I have a source. We'll call him: "The Source". He sends me stuff that the British Government is using for Propaganda purposes. This piece is J.K. Rowling's top-secret sequel Short Story to the 7 Harry Potter books. It represents all that is Great and Good in Britain. It's about why we shouldn't be voting for Scottish Independence. It's about how we... You get the point.
Harry Potter and How Great is Britain?
Harry Potter was inside Hagrid’s cabin, at the start of yet another year at Hogwarts. He gazed upon Hagrid’s umbrella, which held the remnants of the wand which had been destroyed when he was a student, like Harry.
Unlike Harry he had bred a big, giant fuck-off spider using Genetic Modification and cloning techniques he had learned at various British Scientific establishments.
Harry was, at that particular moment, performing a “Wingadium Leviosa” spell upon a genetic experiment to see if it was possible to cross a House Elf with the lead Singer of Napalm Death and a Liberal Democrat Backbencher. He curious to see if you can breed something which won’t marry a fucking cheeky girl…
Harry left Hagrid’s cabin and decided to pay a visit to Dumbledore’s grave because Dumbledore died in the previous book. Harry decided to cry for a bit so that the readers would feel some kind of sympathy for a character who was a blatant rip off of King Arthur pre-Sword in the Stone (the event, not the crappy Disney movie).
Meanwhile, back in the Gryffindor female residence, Hermione Granger was speaking with Cho Chang.
“Hi Cho!” quoth Hermione.
“Hi Hermy” said Cho.
“Cho, I’m looking to move out of my parent’s house. Do Wizards do Council Housing?” Hermione asked.
“Yes they do,” replied Cho, “Why do you want to know?”
“Do they have the same rules as a muggle Council for getting a place?”
“Surprising they do!” Cho confirmed.
“That’s good,” Hermione giggled, “Because I’m going to get Ron Weasley to knock me up so I can get to top of the housing list and not have to wait in a list behind English people buying up all the decent properties and, frankly, because I just can’t be bothered!”
“But Hermy, do you know that the Child Support Agency is going to be scrapped and you might not be able to get money off Ron until the ministry of magic fails to replace the previous one?”
“I do, Cho,” Hermione verified, “Ron’s currently at the Career advisor about his future right now.”
Ron Weasley was sitting uncomfortably and nervous in Professor McGonagle’s Office.
“As the token Scottish Person in this series of books, I’m required to help you with your career advancement so that we can move this plot along and pretend that Scots are an important part of this fantasy British sub-culture.”
“Great, Professor McG!” Ron replied, instantly brightening up.
“So, Ron, what do you want to do with your life?”
“Well, professor, since I have ginger hair, stereotypes persist that I’m of Scottish stock living in England, so I’ve got two options, One, I sell Weasley Hollow for a bundle and buy a cheap Scottish Estate and get all my friends to move up nearby. Unfortunately we Weasleys have no money, so I’ve got secret option number 2. I’m in that minority of people who are predisposed by genetics to get schizophrenia from Skunk Cannabis, and therefore I’d like to smoke enough of it to become mentally ill and go on Incapacity Benefit for the rest of my natural life. Thing is, prof, I quite like watching Jeremy Kyle.”
“Go and see Longbottom, Weasley. Amongst other things, he’s Gryffindor’s dealer.”
Because of Neville Longbottom’s links to Loyalist Paramilitaries, he had TWO major items on his life at this point. Firstly, he dealt homegrown Skunk weed and gave half the profits to the Red Hand Defenders and was a screaming Nazi. Secondly, and currently he operated the “Fagwatch” website to out closet smokers. Presently he was trying to decide from a magazine clipping if celebrated German Socialist, Dramatist, Poet and all round good-egg Bertolt Brecht was a smoker or not. He definitely looked like the type to marry a Cheeky Girl.
He was interrupted by Ron.
“Dude, I need some…”
“This isn’t about that Schizo plan you’ve concocted to get yourself on Wizard’s incapacity benefit, is it?”
“Seamus told me. That was BY FAR the dumbest thing I’ve heard in years. For one thing, it won’t work. For another, Cannabis is used for several important societal functions. 1) If you don’t like Cannabis: throw out all your records. Most of those cats were high. 2) It makes shit musicians think they can play better and 3) It gives pretentious people a cause to unite around that will never succeed, but will keep them occupied enough so that they’ve avoiding controversial and “important” issues that might benefit them like health, education and communism.”
“So how am I supposed to get Incapacity Benefit?”
“The same boring, inconsequential way everyone else gets Incapacity Benefit. Get plastered the night before and lie.”
“So you won’t sell me any?”
“Nope. I don’t have to. It’s THAT easy to get it. And in doing so I’m breaking all kinds of CSTU regulations.”
“What are CSTU regulations?”
“Cannabis Sellers Trade Union Regulation number one: Never ditch a sale.”
“But what if you’re selling to a muggle copper?”
“Our best customers are muggle coppers! What the hell have you got against muggle coppers?!?”
“So why can’t I get some?”
“Oh. You’re going to get some. Hermione ordered you some Viagra. She needs a Council House.”
Harry, meanwhile, had received a curious summons from Professor Dumbledore. He returned inside and entered the familiar spiral staircase which led up to the Headmaster’s Office.
The current Headmaster, Professor Erik von Markovik had replaced Severus Snape upon the latter’s death. Professor Erik was presently tutoring Ginny Weasley and Cho Chang and so Harry was alone with Dumbledore’s painting.
Dumbledore wasn’t there. It was empty, except for a used Chocolate Frog wrapper. Harry stared at it for a second before approaching the table where the headmaster’s pet usually resided. Fawkes, the
“Harry…” he stated, almost ‘matter-of-fact’.
“I guess you already know I’m repeating my final year…”
“I do Harry. Do you know why I’ve called you here?”
“Because I had to spend an extra year getting bummed because this is a public school?”
“No, Harry. A dark enemy has appeared!”
Harry spat: “Voldemort?”
“No. Muggle scientists have combined two sets of DNA in a hybrid project aimed at matching Wizard culture.”
“Dear God Professor…” Harry said, shocked beyond repair, “You don’t mean…”
“I do, Harry. The Gordon Brown / Michael Portillo Hybrid.”
“It’s… It’s… inhuman! It will have the mathematics skills of your average big brother contestant, and the dancing skills of ‘
“Yes, Harry. But there is a further problem.”
“It gets worse?!??!?!”
“The hybrid is protected. Harry… You’re about seventeen right now. The protective shield will be difficult to resist for someone of your age.”
“How do I break through.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What’s the shield?”
Dumbledore ignored the question: “At one end of the room is the Hybrid. All you have to do is turn the life support off and to save us all. For reasons which should unclear to you, but strangely obvious to whomever has bothered to read this far… It’s the button marked ‘Vote Independence’.”
“God that was obvious…”
“I know, Harry, I know…”
“That was so obvious I think I need a shower!”
“What’s the shield?”
“I cannot help you. You will need to see for yourself. Go to the Room of Requirements.”
Harry, predictably, went to the room of requirements. Maybe he sauntered. Maybe he marched angrily. Maybe he jumped up in the air and clicked his heels together in glee as if he was a gay jazz fan in a 1940s movie who had just been sodomised by Rock Hudson. Either way, he got to the Room of Requirements.
As promised, at the end of the Room was the Portillo / Brown hybrid. Harry, though, could see the enormity of the shield protecting it. It was designed purely for a 17-year-old boy.
The shield generator was a giant heart shaped bed with pink satin sheets. Inside the bed were Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. Presumably naked. It would be fun finding out. In the background was the classic end-of-the-night School Disco anthem, the one where you danced with the girl you thought you couldn’t get with a hard-on as hard as a Mars Bar just out the fridge: Careless Whisper by George Michael.
Professor McGonagle, however, was the token Scottish. She unfortunately wasn’t married at fifty and was probably a spinster. In my book she’s a lesbian and joined them. Harry thought “Fuck it… Three-way!” and got stuck in. Either way he was a Hogwarts legend.
“Just do it, boy!” Professor Snape spat.
“But why do I have to save the day?”
“All I’m asking is that you TOUCH THE BUTTON marked ‘Vote Independence’. It’s not hard. Unlike what you USUALLY touch, you fucking Girls Aloud fan, you… You touch stuff all the time. That’s why we made you wear boxing gloves at night! Otherwise we’d be changing your sheets four times as often as everyone else and CSI viewers would be gathering around your bed with Ultraviolet lamps all the time.”
“Doesn’t Gryffindor usually do this?”
“Potter is too busy shagging to notice. And frankly, I’m the most popular character in the books, so at least ONCE I get some fucking glory. And honestly, it’s not like Daniel Radcliffe is GOING to have a career once this Shinto is overwith…”
And so, for once, Slytherin and Snape saved the day. Kind of.