.

“Anyhow, if I could teach the demented dachshund to do something far-right, like march aggressively, or express a fondness for meat, I could be on to something.”

Turnip told the Chronicle that after walking to Llanfoist and taking his seat by Horror-Show’s cauldron, he waited for her to finish watching the ‘Man Who Would Be King’ before telling her his plan.

Turnip explained, “After I had finished talking, she threw another skinned rabbit into the cauldron and took a slow and thoughtful sip on her pint of gin, before looking at me with her beady and alcoholic bloodshot eyes and said, ‘What nonsense you bringing to my door now, boy? You want to recruit my poor Peaches for the Hitler Youth? She’ll have no truck with all that. She hasn’t got a National Socialist bone in her body.

“‘Not like those black labs that hang about outside Waitrose in the back of Land Rovers. They’d tear your hand off for the price of a pork pie, I’m telling you. Always up to no good in the fields, that lot. Just ask the poor sheep.

“‘Those bloody black labs are forever barking on about the movement and their day of glory, when the rightful dogs of Britain will rise up and claim the throne. I won’t let my Peaches anywhere near them.

“‘In a shake of the tail and sniff of the arse, they’ll fill her head with all sorts of dangerous stuff about a Britain that never existed. Not for my mutt, thank you. She’s happy with her diabetic dog treats and daytime TV. She doesn’t need to be part of any political movement.”

Turnip added, “As I looked open-mouthed and dumbstruck at Horror Show, she began to cackle furiously until she started coughing uncontrollably and brought up something vile and ancient from her lungs.

“After the old witch had finished her near death experience, she just pointed at me with the gnarled hand that has only two fingers and snarled, ‘Mug! If you think dogs can be political you’re a dumber ape than the politicians who spout such p*ss.

“‘What’s a poor black lab ever done to be mislabelled in such a way? They should sue! Having said that. Peaches certainly has her preferences. She goes quite violent whenever she sees that Andy Burnham’s face on the TV, but that could be because he looks like a sausage.’”

Turnip explained that after he had finished his pint of gin, he left Horror Show on the stroke of midnight, listening to her Wagner CDs and patching up some old Lederhosen.

With Peaches' tuneless howls echoing in his ears, he made his way back over the bridge that spans the River Usk and connects the lost lands of Llanfoist to the promise of Abergavenny.

And as the rain started to fall and he headed back into town, he dreamt of a Britain that never was and has never been.

To be continued…..

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