"Oi! You can't park that thing 'ere. It's reserved."
The woman driving the white van seemed not to hear as she backed into the space labelled "VIPs Only."
"I'll have you towed," screamed the Jobsworth, turning an unattractive shade of puce, but the van driver slipped effortlessly through his grasp and made her way onto the platform to address the waiting crowds.
"I dream of a world," she spoke gently into the microphone, "which belongs to those who have nothing but hope..."
The bewildered crowd shuffled nervously. Who was this madwoman? Why was she addressing the rally. In the fourth row, though, someone began to applaud.
"I dream of a world in which those who mourn will be comforted...
I dream of a world in which those who deserve power are the ones to whom we give it..."
The crowd began to warm to her strange words.
"I dream of a world in which those who seek the good of others will not be ridiculed and abused...
I dream of a world where faults and mistakes are forgiven...
I dream of a world where politicians focus upon the good of the many and find the mind of God...
I dream of a world in which world peace is not just a joke at the expense of beauty queens, but actually a badge of honour...
I dream of a world in which those who give up everything receive the greatest reward."
The crowd went wild, hailing the straightforward way in which the woman with a bluff northern accent spoke, painting pictures of a better world. These were not the clever words of a politician. This was not the fake camaraderie of the spin-doctors. She held no carefully planned pint of beer. No photographers captured her giving money to beggars. She kissed no babies and hugged no hoodies.
The woman in the white van simply spoke from her heart. Painting beautiful pictures with the words, which came from her very soul.
From nowhere, appeared placards and flags. "WVW (White Van Woman) is our leader!" Bemused, she found herself swept up onto the shoulders of those at the front of the crowd as they surged out of the square towards the parliament building.
In front of the parliament stood a great bronze statue of the Great Leader, the man who thirty years earlier had overthrown the Great Tyrant who, himself, was the son of the Great Dictator. No one had seen the Great Leader in person for many years now, although his image was, of course, familiar from the nightly broadcasts. Some men at the front of the crowd climbed up onto the plinth of the Great Leader's statue and began to hammer away at it with pick axes and sledge hammers which appeared from nowhere. Slowly the statue began to list. Imperceptibly at first, then faster, as it reached its tipping point, the Great Leader toppled from his throne and crashed to the ground amidst a cloud of dust and a mighty cheer from the crowd.
"We have no leader but White Van Woman"
***
As night fell, the crowd seemed to run out of steam and without the real Great Leader to confront they began, one by one, to slip away home. It wasn't that they didn't support White Van Woman any more, but there didn't seem to be much purpose to the movement. Unnoticed, White Van Woman carried her hopes and dreams back to the VIP area where she had left her van. It had been towed away. A shiny limousine stood in its place.
Tim Presswood is Transitional Regional Minister for the North Western Baptist Association. He lives and works in Openshaw, East Manchester, where he has ministered in a variety of church and community roles.
