A Real Woman Has Had A Baby (A Real Woman Though She's A Princess)

A woman has given birth to a...
A baby!
Let us rejoice!

What a marvel!
But,
What has been going on?
I mean,
A woman has had a baby?
Is this a twenty-first century cutting-edge technology doing right,
Or doing wrong?

The BBC,
CBeebies,
Britain's premier (subscription) MILF porn channels,
All agog, or gagging - depending on the channel.
On the BBC they were gagging,
The (subscription) MILF porn channels, not so much, ironically.
Nicholas Witchell, by name, on triple overtime I bet.
Quite right too, and thank goodness.
On the BBC, nothing else.

A woman has had a baby!
A real woman though she's a princess.

I remember where I was when I first heard the miraculous news:
I was watching the news, but it was nowhere.
I wondered why.
Then, I stopped wondering why:
A woman has had a baby - that's why!
I said no way!
How? A woman....?
But obviously the scientists have this holy grail commanded.

So, the country that gave the world the railways,
Bendy buses,
And self-service tanning salons for only one pound-an-hour, 
Behold, peasants of Albion, and the heathen boundaries beyond, 
This most miraculous of bounties:
A baby - of woman!
Surely more amazing than the pyramids;
Of more import than Syrian skirmishes?
Rejoice! You must!

A woman - a British woman to boot!
Has given birth!
To a..
There's no other way to say this -
A baby!
I can't stop saying it.
Neither can the BBC, and the other responsible media, understandably.

The baby even said its name: George!
My name is George. Just like that!
My name is George, and,
I am a baby - the world's first baby born to a woman;
A real woman though a princess.

For a moment there,
And I'm ashamed to admit this -
I thought it was all propaganda.
But propaganda to what end? I could not fathom.
So it's not propaganda I realised.
Phew! What a relief.

Now,
No longer shall babies be born under toadstools,
Or be couriered by unicorns from fluffy little clouds.
Sad, in a way..
Maybe these traditional baby-delivering practises will be considered old-fashioned before long.
But is this progress?
I think so.
Outside of work, women need a hobby -
This will do.

Maybe, even in our own lifetime,
Women may soon give birth to babies in such Malthusian numbers,
That it will be considered so mundane and ordinary,
A woman doing baby-birthing will no longer occupy the news,
Full Spectrum Dominance style,
The way this baby has since its "conception".
Conception - whatever the hell that might mean..

Let's see how multi-skilled women really are:
Having babies, and multi-skilling at the same time?
Can they do both, and at the same time?
You know, I bet they can.

I need a lawn mower.
Actually, I don't.
But if I did,
I wonder..

Could a woman give birth to a lawn mower?
A baby lawn mower?
Just wondered.
Would that be silly?
I couldn't imagine Nicholas Witchell getting giddy about a woman -
A real woman though a princess -
Having a natural baby lawn mower birth.
Could you?

Nicholas Witchell giving birth to a real baby though,
That's another matter.
I'd gladly pay to see that:
Nicholas Witchell giving birth to a real baby,
Even though he is a princess.

The Bling Of Austerity

The Rachman-like bijou debt-pools:
The temp-tenement bazaar.
And the cats with weight issues slurp slightly less cream,
They don't mind, it makes for the best PR.

This clamouring ring is the bling of austerity.
It's the best kind of enmity therapy.

In the days of yore, proles bore the poll tax.
Now we are enjoined to rejoice the bedroom tax.
So next, shall we explore the clitoris tax too?
Those lazy, pleasure-seeking, ruby-button scroungers..

This clamour is the bling of austerity.
Swing low that sweet bling of austerity.

Hollowed-out high streets "ripe for development";
Kept-empty luxury apartments boast no viewing tenants.
Some students sell sex to help keep down their debts:
Generation Y funded kindly by Generation X.

It's yet another nudge for the bling of austerity.
Moving forward the soft bling of austerity.

Cashless society, cashless hand-me-downs;
There's a place you can go in these food bank boom towns.
This Baby Boomer wonderland:
This home-owning silver sea,
Saves Jerusalem's equity from eternity, maybe.

The pawnbrokers, and the payday loaners -
The Big Society stakeholders:
Chuggers in clover:
Vampire surgeons drip-feed their blood donors.

With their curtains drawn tight and their wide screen TVs,
Their fecklessness - living shamelessly so beyond their means,
Thus, always it's us:
The Hard Working Families.
You know what I mean..?
..Yes:
Stick the rolling pin on the weakest demographic:
The Legions of Schadenfreude target market.
Stand by the demagogue divisions, 
Speed-date consensus conviction,
Your eyes shut so wide, flash-mob ostrich.

This wonderful thing is the bling of austerity.
Let's swoop and glide,
As the chariot wings of austerity
glow.

Meanwhile, In Sweden..

Human resources -
She works in human resources.
Don't tell anyone.

Sometimes I hear those screams from her basement;
Screams like giving birth to a fully grown and functioning dentist.

Then, after the screams,
There's that familiar matryoshka doll silence.

The crooked blood leaks from her sleek harbinger mouth,
As she carries the sleek heavy-duty plastic refuse bags,
One by one,
To cast into the swollen river, biblical.

Later,
The police boats circle, stall, and circle,
As the deathbuoys from Hades bob to the surface.

And,
As she dreams her distilled murmuring slumbers,
A shocked Japanese tourist tries to understand the good policeman manning the cordoned-off bridge,
And what the mystery of the shiny bags,
Thrown by beautiful aitch-ah lady into the seawater, means.

When the beautiful aitch-ah lady comes home,
Bearing a pizza and some wine,
    She whispers:
           Don't ever ask
Never ask -
   I'm fine...

All right then.
She knows my view on the dead-eyed sharks that throb and thrive,
              in, 
the liquidiser planet: Human Resources.

At night,
Sometimes she slips down the stairwell,
To banshee-howl with the cats in the alleyway outside.
The owls never twi-twoo along to the a capella jazz from hell..

I'm not sure what she sees in me either.
You see,
People working in human resources have also been disappearing from this city.
She never asks why I sometimes have a spaced-out look as I walk through the door,
Entrails swinging wildly around my neck.
She just tut-tuts and suggests:
Have a shower if you like -
Your favourite long-life organic lentil soup is defrosting
in the new solar-powered microwave -
You've got time.

We watch a Swedish detective..
He's striding towards a caravan in the middle of a field by the motorway.
And you can tell even his coffee has a hangover and needs a couple of aspirin..

He opens the door,
There's no-one inside.
So he takes a look around.
Close up: photos and newspaper clippings -
They're all dead!
Dead! except...except for her..
A realisation - boom!
His face twitches: she's next!
He tears off that photo as tyres screech outside:
It's him, the bastard!
He stumbles.
A Saab Estate careers toward the motorway.
Norway!
He's going to fucking Norway!
It's only twenty minutes..!
Now the detective runs, stumbling across the field,
Screaming to a colleague down the phone...

Cut to..
Woman.
Her phone rings.
She looks at the phone,
But she needs to open this special-delivery parcel.
What's in this parcel?
She's puzzled.
She looks at the phone again.
She looks at the parcel.

A pulsating bass arises..
The detective screams again, stranded in the field,
Wild-eyed, desperate.
He closes his eyes.
The sounds of the motorway fade -
Just his heavy breathing now - full volume.
Heartbeats. 
Stop.
Cut to black.