"Ah," muttered Bronstein, "it's all about _who_ they want to breed! Warning the Guardian readers that it's their moral duty to procreate so that there'll be someone around to pay Prezza's hefty pension with their taxes isn't contradictory to warning tabloid-junky dole-bludgers off creating a further drain on the system! We need more of the former, less of the latter, even if we don't want to spell it out so crudely!"
"Right!" nodded the Cow. "And the Conservatives? Are they allowed to breed, or not?" The Cow was still smarting a little from some Conservative fossil complaining to the manager in the Pheasant about her public snogging. Particularly as it had been very restrained snogging, too.
Bronstein chuckled. "Whether or not they're allowed, they don't go in for that sort of thing. Rather, they wait for senile dementia to nudge people to their way of thinking - have you noticed that The Telegraph is always the paper closest to the incontinence aids? You often have to hunt for the Guardian, but that's OK because Guardian readers are clever enough to find it."
This was true, the Cow conceded. She somehow couldn't see the average Telegraph reader bending down to pick up their favourite read from the bottom shelf without their home carer to pick them, and their Zimmer frame, back up again.
"But isn't it self-defeating?" she asked. "Guardian readers, surely, are also intelligent enough not to _want_ to breed, irrespective of what the media tells them they ought to be doing? Surely those are the people most likely to be popping down to the clinic for some help in preventing accidental pregnancy?"
"Precisely!" agreed Bronstein. "Which is why the BNP is winning votes over the immigration issue!"
It was all too much for the Cow. She needed a drink... preferably from a pub whose clientele didn't have an issue with snogging.