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Thursday 6th March 2008.

Today i met George Orwell on the stairs at first we passed,then as i turned he turned also, stepped down whispered in my ear that he was sorry that his 1984 had come home, worse than he ever could of imagined,i opened my mouth,but he put a finger on my lips.We both knew that there is no going back and he left the lingering question..WHY..had we done nothing about his warning.I watched him turn and continue his journey to find the man who sold the world.I watched him drift away his hand ruffled his short cropped hair his tweed jacket open, some parchment poked above one pocket, perhaps he is still writing.
His question why..brought a comment to mind by Winston Churchill..give the working class a packet of fags,glass of Ale and his polite words need a more gulag wordage from me in the year of 2008 like fuck'um.
Today this afternoon in my tiny red van i saw half the answer..i came across another funeral this time the aftermath where one retires to the Pub for some real ale,pork pies,ham sandwiches and a salad nobody touches, some simply had gathered in smokers ally.Three men of different generations were stood out side in a bear hug,as if the war of the worlds was coming over the hill,it is the only time society can let men hug each other with ten pints of foaming mirth inside them, say they love each other until death,without being called anything else but men.
Later as i drifted down the road i saw someone i know, though only to nod too with a few sparse words which always go by how are you, yes ok, and hurry pass before depth can be reached in the spilling of beans nobody really has time for these days how sad we have become but who's fault is it, some where in the blame must lay i also...inside his clear plastic carry bag i could make out a simple bottle of red wine.i wondered what his thoughts must be as he cupped the first glass, bollocks stuff'um or simply fuck off,or perhaps and hopefully wowo what a wonderful day.
I watched a man who i have seen quite often walk past with two again clear plastic bags each had four bottles of cider..i wondered was it also last Thursday i saw him walk past or is it every night.i watched him lurch, his work bag dragging down, he strode past the bus stop oblivious a gate-motion in crumpled feet his coat was not him,as if he was not there,as if the work day had been that bad only cider could dull the ache of what the fuck am i doing.
Lastly as i was finishing my route the bottle shop door opened out came a plastic bag with Carlsberg Special Brew..i did not glimpse the person.I did not have too CSB,is that dire and carries the reputation that there is no going back.
I think the working man has now had enough,he knows the ballot box is full of pox and would rather sink in side a few bubbles, than be bothered,the fight is over for now,then what is there to fight about so much has gone, i was wrong about the Berlin Wall,lets hope i am wrong about the spark..which leaves me in a better frame of mind than before i sat down thinking on the day and the sights that passed before my eyes.The fridge sounds nice i think i still have a cool bottle...

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
foucaultonacid
Mar. 7th, 2008 09:09 am (UTC)
words came as no surprise
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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