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Alicorn, Hexed
Musings of a Greying Duke
Part II
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Too often I have encountered the buffoonery and intransigence of my own class. It is far too often that we simply pantomime our own interpretation of virtue—calling those who must struggle “idle” when we are so well accommodated in our own ineptitude.
When my Grandfather was a young member of the House, the saying went that “you cannot have democracy and work houses.” This is still true, but the poor houses have long been shuttered. The new threat is that the truly useless classes inhabiting their lordly seats or their equally inherited floor space in the exchanges are outstripping the resources of our Principality. How long can the divine virtues avast against these gusts?
Money—the alpha and omega of our world—still finds ways to make itself less than useful.
What vexes me, and has so for some time, is the lack of identity politics among the four big parties. Maybe this is some sign of our enlightenment, but I doubt it. Rather, all of the radical tribe-centric movements over the last century have been relegated to the minor parties that flair up from time to time—then linger indefinitely with a handful of members in the Commons.
Earth Ponies, for example, have no business supporting the current Conservative government. Their continued economic vulnerabilities have not fully dissipated with the continuing putsch of modern technology.
This is not to say that no identity politics occur within the major political factions. Indeed, most Buffalo, Fluffy Ponies, Changelings, Asses, and Thestrals (or Baties as my father called them) vote consistently Socialist, whereas most Griffins, Minotaurs, and Drakes vote Conservative.
Of course the big three tribes are evenly spread across the spectrum, for the most part anyway—and yes right leaning unicorns tend to favor the Liberals over the Conservatives, and so forth, but by in large there is little to distinguish voting patterns.
But I amuse myself—identify politics only would placate my fancy if they corresponded to my own, admittedly dated, opinions of how economic class intertwines with tribal rapprochement.
Regardless, all of our wisely imparted efforts and time could only hope to yield such political merriment as this gallery of…
… whores? No. Miscreants? No. Indigent rabble… maybe. To paraphrase the Bard—‘tis but a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—signifying nothing.
No, quite the contrary. Our politicians are better suited to this task than we give them credit for.
It’s just the muck if it, the grinding, muddling through the slosh. Lest we forget, this is how things are done, and it is better this than any other way.
But what hindrance should I allow? What weary muses should I put forth towards the effort?
About five years ago, after enjoying a carousing evening with the Baron Parsley, then still in the Commons serving as the Opposition Whip, I discovered that we had a mutual interest. He had always been quite the Socialist, as was his mother, the first Baroness Parsley, who had served as first as Chancellor of the Exchequer and eventually Prime Minister. In spite of this loyalty, however, he never had much affinity for the Socialist emblem, a golden hammer and scythe crossed inside a silver cog against a red background.
Oh the symbolism was just fine, the industrial workers and farm labourers, bimetallism (when that was still a pertinent issue), and of course the blood of the struggle. It should be pointed out, however, that the socialist electoral colour is pink, not red.
Regardless, he thought the emblem was dated. We had discussed some ways about to improve it—and I recommended that the project should be turned over to the College of Arms. He was initially poo-poo about my idea, and initially a change in symbolism failed to materialized.
That is, of course, until we ran into each other at the Capitol Pub a little while back. We shared some drinks, and the topic of conversation turned, at some point, to the party emblem. This time he was more agreeable that we should seek out a patent for it.
The heralds did not disappoint—a rose held aloft by two hooves—simple, symbolic, and damn near romantic.
Socialists, we are not without our thorns. We are strong, proud, and we stood determined against all those forces in history aligned against us, that have sought to hold us back. We are not without our thorns.
We are imperfect; we are flawed; we are mortal. We make compromise. Sometimes we win; sometimes we fail—our ideals and our constituents.
We are politicians, and revolutionaries, and dreamers. Lovers, hexed, we are not without our thorns.
For the first time in a generation, I think that Equestrian is ready for another round of change. Let us sit together and expunge the remaining ailments of this society. Make it so there is no longer a need for politics.
Impossible? Highly improbable, certainly. We can never achieve utopia, but if we work towards it—our world will be a better place.
Simply, a better world.
Of course this gets me thinking, what can be done to expedite this process?
That new Whip, the fluffy fellow… what’s his name… Cuddle Plufluffs or something. Yes, he is promising. We will see how good a trouble maker he is. He could be quite useful.
Who am I fooling? But, I wager, I could be useful to him. Parsley surely knows him… and I had to have met him at some point.
Yes—some fine tomfoolery under the new banner. Set things right against those of idle wealth, those who still find ways to exploit the system and Their Highnesses’ subjects. Oh… it should be a time and a half.
Let us remind the world of who we are… lain out for all to see. This is what we are: politicians.
And we are not without our thorns.
My doctor said I should avoid mixing the opiates with cognac—but there will be plenty of time to be sober when I’m dead.