Sausage and Mash

With our kidnapped plenary speaker in the pub, waiting for our plates of Cumberland sausage and mash. – 'You know they hate you', W. says. 'They hate us, God knows, and they hate you, too'. – 'Who hates me?, the speaker says. – 'Everyone. Everyone here', W. insists. – 'I don't think they hate me', the speaker says. – 'They do! They hate us, and they really hate you'.

They hate thought!, W. insists. Doesn't he, our kidnapped plenary speaker, understand that? They hate thought, and want to drive all thought away. Why did they invite him, then?, our kidnapped plenary speaker asks. It's a mystery, we agree. Perhaps there's still some instinct in them about what they lack, we speculate. Perhaps they feel some residual shame about their inability to think.

Our sausages and mash arrive on oval plates. It looks disgusting, we agree. Then a second set of sausages and mash arrive. We have two vast plates each of sausages and mash. He doesn't know where to begin, our kidnapped plenary speaker says, holding up his knife and fork.

Eat, man, eat, we urge him. He needs to keep up his strength! After all, very soon he'll have to go back in! We'll protect him, we tell our kidnapped plenary speaker. We'll flank him like the president's secret service bodyguards. We'll keep our sunglasses on and speak into earpieces. – 'The package is in the building', we'll say. 'The package is about to give his speech'.

'Go on, order some more sausage and mash', W. says, when the speaker disappears to the loo. I place an order at the bar. Soon, there'll be no space at our table but for plates of sausage and mash. They'll have to pile them on top of each another, W. says. He finds this very funny.