There was supposed to be a photograph inserted here . . . but my relationship with technology being rather hit and miss it refused to upload so imagine if you can a narrow street with an arch high up and a window through which I thought I caught a glimpse of Dr Bomboka.
Imagine the glint of an eye amidst the reflections. I can. Or at least I thought I could. Or did he disappear between the sighting and taking the photograph. I was quick but maybe not that quick. Yes, you know who I mean – Dr ‘appiness Bomboka himself. Cornered. Chased down through the narrow streets. My numerous agents at last had been persuaded to get their fat bums off the bar stools by the promise of bigger rewards. A pay rise! Why not? I know it’s against current economic thinking unless of course you are at the top of the tree rather than labouring away in the lower branches, let alone at the bottom. Well, if you’re unlucky enough to be scrabbling around in the dust then . . . what can you say? God help you. Look, here’s our very own multi-headed Cerberus, slavering thick threads of greenish hued mucous, from their over-privileged jaws. Come here, Gove, good boy, there’s a good boy. He does enjoy a good view of others’ suffering. If he gets a good run at it he’ll have children being beaten in all the schools any time soon. Oh and there’s Osborne just woken up, he’s nodding away, that big inane grin on his pasty face. And where’s Cameron you ask? Umm yep there he is, chasing that bum in the air as usual. You’ve got to admire him haven’t you; he’s such a little tryer. Who are those other men there? Heavily built, double-breasted suits, shades? What’s that you say? Lobbyists. Ok that’s a relief, I thought for a moment they were gangsters, you know, mafia enforcers. Gentlemen from the Camorra. Don’t let us mention once more the ‘Ndrangheta.
Their only desire is for us to be addicted to whatever they are selling.
But let’s get back to the stuff or our discussion: ‘appiness, you call it. Did I read you correctly? It’s all about sex and money? You could be right. But my mind swerves off in another direction. What about the old chestnut of identity? The question that Alex McSalmon has forced those of us who don’t happen to live in Scotland to think about is, what exactly does it mean to be English? Gove Fascism? Is Englishness merely what happened when through a long series of cock-ups and accidents there appeared something that became known as the Empire – sometimes British but never English. I suppose the sleight of hand was to involve God and the classical world . . . abracadbra! Look isn’t it wonderful, and, now you come to mention it, well deserved.
Dr Bomboka, Mr ‘Appiness where are you? Why are you skulking in the shadows? Aren’t I worthy of your attention? When were those moments of ‘appiness? The thought of a possible answer or at least a response, a preliminary tentative response is that there were some joined up moments in which my identity was not questioned. I was not condemned to being in the wrong place at the wrong time and come to that being the wrong person. Three wrongs make a dark seething brew of some foul smelling broth. Here drink this. Can you see the smile on his face. ‘Appiness is when we luxuriate in taking ourselves for granted.