Question
Time
One
day, when they have sorted it all out,
they’ll
sit and chat and offer biscuits round
and
wonder why it took so long to reach
this
state of perfect equilibrium.
The
billionaire magnate will not listen
to
protests as he insists on paying
his
workforce over and above their needs
plus
a Christmas bonus and weekends off.
The
union leader who waves it away,
elegantly
complacent, with no trace
of
rancour or working class accent, says
if
there’s ever a need for his members
to
do overtime then they’ll gladly come
and
do it for nothing because they know
their
pensions will provide generously
for
their old age. And they both nod and smile.
The
fiery feminist lets the lewd old
comedian
who’s on as the token
celeb
call her ‘love’ without the slightest
rebuke
because it no longer matters
now
that not even golf clubs recognize
any
gender bias, although most women,
it
must be said, have better things to do
than
golf. So, what is the next question, please,
yes, over there,
the man in the blue shirt.
Which is the best
of Mozart’s symphonies?
Then,
what’s your favourite flavour of
ice-cream?
Which animal would
you be if you could?
Should T. Rex, Mud and
Abba be set texts?
Would it be better
if cartoons were real
and dogs could
talk and tell us what they think?
Should
Question Time be more like this or
not.
