It's a surprise to see the coming general
election making an appearance on these pages. In our meandering conversations
(aka walking) we don't often bump into the gripes and screams of the political
class – but there it is, you've shouted it from the rooftops: 'vote, don't
vote, our votes, Election Day, opinion polls.' though you do add that magic
ingredient, irony, in the form of one of our heroes José Saramago, plus the
malign glowering Uncle Wally who looks like he may be trying to decide who to
spit at first.
In obedience to the ancestors I must vote
Labour BUT a question comes to mind, where is the Labour Party? And furthermore
where is or what is the working class in our 21st century wonderworld?
Once upon a time a bright young singer/song
writer penned and wrenched out that he was most definitely NOT going to work on
Maggie's farm no more. Then, in the way that these sorts of things occur along
came Maggie to set us work or preferably slavery. For this wicked witch of the
Midlands believed that any form of human cooperation was utterly disastrous for
the righteous ambitions of the wealthy to become even more sickenly wealthy. I
mean, where's the harm in that!! And just in case there was any signs of a
conscience in her 2 am fevered brain, some sharp advisor slipped her the 'fact'
that there was no such thing as society.
It wasn't long (well, actually it was)
before another bright young thing but this time a gushing lawyer decided that
he was the one to square the circle; it was indeed possible to have the wealthy
making even more money than they had under Maggie (who had been taken out and
quietly shot; only to be replaced by a sereies of ragdolls). New Labour, he
called it. The tax bonanza from all the wealth creation (well, bits of it)
would be ploughed into education and health and going to war. After all it had
worked for Maggie.
And here we are: a rather pink in the face nephew of
Maggie and poor old dour Brooon from the Treasury . . . plus a walk-on cast of
thousands. So where must I place my poor flimsy little cross, my cross that I
must bear, my illiterate X. I see you mention that 'the apolitcal poet is a
myth' and in aid of clarity could you elaborate on this mythical apolitical
poet – is this somebody I could vote for?