He who could take Drogheda could take Hell.
~Sir Arthur Aston
Who could have imagined that a broken down old port, tossed like a slag heap of crushed dreams onto the East coast of Ireland, a place stocked with sad drunks and slow witted merchants, a garrison town – its round tower a museum gazing sadly down upon the ruin of hope; who could have imagined Drogheda was the town that ruled the world?
Cromwell knew. It was the reason he invaded – galloping up the Boyne Valley, his beloved ‘Kingslayer’ in his hand, the old tongue harsh and desperate on his lips. He slaughtered the town, personally putting ten thousand to the sword. The surviving rabble sought sanctuary in a den of Christ atop an ancient cunning mound. And when he burned the place their blood peeled forth, a rouge sacrifice coating Stockwell Lane.
Oliver Plunkett knew, and tried to tell us – sneaking letters back through Leningrad and Ecuador, probing the secret like a steel thermometer pierces uncooked chicken, finding it’s heart cold and slick and raw and terrible. They decapitated him for it, wrapping his head in the nourishing tar of cryptonite, to watch us always from it’s public plinth – frozen, silent, yet still somehow alive.
Ah but the conspiracy precedes them both, it’s porcine heresy reaching back to a time when the world was new. It is said in the writings of Pliney, that that first tribe of Droghedians, riding out the great cold in their Elk skin geansaí dearg, found in some neolithic cave a black obelisk which whispered to them. A dark presence encased in flawless marzipan, with whom they formed a sooty bargain. And so the town, like Perez Hilton, grew fat and rich and mean, with something rotten at its sluggish purple heart.
Some time in the early 1960’s the secret leaked. Legend has it that a child born of a Magellan laundries, a harlequin that lived and gabbled truths so profound even the cruel nuns could not bare to drown it; sang the tale through an open sewer grate to a monkey versed in sign language, who mimed it to a Catalan soccer team, one of whom – a trained sky writer, went mad, flying above Barcelona in a one winged Cessna fighter jet, scrawling the secret in the sky for all to see. And thus I came upon the knowledge, a mere tourist, able today to present to you – at no small personal risk; a tiny fraction of the doctrine which defiles our world. The revelation that lies beneath all secret pacts and governments, from the Masons who toucheth not stone, to that politburo of cryptofascists the Bilderberger Group, to the wily weak bladdered barons of Bohemian Grove. Without further ado, I give you the protocols of the elders of Drogheda.
Protocol 1 – The Basic Doctrine
Though it may be said that the men of Drogheda are base and sod with metholated spirits, that bitter mists of swift huffed solvents have burnt out their minds, yet beneath such disguises we shall be crafty kings, training blind seagulls to carry the wicked commandments of our rule throughout the land.
Protocol 2 – Cleanliness
Through astute manipulation of those channels of charismatic blasphemy and propaganda that shall come to be known as ‘the corporate media’, we shall promote an ideology of cleanliness. For though the power of a man increases commensurate with the intensity of his cloak of sweat and filth, we shall convince him of the unattractiveness of honest stench and in this way diminish him. See also protocols 72 through 212, dealing with tracksuits, garage music, and spitting in public.
Protocol 3 – Five a Day
Man must of course feast on the hot raw flesh of slaughtered beasts alone if he is to remain Pharaoh of the food pyramid. Alas the halfmen of non-Drogheda shall subsist on hard wheats, soft fruits, lumpy organic vegetables and oatibix.
Protocol 4 – Literacy
The pure natural philosophy of man strikes him direct through his innate objective senses, conduits of the essential energy which inhabits and distinguishes each thing. How we shall confound the simple minds of men with riddles of ink, strange hieroglyphics signifying nothing, obscure wrinkles that convince men they are learned.
Protocol 5 – Self Control
Protocol 6 – Boyne Valley Shopping Centre
Though it shall masquerade as an under serviced museum of archaic retail outlets and obsolete groceries, the Boyne Valley shopping centre shall be the dark and secret heart of our vampiric empire. Low we shall drain their vigour through our stale cream slices and shaky monophonic cinema experience. All the while plotting, obscure in our mutant rube and half cooked wino guises, tangerine fitness instructors and Jeremy Clarkson fans, hoop headed pregnant tweens and moon bellied publicans.
They shall never suspect us.