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Skidmarks on the Highway

There comes a sinister virus blown in with seedlings from the right that has bestowed absolute power on a select few clawing their way through narrow apertures of naked ambition, pounding to pulp a wake of withered effigies that once burned with lights of integrity, and plunging the bollock knife deep into honest flesh - twisting it to maximize trauma.

Thoughts tailspin to halcyon days where opinions mattered, personalities feted, individuality for the purpose of goodwill cherished and decency was a magnificent feast for all. These aphorisms became separated from their families, herded into remote warehouses, strung up and butchered; and the mutilated corpses driven off late at night in a bus showing the destination: ‘My Way’. In generations to come social historians will discover mass graves, being able only to identify the wretched bodies of hope and sincerity through rotting dental records. Carbon dating will construct a picture of when there was such a thing as society. And they will laugh.


Cynicism leaks like a pungent effluent from the pores of our streets. Take a look out of your window. You will experience lateral blurs from warped elliptical bodies stuffed in polyester crossing your sightlines. Puffing and swearing rotund shapes waddle towards benefit queues and credit agencies; years of self-neglect and abuse-by-proxy etched in scowls barely masked by ascending plumes of exhaled smoke. Faces reddened with injurious anticipation of another day spent getting something for nothing, with exertion and sacrifice long discarded in a graveyard of verbs; their yellowing decay strangled by the grubbing weeds of corruption and fraud.



A collective nimbus of anaesthesia has engulfed us within the toxic slipstream of the Tories' 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 dishevelled as Pete Docherty trapped in an Afghan poppy field.

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