Friday, October 22, 2010

Blood and Bonfires

A collective nimbus of anaesthesia has engulfed the public sector in the toxic slipstream of the Government’s mobile abbatoir.  Workers either use the onrushing death train to embrace the inevitable denouement to their careers and display the ‘fuck off’ tattoo they have been saving for that rainy day encounter with their boss before retreating into a hermetic Sudoku cryogenesis; or wander agape like the nomadic urban hippies who herbo-chemically tenderised their synapses to mulch, and now shuffle in the twilight hours motorised by Lithium …their grubby emaciated frames silhouetted in the halogen from a Currys doorway.

The concept is skewed like a kitten writhing on razor wire.  A nation in binding, ready for rehab and therapy after a basket case diagnosis by baronets lubricated at Bullingdon, toasting crumpets on the thorax of the ignorant; peering from the turrets to spit semi-congealed ptarmigan onto the salivating masses below.  Never was so much given by so many to so few.

Maybe the Tories are right. The Big Society will return.  People will once more find that sense of togetherness that had fallen down the back of the settee.  Maybe we will achieve the self-discipline from a diet of austerity.  This will stand us in good stead at the snaking dole queues and landfill tors. The rebirth of a proud nation …identified by future anthropologists from what was found caked behind our fingernails.

But while French cities burn and Greek army recruits are pounded under the feet of angry pensioners, we give a collective shrug and tut a bolus of commitment as if we’d just seen a single mother light a cigar in Quiksave, and not a rabid assault on our pensions, the dilution of our societal gel and a future as uncertain as Pete Docherty trapped in an Afghan poppy field.

But we can gather up a few crumbs of contentment from below a gaping mouth of broken teeth and split lips.  The coalition is likely to unravel as systematically in its death throes as Gregory Isaac’s dreadlocks.  Hideous turncoats like Cable when wiping his bottom will be haunted by the Ghost of LibDem Past sneering back up at him from the u-bend.  Clegg will turn up only to find that –like the unpopular kid in school- he was given the wrong directions to the party, and will sit there in an empty room holding a paper cup containing all his dreams.  The day of reckoning will come …and then given the chance, we’ll all tut just that little bit louder.

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