It is almost certain that a Leh Vasile or a Leh Gheorghe will become the anointed king of Romania in around two years, provided he can succeed in winning the gangs of trade unions. They are the gangs which were battered and diminished in number during their bitter fight with the Hungarians and the gentry landowners.

Fearing that the ugly and evil oppositionists would rip the roofs off their houses and tear the dummies out of the mouths of their suckling babes, the workers voted helter-skelter for the party headed by the handsome, smart Germanic leader. This German is the spearhead of the Democratic Front of National Salvation, the rogue of the queen, the pimpled Hamlet of our Great National Assembly, while his father's spirit every now and then rides over the barn of Cotroceni, carefully watching that no one else should get even a sniff of the fodder, symbol of power.

While the smart guys of the revolution easily played the role of leftist, (needless to say operating from the right,) they created a string of firms for themselves. And they feeded the flock with the image of the smiling shepherd, whom the opposition – depicted for free as a communist for three and a half years.

In the simple utopia of the man in the street, communism means cheap bread, milk covered by flies on the side of the road, it means the Pardajans of the corner cinemas, and the fragrance of mititei over the suburbs.

The image of the ideology-dripping beard of Marx never found expression at a deeper level than these issues.

The curse of the dogma paved a completely different path for the society, to a place where the word comrade – harmless enough in itself – began to mean blood, mouth-gag and barbed wire.

The working-class, finally convinced that Ion Iliescu was only a communist when crossing himself with his left hand and when he was gargling in front of the screen, will remain without a father when its pocket gets empty, that is to say, after Labour Day.

Then an even harder fight will begin. For what can be more Hungarian than unemployment, and what can be more like a gentry landowner than cutting back on the government subsidy on nourishment?

Every sign points to the omen that sooner or later a Lech Walensa Mioriticus will appear in the body of one of the Christian unemployed.

There is a close relationship between the church and the factory. How can I prove it? More and more often I hear the pleas of the mystics of the turning lathe: God damn the rotten liars!