Savage meat

I once read a story about a Catholic Adoption Agency in New York that took pity on Native Americans’ children because they were savages in a land of unimpeachable Godliness and obscene wealth.


The Adoption Agency decided that the souls of their Native American parents were forever damned to the fires of Hell but their children, on the other hand, could be redeemed. They made it their mission to round up as many as they could manhandle away from the reservations and matched them up to families in far-away England who took them off their hands in exchange for a few thousand pounds. Their new mummies and daddies surely loved the newly created orphans as if they were their very own.

But eventually, tough guys at the Internal Revenue Service realised the Agency hadn’t paid any tax and broke down the Agency’s door. At roughly the same time, someone else, who had read about the raid in a local newspaper, began to wonder whether it really was God’s will for children, savages or not, to be bought and sold like piglets at a market and wrote a stiff note to the Captain of New York’s Police Department who, under extreme political pressure, took immediate action. The bosses were taken to court where almost everyone in the Land of the Free agreed that the Catholic Adoption Agency was wicked for selling children. Nevertheless, it wasn’t for cruelty the perpetrators were punished but for failing to pay Blood Money to the Government. The bosses were locked up for a couple of years for not paying taxes.

In the public eye, as if by sleight of hand, justice was seen to be done and moral indignation appeased. Everyone was happy except the bosses at the Agency and the children’s parents, most of whom were already dead (from a broken heart probably), so they didn’t count. The Inland Revenue Service got the taxes due from selling the “orphan” children. And, the grown-up savages living in England received compensation so they wouldn’t ever need to get a proper job. How sweet is that?

Funnily enough, Dennis Clifford, my grandmother’s gardener, also knew the story. He followed these matters very closely indeed being an avid reader of the Sun newspaper. He complained loudly and often that he had to “graft and sweat all hours of the day and night for next to nowt” and had to have a proper job all his life, he said, all because he wasn’t “one of them savages who got themselves adopted.

Does this chime with the refugee catastrophe Britain is now facing? Funny old world.


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