How To Hand-over your No. 2 to the Right No.2 In The Middle Of A Pandemic

by Ash Kaul

So Young Horus Johnson – what else will you call a fifty-five year old hyper hormonal protoplasmic assemblage with a straightened blond pubic top and shoulders hunched for a rugby style roll in the hay every damn day – lumbered out of bed in his beautiful home at 10 Frowning Street in the city of Undone, the famed capital of the Blighted Kingdom, in the glory of which a poet with an undernourished version of a borisian hairdo was notorious for having said back then in 1802 unknowing at the time that his words will hold true in 2020 though for sadder reasons: ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead  who never to himself hath said . . . this is my own my native land’ and so on and so forth. Because a lot of water has flown under the London Bridge since then. So much so that ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ is now in 2020, like a damning metaphor for the bridge if it was ever meant to connect the eking electorate with their elite representatives.

Too bloody much has happened since March 11th when WHO declared Coronavirus a pandemic Or since even earlier for that matter. Though Horus couldn’t be bothered way back in January 25th when his cabinet buddies saw the virus as a little twerp that was deemed to be locked down in its alleged native land or at best be seen flirting at airports. Only that can explain the right noises that the cabinet made then starting with the now fashionable claim to stirring statesmanship by grandiosely vowing to pick up one’s citizens from an affected geography and making it sound like a personal expedition to Everest in the head-stand position. Then there followed the whole melodrama of travel advisories especially to untouchable communist and third world geographies and of course the ritual of making the national civilian air carrier sound like a bugle call for war with a sizzling headline like Blighted Airways suspends all flights to the People’s Republic of Hyena. And then coughing gently as two meagre laughable cases were confirmed in the Blighted Kingdom – gentle coughs to mimic a Ha! Two frigging exceptions, maybe Hyenese for all we care.

And soon it was February.

A bit of snow, a bit cold, a bit of relative warmth, this was Horus’s month for really hard erections. The others were January, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. Much like Mark Twain’s October – by his reckoning, a dangerous month for investing in stocks, the others being the rest. But these dangers, Horus has always scoffed at. Like a veteran marine of the 69 Coitus Rifles, his bayonet will not be deterred. And so he spent the whole of February fighting for the honour of his native land because as the great poet said, ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself had said, this is my own my native land.’ Tut Tut. Not Horus, the patriot. He would never take the risk of ‘breathing’ in that unpatriotically indolent way. He would pant and pump, the way soldiering patriots do, never allowing place and time to come in the way of a patriotic bang. Outside of course, they coughed again as a third case was reported, and then a fourth and soon a ninth. The coughing by some of Horus’s colleagues was now beginning to look more inadvertent than scorn and that is what made them seek testing, a privilege easily available to them. Imagine. Had they not first scoffed in scorn, they mightn’t have got that timely check, and so we might have been luckier. Not because we the people wish ill will on highly deserving bastards but because they act only when they wake up to a rocket in the arse. You see in a crisis of this kind where a virus hits your native land, you are better off with no government if what you have in the name of a government is a catalyst to the virus. To figure this better, replace the word virus with the word NATO. If the virus could talk it would wink while confessing its impotency and say that its incremental fatalities only turned exponential when managed by the sincere elitism of NATO governments.

And so February rolled on while cases were still reported in two digits and one had succumbed. But that’s not bad given that testing was still in single digits and it was probably happening when the patient was asleep. And now of course one case was reported in the national afterthought and the Brexit pastime of Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland, its unification and Scotland of the Scottish independence fame, these parliamentary hiccups claimed their column for peripheral news as always. Otherwise, February, which for Johnson is a snowy month for flaky sex, some ten thousand Blightons had been tested by mistake it seems because there was every sign that the plan was to test ten. You see the trouble with cunning is that it is a laboured attempt at elusive intelligence, and is about as convincing as free market pretending to be a considered and controlled thought. Free. Controlled. Antonyms, remember? Resorting to number management because that is the art of counting crumbs to convince yourself you aren’t hungry, or that A and B aren’t hungry because C has overeaten. And so in the chronic quest for number management, worldwide, the nationalist right wing fell in love with this new word called ‘contact tracing’. Another antonym. The opposite of ‘pandemic’. Besides obviously slowing down reported cases, it is based on the sound scientific principle that one African can infect one Blighton but that one Blighton will not infect any other Blighton till Horus Johnson gives him the permission to do so. In other words, when you travel from Wuhan to London you are certain to be infected but nowhere on the way and at home will Horus Johnson allow you to infect anyone else despite that there was no real lockdown at the time and the virus was as well figured by Johnson as the institution of marriage. Which then should beg the simple question that when the infection didn’t spread, then how did it suddenly spread. The answer is that this virus, like others which go by names like Dominic Cummings or Priti Patel, report to the great Johnson. Such is the might of the Blighted Empire and of its valiant leader, the bayonet charging horny (sorry I say! This typo I tell you!) Horus Johnson. As though it’s bloody different. But regardless of Johnson’s confidence in the virus’s acquiescing subordination to him and to his right-wing cousins like Hump, the President of the Disunited States of Blamerica, some 442,675 Blightons called the emergency line in panic. All hell had broken loose. Horus would have seen it, if he was not rolling in the hay that is. So March was threatening to be a month of reckoning. But only if you are not a privileged Etonian or a member of Bullingdon Club that is. March would roast the hell out of you. But only if you’re not the same frivolous chap who was once a London Mayor doling out sponsorship advances to pole dancing American women that is. March would be a wake-up call, but only if you weren’t convinced that viruses wouldn’t dare touch the white race because you were so fucking Islamophobic that you actually said the burka was oppression and that the women who wore them looked like letter boxes. March 2020 would have been March 2020 if you had the sense to not joke at a funeral, if you had at least a grain of decency and didn’t use swear words in the position of a Foreign Secretary simply because business leaders thought Brexit was conceived in the rectum but didn’t literally say so, but you heard it, because you knew that indeed it was. ‘Fuck business’ indeed. Your words. March could have been brutal in your vagrant head too just like life which has routinely shown you the mirror, a mirror your voters have no view of because you are blocking the view with your awful clumsily looming hunch that is weighed down by your bursting overweight ballocks. And if the voter doesn’t see it, you didn’t do it is how you process the shite. Yet this March would have been this March if you had an iota of sensitivity, which went conspicuously missing when you recited Kipling’s “The temple bells they say, come back you English soldier” in the most inappropriate place, the most sacred Buddhist temple in Burma. You had to be stopped. You are always stopped. But you never stop. Your mouth is like your dong. Because this incident was just about three months after you blabbered about alcohol in a Sikh Gurudwara. And this was a year after you spoke derisively of Africa and talked of the Turkish President where your limerick on him spoke of him having sex with a goat. Did you realise what the Turkish President must have done besides ignoring you, you intractable boner. He might have googled the images of the women you’ve been with and had a good laugh. Goat indeed. Goats. Plural. Some were even hybrid. Take that, you racist, for a change. Where all you sowed your own ‘wild oats’ he would have seen. March would indeed have been a March galloping with a virus claiming lives if you weren’t still busy sowing your wild oats and missing COBRA meetings.

But in the same March, Horus lumbered out of bed in panic, but only towards the end.

Meanwhile, before that day, outside 10 Frowning Street, the world was increasingly agitated. And so the first COBRA meeting was held on March 2nd when the cases had jumped to a laughable 36 only. Naturally Horus with his arse finally catching up with his swollen head wasn’t going to waste his time especially when Jennifer Arcuri had been threatening to cook him in Corona oil since November because he wasn’t taking her damn calls. On March 3rd the government published an action plan with everything detailed to the tee except for two things; action and plan. And the cases were now inching to three-digit numbers which is commendable detection, ostensibly by the MI6, Blighton’s Secret Service, since the testing was still barely happening. No wonder MI6 Chief Alex Younger got that “KCMG” (KGB Culled Maimed Gutted). Horus would need this suave talent soon. Meanwhile the action plan was so detailed that in the middle of a crippling dastardly pandemic it actually included a scenario called ‘milder pandemic’ thereby giving a subtle hint to stubborn recalcitrant Blighton voters that Horus was clearly out of sorts and rolling in the hay again. And of course he had bunked the COBRA meeting, and so all said and done May might have sounded like an uncertain something but was certainly better than Hay. But bemoaning Brexit at the time of permanent exit is like fearing sex fatigue while being treated for erectile dysfunction. Especially since the cases now crossed a hundred and Chief Medical Officer, Chris Shitty needlessly informed the nation that the Blighted Kingdom had now moved from the ‘containment stage’ to the ‘delay stage’ thereby proving that he himself had moved from the asinine stage to the bovine stage. Bloody mumbo jumbo and semantics as though union budgets aren’t enough. But in March – you have to give it to the blighter – taking a break from rolling in the hay, PM Horus did something bloody visionary. Bypassing the elementary stages of masks, PPE and smoothly enforced lockdowns, he jumped straight to announcing £46 million for research into vaccine research. That this vaccine will resurrect those who died to Covid is the only way to fathom this brilliant move in the absence of basic preventive measures and equipment. This may have been on the advice of Priti Patel whose qualifications are known to be restricted to PR unlike her disqualifications which are unrestricted. And while that makes her seem like quite a promising successor to take Great Blighton into any century as long as it is in the past, it doesn’t help frantic lungs on ventilators, and much worse, those gasping in the absence of them. And to that came her homily, ‘I’m sorry if people think there have been failings’. This is like mythology being recited to the dying and dead. How utterly Hindian. Yet to those in the know, this is a typical Patelian malaise but there’s still time enough for that Far Right thinking as that fluff is pretentiously called.             

But this virus has a crafty left-wing bias.

It bloody well knows that the cretins (leaders) resorting to socially sanctioned dacoity (right wing ideology if you please) will do bugger-all for others. So it directly goes for their balls. That’s how they got the wake-up call when the FTSE 100 plunged, something that a hundred deaths couldn’t achieve. The hyper capitalist is a capitalist only, a man, if at all, who stops to douse the fire only when it goes either for his balls (his vault) or his arse, and this one had started to go for both. And so alongside the FTSE, the Hyenese virus opened its account by infecting Health Minister Nadine Dorries. The cases were now touching 500 and galloping. The vaccine research was on in earnest, the PPE sourcing project was abandoned like Horus’s women. In the middle of this, young Rishi Sunak was sent by Horus to present the budget, and also by God, to balance out country cousin Priti Patel. You see the Hindu pantheon is no less than a pandemic with 33 Mn Gods and so whenever they see some Hindian making as ass of himself, they panic and send a better sample to neutralize the slur. Funnily they do it the other way round too. They created Gandhi in Gujarat and then sent Modi. But what Modi is undoing is far in excess of what Gandhi did, and faster and worse. And so good boy Rishi Sunak, son-in-law of his pious body-shopping South Indian Pa-in-law, may do what he will with his face scrubbed and hair oiled, but Priti Patel will open her mouth to undo Sunak’s £30bn to protect the BK in March much like how the public memory of good boy Sunak’s grades in college will yield to another FTSE collapse, this time its biggest since 1987. Frankly it was this, rather than reality that made Public Health stop contact tracing thereby finally conceding that blowing off birthday candles and clapping happy birthday to NHS is a hare-brained idea when you arse is screaming for a bloody fire extinguisher.

But something stunningly hare-brained was afoot secretly.

The great strategist and Johnson’s buddy Dominic Cummings had cracked the strategy. The only problem was that the strategy was needed for saving lives and so when Cummings thought herd immunity was his eureka moment, two things became clear. One that Cummings didn’t know whether he was coming or going. And two, that Horus was still cumming only and doing little else. Not only that, Cummings even edited his old blog post to make it seem like he was like the bloody Nostradamus of Coronavirus. That the egghead is poached out of his bloody mind is not the point because then you may sadly and blasphemously find that the only way to handle the pandemic is by replacing Horus Johnson with Xi Jinping. Serious. Imagine if Undone, the capital of the Blighted Kingdom was Wuhan of Hyena. Cross your heart and say it would still be lapping around in the shit it is today. Ah. That must have been a wordy blow to the anti-communist solar plexus, no? Reality my dear. Like the sun that gave up on the British empire. Bottomline: barring Hump, the President of the Disunited States of Blamerica and Dominic Cummings, there isn’t another arsehole whose solution to pandemic deaths is herd immunity. But then it wouldn’t be the first time Cummings came with a strategy on which only he would be cumming. He usually cums alone. At best Johnson has cum with him. But that’s because all that Johnson ever does is to cum.

By mid-March the cases had crossed a thousand and the death toll had crossed a score. Not fatal enough for Johnson. But suddenly on March 14th Donald Hump’s Deputy Disaster Mike Tuppence announced that the travel ban would include flights to the Blighted Kingdom while the latter was fretting over travel advisories to Spain. This was quite a blow and even though no flights would come from Hump-land, Johnson’s ego was so bruised that he still banned flights to Hump-land in retaliation!

More trade has stopped due to right wing egos than has ever been created – Old jungle saying on laissez-faire.

On March 16th, Bonking Johnson took a break and rolled out of the hay and announced a lockdown in as clear terms as asking a naked man to wear his underwear on his head to cover himself. For some time, his cabinet tried clearing his shit but ended up contradicting each other. You see the blighted constitution is bound to churn out such talent. Political chaos is the womb of parliamentary charlatans, of which the Blighted Kingdom is now a shining example. May needn’t have resigned as per the constitution, but gave way to convention. And see what you got. Because while the parliament of Blighton is supreme, the constitution is but a jumble of precedence and convention only. And so whether it is Brexit or a fixit of any kind, chaos is inbuilt. So you cannot blame the sun for not rising on the empire anymore. It simply cannot locate the old empire of the Attlee, the Churchill, the Lloyd George, the Harold Wilson, the Tony Blair or even the Thatcher.

The kingdom is blighted now.

So now in March ‘20, when the Sunak announced a princely £330bn of loan guarantees to businesses the cases were now crossing 2000 and the deaths were approaching three digits. Then came another capitalist jolt. The pound sterling breached its 1985 Thatcherite level. And just then MP Lloyd Russel-Moyle tested positive. The virus was coming closer to 10 Frowning Street. Slowly but surely. And on March 20th, Johnson broke down a little bit, but in private, when he announced among other frivolous things, the deeply moving lockdown of nightclubs. It felt like a part of him was shutting down. Such a personal loss. He felt older. Intuitively he knew – he always relies more on the spinal cord than the brain – that something was not right. Two days later, on March 22nd, Johnson woke up to a sore arse.

March 22, 2020.

The very point where we’d started this fairy tale of the sex kittens of heads of state or the fable on how celibacy or loyalty makes Johnson a dull boy, or how orgasmic panting is far more patriotic than breathing like a man with soul so dead. But this big boy felt bloody dull. Not because he was fifty-five, which he was. And not because the sun had set on British Empire. No it hadn’t set. It had actually gone into its arse.

Horus’s arse was swollen.

And not from kinky experiments. Being a realist, his first reaction even in the middle of the pandemic was that he had contracted AIDS. But it didn’t feel so lousy. So it must be some venereal disease, he thought. He had always believed he was immune to the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. And that all venereal diseases venerated him given his unblemished record and daring. Sheer respect for a fearless fucker. But there was complication now. His almost-wife Carry Symonds was carrying. He had to figure a secret way of getting diagnosed without his nearly-wife getting to know all that she was certain to know about him anyway.

Ah, the fighting marines of 69 Coitus are not so unsung!

But soldiers wounded in battle must hand over command, even if reluctantly.

But that he did only on March 27th after privately thanking the Hyenese upon testing positive to Covid instead of being diagnosed with the African AIDS or the cosmopolitan VD which would have left him suicidal given that bonking the opposite sex in many plurals was all he lived for besides bonking a nation whose name rhymed with the word Britain. And so from March 22nd till 27th when they admitted that he had tested positive and would self-isolate in 10 Frowning Street, he took the time to figure a No. 2 to hand over the No. 2 of the nation to, just in case. And this is what this case study of interim succession in a crisis is all about.

So he quickly considered his options from the aces in his Rt Dhon (Right Dishonourable) team – which ol’ bastard to deputize this shit to. He called the head of SIS, the legendary Secret Service MI6 of the Blighted Kingdom, who was responsible for the covert collection and analysis of ‘human intelligence’, so naturally Priti Patel, his Home Secretary was outside their purview. But still. So Alex Younger arrived. The Chief of MI6 who signs letters with a ‘C’ in green ink. Rumour has it that it took a long time for the CIA to convince President Hump that C doesn’t stand for Cunt and that this is the Intelligence Chief accountable to Blighton’s Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab. Then it took even longer to explain the meaning of the word ‘accountable’ to Hump who had forgotten it since the onset of the pandemic. Younger and his MI6 are deadly guys. Johnson trusted them blindly. Younger was the one who had confirmed to him that the virus was not a Hyenese conspiracy.

‘They didn’t do it,’ he had said.

‘Who told you?’ Johnson had asked.

‘Very reliable source,’ smiled Younger. And looked at his notes and named him. ‘Guy called Xi Jinping.’

‘Okay,’ said Johnson, rolling a joint.

And Johnson called Hump, the President if the Disunited States and passed on the intelligence report.

Hump called and asked, ‘Source?’

‘Xi Jinping,’ replied Johnson.

‘Okay,’ said Hump, and rolled a joint.

Just then Toady of Hindia called and asked, ‘Jaansunn Bhai! Namaste! Bhat newj you habe on Hyena?’

And Johnson told him.

‘Okkay,’ he said, and resumed his make-up.

And now the same talented Alex Younger on whom the anti-Hyena world relied on, stood before Johnson with a file on all his direct reports. Johnson had called Raab to whom Younger reported and told him he was calling Younger. Raab didn’t care two hoots what it was for. He was wondering about his own swollen arse.

 Younger’s file this time was full of sparing truths and Johnson read them one by one:

Rt Dhon Dominic Rennie Raab: ’74 born Secretary of State and Foreign Affairs. At ‘affairs’, Johnson gulped as always, but continued. Raab was promoted by May to a cabinet role and for exiting EU but he resigned in four months on an agreement he only was negotiating. Subterfuge! Johnson smiled approvingly in spite of his frowning arse. Then he read about how Raab paid a bomb in an out of court settlement to silence a b…. Good. So there’s enough dope on him to keep him on a tight leash. And he’s stood with Johnson on Brexit even though he had contested against Johnson in the conservative sweepstakes. Johnson liked such men. He could relate to them, figure them out, and even be a step ahead. Because Raab is actually quite an ass. Nearly lost his own Conservative safe seat despite a Tories surge, and also struggled under sharp shooter Cameron. This seems like the guy to deputize the shit to.

Still Johnson glanced out of interest at a couple of more file notes.

Rt Dhon Rishi Sunak: educational pedigree but playing second fiddle to Raab, too staid for today’s Blighted Kingdom, a joke to be pulled down by a laughing Satan at will, capitalism poster boy scrubbed daily with its commode brush, hair pasted even in bed, grin practised in a concave mirror so that it delivers better. Quietly butters his toast but is well past his Nirvana. This guy cannot rule, cannot represent, cannot usurp. Was only good for releasing Sajid Javid, a scary Islamic careerist who had nothing against Islamophobia. Dangerous. Which is why Johnson had used Dominic Cummings to get him out. Cummings replaced him with Sunak. But Sunak is okay. He’s happy to be under someone’s arse. And he’s qualified too. Typical American desi Ivy league type. Only an oily Finance, Economics and Banking guy would pay money to dead bodies lost to herd immunity crafted by Godfather Cummings.

Rt Dhon Michael Gove: he scanned through fast but was left with one thought. There’s something about a man who comes third all the time. And a man who can’t choose between Labour and Conservative. And of course the disloyalty comment on him by Cameron. That was still haunting Johnson. But May’s enemies became his February friends. Something so sexy about promiscuous February.

Rt Dhon Alok Sharma: too staid, too stable. Why on earth is he in politics. Worse, he might just solve the damn problem and take it over. Johnson needed a guy who would screw up while he was away so that when he returned, he would play saviour. 

Rt Dhon Priti Sushil Patel: PR and tobacco lobbyist, washed in honey till honey is all there is. Failed in the 2005 general elections but Cameron saw some promise. Johnson winked. Cameron and he had much in common besides even Bullingdon Club. Patel was involved with a book (couldn’t have been co-author. Ballocks!) where they spoke of the British being the worst idlers in the world. Hasn’t she been to native Hindia, Johnson winked at Younger. Got a Jewel of Gujarat award in Ahmedabad! Younger and Johnson cackled uncontrollably till Johnson began to cough. He read on. She supported Cameron’s plan to bomb targets in Islamic Syria. How predictably Patel is that. Met Modi a few times. Naturally. Had secret meetings in Israel without telling Foreign office. Bloody Pateli. Wanted to give aid money to Israeli Army. Holy fuck! Defended herself – how can Johnson forget – by saying he, as Foreign Secretary then, knew about it. Scary that was. Theresa May called her and roasted her and made her go even after she apologised idiotically. How bloody Patelian is that. He liked her. When she made an idiotically insensitive statement that implied Blighton should take advantage of Ireland’s fear of food shortages, he was clear he had found his Home Secretary. A bagful of misdeeds and controversies – how bloody Patelful – this one is easy to control, he thought. But to hand over the reins to her is like handing over the bridals and reins of the horse to the horse itself. And you have to have one heck of a humour to import the Gujarati brand of austerity which when Patelite, can actually be seen when you zoom in to a miserable looking fellow’s face with drool dripping down his lapel and when you zoom out you will see his misshapen belly like that of stuffed kangaroo and as you zoom out more you see that bedraggled moneybag full-length in a check shirt with striped trousers and green shoes, seated inside a Phantom bought from a State Bank of India loan availed for business. And by his side, you will see a gigantic lardaceous oval with a small circle for a head, dripping in gold with diamonds on the ears that at first seem like spotlights, as they head together – hippo husband and whale wife – to the Jain temple of austerity. Ah yes, the Patels are technically not Jains, but the Jains are pretty Patelian, as are Modis and Shahs. Hmm, said Johnson to himself. Will keep her on the bench for now. These Patels I say. And that Sunak. Banking and vote-banking that’s all they’re good for. No. 2 my arse. I go with Dominic he decided. And he called. Hi there ol’ chappie! he half-boomed in his cracked voice. And Raab croaked back after recent recovery. And that’s how Raab became the Deputy Disaster in Command.

Ten days later, on April 5, Johnson was admitted to St Thomas hospital and on the 6th he was in the ICU. Hump offered to help him as though he didn’t need help himself. Hump is like the last Mughal who will pay income tax without income so that no one knows. And as though he had anything even close to NHS! Even though what Johnson and his capitalist predecessors have done is to hump the NHS and attempt to privatize it till it resembles the tattered underwear of Hump’s own disastrous health delivery. And no amount of applause will alter the fact. Anyway. But after Hump, Toady called from Hindia and offered to send Lotus flowers (also the symbol of his looney party) with roots forgetting they grow in shit, some Gujarati sweet rice laced with Hydroxychloroquine. Before he offered to send cow dung and cow piss, Johnson, on the pretext of coughing, hung up. So scared was he now with the quality of right-wing benefactors, that Johnson made a speedy recovery while Raab and his cronies made sure he met his goals by screwing up such that he looked like a saviour on his return. On April 9th, they pulled a pipe out of his arse, spring cleaned his genitals for spring and shoved him out of the ICU before he infected the nurses. On April 12, they quickly discharged him to keep the nurses safe. And off he went to Sucker’s Court in the country side (the 1500-acres country home that only a sucker of a tax payers would fund for a supposedly serving Prime Moron of the Blighted Kingdom) to recuperate with his pregnant wifi (rearranged to mean almost-wife) while the death toll in the Blighted Kingdom crossed 10,000. On April 27th he returned to work, if you want to really call what he does – work.

Stop laughing.

There’s a pandemic on, dammit.              

Because the shoe is now on the other foot.

Dictators are benevolent now and democracy a machinating farce.

Imagine, singing this one today:

When Britain first at heaven’s command

Arose from out the azure main;

 This was the charter of the land

And guardian angels sang this strain:

“Rule, Britannia! rule the waves

“Britons will never be slaves.”

The nations not so blessed as thee,

Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall;

While thou shall flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

“Rule Britannia! Rule the waves:

“Britons will never be slaves”

Well, well.

The Queen is following the lockdown. And Dominic Cummings is beyond it.



No, the sun has not set on the British empire.

It has gone two steps further. Let’s not repeat how deep inside it has gone and where. Only that pipe in St Thomas Hospital knows. But Johnson will not let it rest, the sun, I mean. For orifices are things he knows better than the back of his hand.

So let the sun be where it is.

He will create another one.

Hope will sing everywhere again.

Soon will be one more son. Oh blimey! This typo!

‘Horus’ is inspired by Egyptian mythology. He was the son of the goddess Isis and she created him after assembling all the body parts of her dead husband Osiris except his penis which was eaten up by a catfish in the river Nile. Other accounts say she fashioned a phallus by resurrecting Osiris and used it to give birth to her son Horus. However, on ‘Horus’, the urban dictionary is more direct. And since it is all about the immortal penis, the sun and the son, the author had a Eureka moment and chose this name for the hero of the parody.  

About Ash Kaul

Ash Kaul is a published Kashmiri writer and poet. He enjoys writing political satire and his satire has also been published in The Satirist. He has won some accolades in international competitions of flash fiction, short story and nonfiction as well. Besides building this collection of political satire essays, he is putting finishing touches to a historical epic and also a literary historical suffused with tragedy and set in the conflict zone of Kashmir. He can be contacted at LaughingAshes@gmail.com

Ash Kaul is a published Kashmiri writer and poet. He enjoys writing political satire and his satire has also been published in The Satirist. He has won some accolades in international competitions of flash fiction, short story and nonfiction as well. Besides building this collection of political satire essays, he is putting finishing touches to a historical epic and also a literary historical suffused with tragedy and set in the conflict zone of Kashmir. He can be contacted at LaughingAshes@gmail.com

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