A treatise from Nicholas Brown QC

An abhorrent idea from QC Justice Brown

A modern proposal

It’s a melancholy object to those walking along a darkened path in the countryside or dimly lit city street in the day or night to see children as young as twelve or ten, blighting our environment with threatening glances and turgid aspects.

You will find these pathetic creatures on the country sliproad or dishevelled beach front, on the disembodied London thoroughfare or the lost viaducts of Leeds. There they are these unsavoury shapes, hanging on street corners, creating distrust and fear with vacant stares, their hooded forms and bilious eructations.

It tempers our temperate qualities, fuddles our generosity and dismays our conscience to glance upon such wretched souls. Sure, we are humane, we are kind and patient. We put up with these scoundrels with a bon humeur and patronising gentility, characteristic of the English way.

But two months ago this country saw an outpouring of tumult so grave and tempestuous that we, the honestly burdened taxpayer, questioned our own moral sensibility, our very logic and sanity, in putting these youth into schools, housing them, giving them bread to eat and clothes to wear. We allowed them so much and yet were given so little in return. What happened was a blow to the senses. No longer could we, the taxpaying public, sit peacefully behind our twitching curtains without fearing the reprisal, a kick at the door, a tap at the window. The shattering of innocence was a bitter blow indeed.

But slow. Slow my judgemental reader, wait a moment. Ask this question–

Who do we blame? For blame here is everything. Is it really the fault of the children? These pariahs who, by their very nature, are inclined towards mischief and destruction.

Take him out of his hood and trainers and is the feral youth really unlike any other child, that you or I might ourselves come across every day? Does he not bleed when you hit him, or scream out when you hand him a jail sentence?

For those of you who look askance at my words—you dear reader yourself, peeping at my proposal through languorous eyes—perhaps you could remember your own exuberant youth. For we too, right thinking folk, were once wild. Who did not thrash their butler for little other reason than spilling our coffee in the morning? Which of us did not break window panes in our college quads? Who was it that refrained from letting rip their urine on the local police in high spirited jest or vomited insanely in the old Caskhouse? This is the pulse of life you see.

Yes, of course, in time we flowered. We grew to be citizens of the nation, taxpayers and judges alike. They, of course, are beyond any adult redemption. They will never rise above concerted mediocrity; are, by nature, condemned to be burglars, rapists, gypsies and addicts (as a judge I have seen them all). But let us not bow to scruple and fact. That is not the young feral child’s fault. Let the dogs run with dogs, but spare the babes.

An old school master once said to me, “If you were any other than who you are I would have little chance but to send you down. But I know that you will grow to be an honest man, a powerful man and a rich man, so I will of course, spare you.”

A sentient being. He realised that us nobles cannot be judged by the acts of our youth, the folly that adolescence brings.

And so I say that we too should be lenient. Like Pontius Pilate we too should be merciful. Look beyond that ghastly synecdoche ‘hoodie,’ for it serves us ill. A solution must be found that will benefit society. A modern way.

And so, dear reader, I come to you with a solution. I pose this of you my Daily Mail reader, some of you my friends, though not my equals. My proposal is simple. The babes should be reared to the age of six. That is, up to the very age that they begin to shew those feral characteristics that will govern the course of their future lives.*

They must be clothed, nursed and cherished, fed with the very ambrosia of life. In short they must give off a beneficient radiance that, to the onlooking eye, would suggest health and happiness. This preparation will palliate the more sensitive natures amongst us. For surely a happy lamb is more desirable than an unhappy lamb.

At this age we may incorporate them into our daily repas.

The benefits of my proposal are obvious and many.

Firstly, it will free up housing space in our council estates for the surging tide of families slipping down the hole of la pauvreté in these times of recession.**

Secondly, it will create greater space in our jails for more criminals to be housed. For surely, since Australia closed its doors (they send us their turds!), our want of space to place the turds and jetsam of our society is more immediate than ever.

Thirdly, sustenance. Now you may ask whether a feral child of six will give off enough bounty for a grown family to savour. Fear not. The growing influence of fast food amongst the lower class had led to the modern-day vice of obesity. Politicians, commentators and what we call the ‘media’ (aside: the media of what I ask you?) deride this trend. But I ask why? Would you rather malnourishment than gluttony? Are we really better off with striplings than cherubs? Some may find the sight of an overweight young child disgusting, as I once did. But now I only see pork bellies. I see cut of rump. I see plump breasts and victuals. I see loin of chav, I see hind of hoodie.

These days ferals as young as two or three have enough baby fat on them to sustain a modest Christmas dinner. Of course one would need to enhance it with sundries- sweet potatoes, parsnips, carrots etc—all go well with a child of three.

Above that age and ‘tis best left to mature in the cask. An oak-smoked child with cranberry would be a delicacy in certain parts of Scandinavia.

But hold. My treatise is not yet complete. I am a judge and know that, to every rational argument, there will always be an irrational counter. And so let the prosecution speak.

Cannibalism you say! Balls I say! Of course we are not Neanderthals. We are not Australians. A cultured man, sensitive to the ills of the age, would scorn such name calling. And you, Mail on Sunday readers, are certainly sensitive. We will noteat anything that is deformed, malnourished, diseased or maimed. That would be cruel, and abhorrent to nature.

Cost. The more enterprise-minded of you will fear the burden that this endeavour could place on our finances. After all do we, the taxpayer, not already support the farming industry with our hard earned rapacity? Is it not us that pays for the fishermen to sit on their rickety boats and cast rods into the ocean?

Surely this new form of agriculture would mean an even bigger slice out of our pay packs. (I need to travel to the Bahamas this year, my wife reminds me!)

The short answer is no.

The number of feral souls in this kingdom being usually reckoned six million and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two million per year at the ripe age of enjoyment. One could perhaps subtract thirty of forty hundred of these—those who are malnourished, deformed or unsavoury looking—and you are left with a very high number. Would it really be so difficult to harvest these into a production line? One could even store surplus for future seasons.

Perhaps those early into this could start a business of it. Which of the ‘Dragon’s Den’ outfit would deny such a brilliant money-making opportunity?***

Lastly, to those of you (foul individuals) who feel that eating black babies is a depravity. Fie, say I! A pox on your prejudices. You, sir, have no part in my world.

The colour and creed of the child does not matter. After all are we not all of us pink and red inside? Should a black babe’s blood run any less red than a white? Avast you pitiful minds. I damn you.

Yes, dear reader, paragon of virtue, this is the solution. For if we do not act now then we, the moral majority, will have failed them. And what will happen next time these ferals riot? How will your Swiftcover Insurance policy cope? How will your Bupa health cover prevail when our street, town and country is burning? There will be little solace in the X Factor then my feathered friends.

So come. Let us dine. Let us be merry! Let us feast on these ferals. Come children, come the hour is at hand!

Judge Justice Nicholas Brown QC


* Of course six is an approximation. If one should see tiny fangs appear and an increased propensity to irritate and bawl at an earlier age then, by all good means, the procedure can be taken earlier.

** While the council estates are an eyesore that distress the refined mind, these feral men and women have no need for aesthetic pleasure. They do not care about the curved cornice, the carved pediment nor anything else that is pleasing to us.

Indeed these council estates were given as a boon to the lower breeds who sought dirty land upon which to unleash their untrammelled appetites in days of yore. More recently the lower classes have formed what they call the ‘middle class’, a desolate hinterland or parody of the ruling classes, and have concurrently built themselves ‘housing estates’ which we see springing up across the country. Those unsightly eye-sores that blight our vision can then be bulldozed and replaced with hunting grounds or farmland to breed fatter cows, organic chickens and tumbling woodpigeon for the delectation of our kind.

*** My close friend Duncan Ballatyne was particularly interested in my thoughts. You should have seen the perspiration on his nose when he heard about this. Money is all to him!


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