Meeting with the B.B.C.

Middle England steps through the doorway and stands awkward-looking, his eyes scanning the near-empty cafe. He glances through and over me, looking towards my immediate vicinity without recognition. I sip my bitter, poorly made black coffee as my eyes steadily keep pace with his apparition, now walking at moderate speed to the counter. He orders a mug of tea and, once paid for, turns once again to study the array of vacant plastic seating.

Of course, he sits at my table, gravitating to my human presence for no reason but his genetic insistence. I pretend not to notice him; try to reconfigure my train of thought; and, on cue, he speaks to me.

He speaks nothing of worth: notes on the weather; some tragic disaster somewhere. I return no utterance to denote neither agreement or caring, and he continues to change the subject, probing my soul for a reaction. Eventually he delivers a platitude about the state of British politics.

I purport not to be an expert on politics, but I read, and, my attention aroused, I interject with my concerns about our severe lack of democracy, referencing an article I recently read about the D.N.C. working against Bernie Sanders to ensure Clinton received the nomination for the U.S. presidency, a revelation which demonstrates the manipulation and attempted manipulation of people in favour of the rich and powerful. From the empty, contemplative gaze he returns, I read not only his apathy on this matter, but his inability to comprehend why he should care.

Undeterred, I reference the proven unnecessary and unacceptable attacks on Jeremy Corbyn by major new outlets, noting how this too is a clear attempt to coerce the public into backing politicians and policies beneficial only to corporations and the wealthy, and to steer public opinion away from people-power and progression.

Again the blank look. But this expression of vacuity softly subsides as a faint notion blossoms in the man's head. With the thought comes a pleasing sensation as depicted upon his face.

'Yeah, but Corbyn's an idiot!' he announces. 'That's why they attack him.'

The internal logic of the man's argument makes disagreement impossible: if he cannot recognise his idiocy, there is no way I can convince him of it. I know why this man 'thinks' the way he does (or perhaps unthinks) and I contemplate humanity's future and whether the masses will ever transcend their servitude.

I doubt it.

My thoughts are broken when the B.B.C. appears at the door: a great outdated machine of metal and moulded plastic. All over its cuboid form hang leads and electrical cables, swinging as it hauls its huge body around, appearing to serve no practical use. Its pincer-like hands grip the backs of chairs it uses to steady itself and ease its carcass through the narrow aisles. All the while, it speaks incessantly, broadcasting its filthy propaganda into the already filthy atmosphere.

Flaps open on its shell and a hundred tongues dart out, slapping our faces and bodies, and presenting themselves across our table. The man opposite me seems not to notice as the sticky appendages reel back, leaving gooey mess across us.

'The recent lead contamination controversy has developed amid claims that lead is not as dangerous to public health as once thought.'

It's voice is as bland as the man's opposite who speaks now: 'What contamination?'

'Lead contamination.' I say. 'You know, that toxic metal that is also a known carcinogen.'

We listen as the B.B.C. continues:

'We are joined on the sofa with Tom McLean, professor of something at somewhere... Tom, you say lead is not as toxic as previously thought.'

'Yes, David, evidence shows lead is not as dangerous as was once believed and studies show we could even use it to make cutlery.'

'I see... So what was the mix up before?'

'Well it is a toxic substance in high doses, just as pesticides are, but in normal, controlled usage, studies show both are entirely safe.'

'Could this then bring a lead revival? Would we see lead reintroduced in, say, petrol?'

'Yes, that is a possibility.'

This is impartiality in the making: to all those claiming lead is poisonous, here is someone talking from the viewpoint it is not. Numbers here do not matter: when an argument is polarised, both sides are represented as equal.

I turn to the man opposite and speak:

'Don't you think it is interesting that the well known toxic metal lead was deliberately added to petrol for decades and it was entirely legal? The governments allowed it.'

The man looks at me with that familiar stalled expression, which again erodes with a gush of inspiration and elation.

'But lead isn't toxic!' he says.

The B.B.C. Moves clumsily to one side, amusing itself with idiotic remarks, acting incredibly obtuse on a matter, with both co-hosts chuckling heartily as if they are the source of pure wit. One of its supporting legs gives way and it shifts suddenly in space, collapsing one side to the floor, where it continues to stand, leaning slightly. Smoke or steam oozes from a vent.

Its platitudes continue.

Over and out for now, guys!

xxx