The evening drags with it cool ambience, much welcomed after the sultry day. The east-facing three-storey terrace block casts its imposing dimness onto the facing block. The faint, clear sky implies a coldness undermined by the fiery tint impressed onto the opposing brick.
From my first floor seat, I watch the unfortunate commuters make their way home, long past the rush hours. The breeze is slight but desired. Inside my bones ache with a fevered desperation; a need to be something, achieve something.
I drink my medicinal compound, diluted with lychee juice and ice. I have nothing to do. I contemplate turning on the T.V. so I can listen softly to the radio but the dread of a confrontation with its sudden garish sound and its brain-numbing propaganda deters me. What passes for culture there is a barrage of implication and persuasion. Normality is not implied; it is insisted. If you do not give a shit about American Pop stars and talent show finalists; or if you refuse to concede they embody at least a marginal amount of talent; you are abnormal.
My eyes stalk a lone nutcase, clapping his hands as he bounds down the pavement. The sensation of ennui is setting in and I begin to feel a desperate urge to talk non-stop shit for hours.
I lean out of the window to take some fresh(ish) air. The road below is full of potholes, eroded after years of neglect. If you want to know the true wealth of a country; check the condition of its streets.
A dirty puddle materialises in the middle of the tarmac. I watch unimpressed as the puddle swells and grows, reverse-engineering into the form of a suited figure. In Terminator 2 style the liquid is drawn across the filthy floor to form the entity; and turning around to look at me, I see it is David Cameron.
He is not like me. He is a man who ruined this country and received a standing ovation for it. The consequences of his conduct matters not to him or his public image: he has the lap-dog media ready to sing his praise and insist to the population: 'he was a great leader.'
The pathetic truth is: the idiot public will buy it.
I could gush; like a B.B.C. Journalist; but I do not. Instead the urge to vomit presents itself. Before I do, David Cameron walks away in time to the imbecilic clapping of the still present loony.
All the things I would like to say slip my mind. I turn to my only friend: the T.V., in hope it can provide me with the inspiration to condemn one of Britain's worst leaders.
The T.V. turns on by itself and an influx of left wing views and laughter enter my head. Some comedian is criticising the government. I flick channels, searching for some hard political discourse. Again another comedian: more words: rhetoric used to denounce the corruption of neoliberalism.
Out on the World Wide Web, onto the video sharing sites: more comedians; on newspaper sites: again more comedians: Stewart Lee, Mark Steel, Charlie fucking Brooker! wait in line to deliver witty left wing responses to the week's politics; and Russell Brand: he delivers his personal variety of pretend progressiveness whilst continually ignoring true progressives and telling people not to vote (except when he tells them to do so). The T.V. continues to switch channels and, again, more jokes purporting to be progressive; shills, fake progressives, undercover Tories goad the consumer into trusting them whilst delivering nothing but echoes of laughter.
Cameron is getting away and all I have to shout at him is a bunch of feeble, formulaic jokes. I open a copy of the Guardian somebody delivered by accident: the entire newspaper is written by jokers: clowns purporting to be on the side of the righteous.
Is this it? Is this all the progressive thinkers we have? A forum of jesters.
I thrust my head out of the window, catching a gust of tepid air, to see where Cameron has got to. He stands at the end of the road but it is he who is laughing. He knows, as he has always known, people are easily duped. If you cannot allow a balanced main stream discourse, it is important to fool the people into believing they have one.
The moron continues his cretinous applause, directed squarely at Cameron.
Real progressive voices cannot be tolerated; so aren't allowed. Real progression is ridiculed; the ridicule poses for real progression.
Cameron laughs on .
Over and out for now, guys!
xxx
Comments
Post a Comment