FUEDAL MADNESS IN CENTRAL LONDON

As I write this a particularly cruel fate is being prepared for an unborn child. No matter what this child’s hopes or desires, whatever they might wish to do with their life they will be prevented from so doing. The rigid tramlines have already been laid, the child will be compelled to follow a rigid path, in time to become head of state; incidentally in all probability wasting away the best years of their life waiting in the wings to take up this role. This is feudal and unspeakably cruel. Yet we are all supposed to celebrate this fact. As I write these words crowds are assembling in central London to shout and cheer the news that a child has been born into slavery.
If this alone were not cause for protest there is the little matter of my own rights being infringed here. Of course I am outraged that this appalling cruelty is being visited upon a child, that their free will is being stolen from them; however it has been decided for me that this unborn child is destined to be my head of state. (Though I fear I may have long since been turned into ash). Though the outrage precedes the birth, since the child's grandfather has already been earmarked for this role, a role his mother already performs by birthright; no ballot boxes required.

I am surrounded by hysteria about this birth on the television and in the press and by a good portion of my fellow citizens, who seem gripped by the absurd fairy tale they are being sold. I am chastised for not joining this celebration, for not sharing the euphoria. My response is that the fact that my country is still subject to this feudal madness causes me nothing but shame. 

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