Those who paid close attention to this fine fable before it so rudely interrupted itself last Sunday will recall how Sir Alfred the True waged war upon King Lorenzo the Magnificent, and defeated all his champions with the aid of Sir Jason’s magic mud, Sir Michael’s Lions of Change, and the genetic curse of Charlemangiò. All, that is, but one: Sir Jeffrey the Brave, of whose tearful lament beneath the pavilion the Bards still sing.
Now Sir Alfred had chanced upon a magical scroll which, should he unleash its power, would surely dissolve Sir Jeffrey’s fair name to a pool of used battery acid. But alas for the grim sorcerer! Magical scrolls are notoriously unreliable allies, for they are hard to come by (unless you possess a magical scroll-producing device such as Mage Saliba’s), and once acquired they are perilous to use. It is known to all who dabble in the foul art of Politicks that each spell and incantation must be followed to the utmost letter, lest its magic backfire upon the caster; and on the parchment within Sir Alfred’s grasp there was written in faded ink the following, ominous words:
“SORCERER GENERAL WARNING: for maximum effect (and in true fairy tale tradition) this scroll requires three days to and three nights to properly sink in; so read aloud with care ONLY IN THE ALLOTTED PLACE AND AT THE PRESCRIBED TIME. (Do not lock away in a secret chest, and keep at all times out of the reach of nosey deputy leaders. If symptoms persist, consult thy campaign manager. Thou hast been warned.)”
Thus alerted Sir Alfred now rode, accompanied by the trusty Sir Jason of the Baleful Grin. And even as King Lorenzo was feted by the maidens of the Mosta market, who chanted “Ghax Ghandna Gonzi Maghna” in voices clear and fair, the Sorcerer alighted before the walls of Television Castle. For it was decreed that three days and three nights before the Final Battle, the leaders of the opposing forces would each pledge their troth to the Oracle of Austin – that secret power ensconced within, whose lidless eye sees all and knows all, and entertains the masses through the fair damsel Eileen.
But there before him Sir Jeffrey had already galloped, and bearing upon him an enchanted DOI device, he had beguiled the sentries into thinking that he was no less than a dreaded Jabber-journalist. This was fortuitous, as in those far-off days the Jabber-journalists were fearsome creatures to behold. Armed they were with crude clubs called “Microfoes”, which they thrust into their opponents’ faces and stole from them the very words which would later spell their doom.
But most feared of all were their forked tongues, which they employed with equal mastery to lick the backsides of those they serve, and to chastise with venomous questions those they most abhor. (Legend still sings the deeds of the Gorgon Gouder, who chased Sir Tony of the Prime Minister’s Notarial Stamp through rain and shine, and even waylaid the Mage Saliba himself as he alighted from the good ship Princess Charlene.)
So Sir Jeffrey lashed his tongue at the Broadcasting Authoritarians, and fearfully they subsided: lest they rouse the wrath of Austin, and be forever banished from the PBS realm. So with the crafty Saliba he took his place among the other monsters, and patiently awaited his foe.
Verily Sir Alfred the True did arrive, and courteously he was greeted by the Fairy Spellcaster Bonanno. But Sir Jeffrey could contain himself no longer, and doffing his disguise he rose to his feet and thus proudly confronted his foe: “Thou art so MEAN!” he cried. “For three days I pursued thee upon the land and over water, and ever thou fledst before me like a lily-livered worm. And now, before the Oracle of Austin I solemnly lay down this challenge. Substantiate thy vile claims regarding fair Mistra vale: you know, that small and insignificant little knight-club that someone else plans to erect on my humble estate, which hath in case already been despoiled of its natural charm by crude, misshapen developments of yore… but then again, what know I of such matters, that am entirely unaware of any such plan? So pronounce thyself, coward, or forever hold thy peace!”
But as the Broadcasting Authoritarians grunted in bewilderment, and the Fairy Bonanno fidgeted in embarrassment, and Sir Jason grinned at him balefully, Sir Alfred curled his lip and disdainfully he replied: “Nay, foul serpent, it shall not be thee to name the allotted place and the prescribed time. Within the Palaces of Justice, where we shall meet again, shall I pronounce thy doom. Come Sir Jason, let us away!”
And turning his back, the unread scroll still within his grasp, Sir Alfred left the building… being a sorcerer with little stomach for a punch-up at the time. Besides, certain he stood of his victory already: for the triumph of the Left had long been decreed by all the Prophets of Old Labour: from Marmarus Longbeard to the Legendary Licari, even the Great Priviterus himself, that venerable scribe whose prophecies of Nationalist Doom have reverberated for decades.

To be continued (yet again)…