The Ritualised Humiliations of our Glorious Servant
In which the hairy old grey beard reflects on a bad day in a bad life sometimes illuminated by the right to sound off.
1. On another day when if there had been a bar she could have warmed cold beer with her tears but that day gone, laid to rest, to memory. Now stating; “I think you retain a faint taint of hippie”. The “ I” assertive. The “I” owning these words. The “I” deciding their order, their syntax, their precise semantic interference. Late 20’s, early 30’s, just stepping out of her prepubescent ways. Patchhouli oil, incense, cannabis. The terrifying murk of an afghan coat. For god’s sake let it go.
2. The chinese student announced with pride the exact name of her college, renounced her own name and hesitated to shake his hand, but he insisted on it anyway. “The queen and duke are 70 years together today. What do you say?” Not sure he had heard the enquiry correctly he waited for his own indoors to muster up; “I couldn’t give a stuff”. Quite right he supported. Unattractive people with unattractive families, and even more unattractive outloooks who take up too much space in his papers. Media fixation.
3. “Fuck Off!!!!” he retorted to the Children In Need Thank You that cluttered his screen just before the outbreak of this mornings news tonight. “Fuck Off!!!!” he issued to each and every platitude of gratitude. “Fuck right off!!!!”. He couldn’t stand bad tv and he abhored the tragedy model. Opium. Masses.
4. The archbishop stood up which was quite something. He joined in with the royal “we” which he had learned from programmes featuring so many prime ministers before him. Poor sods usually only get 5 years to make a mess of things but God had granted himself an eternity made up of consecutive bishopric life times. No rush, its so easy to not rush in these minutes and just take a minute to drone and then drone another “we” sound, to use the “we” to include, to embrace “we” as all one in a universal congregation of like minded nitwits given to singing from the same song sheets, whether we believe or not, agree or not, we are stuck in the pot with this “we” who are so happy to be in a country celebrating the birth of yet another bloody parasite. All men. Amen.
5. The investigating officer is given a vista of another way of life but turns it down deciding instead to stick with the tried and tested formula for doing things in the one way, the prescribed method, the missionary position of managerial zeal. Zeal is for zealots. This is a paintbrush. It has bristles. The bristles are made from pig hair. The pig gave its life or at least a visit to the barbers just so I could daub despair for squares. Yes. I suppose there is a faint whiff of hippie but the hair that you aspire to disparage is older than that. It came from a time when we lived in black and white, when we slowly gave up our allusions for a better time when poetry would ring all future death knells with the loving cadence of a verb, doing ideas to death without the weaponry of a snark or tedious comment, when commentary was for all not just a sorry common tater.
6. The band marches two by two and four a breast, banging out the four by four bar to the two and eight crowd that gather to listen to the trombone parp, the cymbal clash and the triangle tinkle. Flags, banners, bunting, indications of a street party for the ever fighting fighters who cease their fighting for a knees up and dirty alley way tremble, fumble with suspenders, put on for the party; wistfully, hoping to be twanged but all I see is bloodshed and a friendly hand extended away from mine. Drivel, Uniform, Dribble.
7. Coincidentally at this time, blasting from the media and warming to the abbey’s archbishop, comes noise that the ginger arsonist is to marry a north american divorcee, setting glee smiling amongst historians who consider that history comes around and then comes round again as bells ring and proclamations loudly proclaim via men with more bells and breeches, tricolor hats and more braid and rigging and whilst the party crowd rush to to their silly stultifying party I find myself reconsidering his nazi uniform. Wear another medal for the faithful.
8. And then just in time the glorious servant reconsiders his ritualistic humiliations and sees them set with false prophets, bad representation represented by unrequired representatives who advocate their own position in a thrice, glad to be company men, happy to wear the insignia of the logo, red and black like broken anarchy, they take it to their heart and find a reason for their existence for without the badge of pride they would wear nothing else inside, outside of place, salary and qualification. Nose, grindstone. Take no heed of poor bleeding bleeders. For they like me and everyone else dancing to these tunes are just a bunch of bastards.