Imagine This Scenario (part 1)
Imagine this scenario. For centuries, millennia,
your ancestors have ploughed the fields of Britain, milking many a
moocow, pulling many a lever, scrabbling at many a coalface,
been frogmarched off with bayonet, rifle, sword, to stop the whole place
from caving in, as they were told by those who owned the silos,
who fattened up the empires, whipped the natives, shot the rhinos.
Your ancestors were Irish slaves, Welsh miners, English shepherds,
they laid the pipes, they pumped the sewage, dug the roads, were peppered
with German bullets, choked on mustard gas, built ships and lorries,
stoked engines, mixed cement, fought off a million mortal worries,
fought typhoid, cholera, polio, Napoleonic trouble,
kept calm and carried on while Hitler smashed their homes to rubble.
Your father drives a minicab. Your mother feeds machinery.
Twenty-storey tower blocks make up the local scenery.
You’re still a baby when the marriage dies of green-complexioned health,
so no-one teaches you to swim or cycle or protect yourself.
No master shows you how to be a man and grab reality
by the balls. He’s busy watering his popularity.
You grow up in a ghetto where a third of all your neighbours
descend from those who lent this land millennia of labours,
and in those dreamy years after the darts of death had withered,
before the towers crumble and the planet starts to shiver,
your streets become infected by a viral form of preacher
proclaiming that their foreign dogma is your country’s future.
For thirty years, while Islamists grow smug on housing benefit,
no-one notices that your attention has a deficit.
The rest of your community’s a round hole to your square peg
and all your creativity just lies there like a spare leg,
you’re not turned on by television, drum and bass or football.
Nobody is going to let you set foot in a good school,
so there you sit with imbeciles concocting plans to hurt you
and parrot lines of French ’cause there’s no other choice but Urdu,
where using proper English means you think you’re some flamboyant king
and means that you’re a poof, a queer, a raasclaat batty-boy and ting,
a pushti pezevenk, a shishna-sucking gora gandu.
Que devez-vous faire maintenant? There’s not much that you can do.
One night, in a graffiti-smothered pit of social atrophy,
a pack of boys with fewer brain cells than a pickled anchovy
pursue you down the high road swinging poles and pipes and batons.
Their gleaming metal cracks your head. Their rubber sportswear flattens
your face. They swipe your empty wallet and your tatty mobile.
Here launches your revolt against the virtue of the docile,
as further down the road you run, just focused on surviving,
bleeding on the windscreens of grown men who keep on driving.
Your bookish tendencies propel you into university
where pyramids of dark politically-correct perversity
entomb Kureishi, Wordsworth, Austen, Ishiguro, Chaucer,
where almost everyone’s a Cultural-Marxist law enforcer
from some pristine Landrover-clogged boulangerie-crammed village
who’s once in a banker’s donation set eyes on an Asian or African visage.
They’re worldly wise authorities on racism, apparently.
Half their conversations are parades of moral vanity.
For three long years you’re yawning at some puffed-up bumfluffed ponce who
says all humanity can live in Ipswich if it wants to.
This doctrine-camp’s a struggle with your deficit disorder but
you scrape a cape, some motto-blotted paper and a mortar-board that
doesn’t fit, then wander in a zigzag back to London where
comparing Laurence Sterne and Salman Rushdie’s a redundant flair.
You stare into a void with no idea of how to find a
career, and tuned to glory, all you want to do is bind the
severely-wounded, limping, out-of-action art of poetry
to the powerhouse of electronic music, though it be
as likely that a record-label oligarch would favour
some bitter anti-globalist class-conscious rant-and-raver
who shouts in Sapphic odes, ballades, rondels and Russian sonnets
above a Mockney berk recalling how his best mate vomits
on thirteen pints of piss or a Jafaican bint who prattles
in sanitised opinions just like all the “edgy” cattle
as a publisher would dare to shake a ten-foot bargepole
at verse that’s not the cryptic nothings of a tedious arsehole,
and so you stumble by and buy biographies of Byron by
nibbling on a nabob’s nob, by tightening a tyrant’s tie.
Your top job’s in a workshop, as you see the dreams of youth crushed,
scrubbing mud off scraps of Roman porcelain with a toothbrush.
And there you sit, between two classes, cultures, worlds. You fidget
towards them both. The gap is gaping, though. You cannot bridge it.
The tax you pay flings rockets at Iraqi haberdasheries,
it pulverises coffee-shops in screaming, blood-strewn batteries.
You didn’t give consent for this. Your country’s just a colony.
Was there a referendum? No, there isn’t a democracy.
No socialism, nationalism, nothing to believe in.
The working people’s tongues are ripped out by conniving, thieving,
identical imperial-globalist PC puppet parties.
You’d like to race against this, but you don’t know where the start is.
Not once do you vote Labour. You could never vote Conservative.
All traitors, crooks and paedophiles. You switch off and no further give
a flying badger’s tit about what happens in the Commons
as London empties Cockneys and fills up with bearded omens.
The seeds of World War Three are blowing nicely on the zephyr.
Here come the Islamists. Your country’s fucked. Perhaps forever.
Warum dann musste Opa seinen rücken beinahe brechen?
Wir können ruhig Wagner hörn und Deutsch stattdessen sprechen.
You might as well speak German (or Mongolian for that matter)
into that microphone, up on that stage, in front of the lager-soaked chatter
of a dozen hipsters dressed like thick-bespectacled babies,
staring into screens and tuning up their ukuleles.
As the lonely years plod by, your heart is full of longing.
It grows obese on hunger, on the emptiness that’s thronging
through your threadbare lovelife. Every person that you speak to
might as well be Mister Spock, or maybe R2-D2,
but still you’re cracking at the seams to meet someone who’ll nourish
your cobweb-cornered heart into an upward-thrusting flourish.
Each word that springs from female lips is just a dreary racket,
“blah blah promotion blah blah pay rise blah blah income bracket”
or else a nauseating buzz, “blah blah blah immigration
blah blah blah xenophobic racists blah blah celebration
of vibrant blah blah blah” vibrating like a verbal dildo
up her holy minge. Traditional ways are long-since killed, so
you can’t walk up and ask a girl if somewhere underneath her
six coats of bullshit or above her talkative urethra
there throbs a soul, since, ordered by society’s shining recipes
for hurtling, faster than a coked-up lemming, off a precipice,
approaching girls is sleazy and invasive. It’s harassment.
And so your life is starved of warmth, of wonder, of attachment.
You’ve no idea what women want. You ask, but they won’t tell you.
You plead with them to speak the truth, but all you get’s a deluge
of “blah blah bollocks blah blah blah, oh, I just want a nice guy
who’ll shower me with aubergines beneath the moonlit night sky.”
This world of preening fakes and horsecrap-merchants fails to captivate,
it interests you less and less as every year evaporates.
But then a teenage working-class redheaded wordsmith bursts in
and says that she’s in love with you. You’re suddenly immersed in
a five-foot-ten half-Scottish old-school-socialist rhyme-scribbler.
You’re shaken from your skull-tip to your ribcage to your fibula.
You’d fight a flock of Millwall fans armed only with a spatula,
set fire to Margaret Thatcher with a single soggy match for her,
you’d scale Ben Nevis with sixteen typewriters on your back for her,
prance round the roughest pub in Dublin in a Union Jack for her,
you’d crawl across the Gobi Desert on your hands and knees for her,
you’d stick your hairy bollocks in a hive of killer bees for her,
you’d share your bed for six months with, instead of her, a porcupine.
But what she won’t explain to you is: she’s a Borderline.
The girl’s a raging, lava-breathing maze of dizzy delusion.
For forty months she coughed up lithium in an institution.
A pale-hued Loch Ness harpy whose emotional pollution
surfaces in gushes, fanning ripples of confusion.
Petty quarrel number one. She issues threats of violence
and then declares a lifelong policy of howling silence.
Your every quest to reconcile rebounds against her retinue,
she sends her gangly father and the boys in blue to threaten you,
she tells her friends and colleagues to ignore your every email,
that she is just an innocent, harassed and fragile female.
She wouldn’t lay a nectarine on a chopping-board to save your life,
she wouldn’t dye her hair or play a harpsichord to save your life
or pull a sink-plug out or open up her eyes to save your life,
admit that she did wrong or just apologise to save your life,
but still you’d pull a million pints or pallets, or scrub rotten mud
off an entire amphitheatre with a broken cotton bud
so she could sit and spend each afternoon unclogging the messiest
brainbox in North London with a world-class psychotherapist.
People tell you, “Just get over it! Move on! Forget her!
There’s plenty more fish in the frying pan of spilt milk etcetera etcetera!”
Except there’s not, since all around are moralists making a dire noise,
who bore you deeper than a bishop bores a bunch of choirboys.
Everywhere you look there struts a virtue-signalling tosser who’ll
snap their throat to prove their opinions are the correctest ones possible,
though every person that you meet has only two opinions:
“I’m not racist” and “I am a beacon of ethical brilliance”.
Some try to convince you that threats of domestic violence made by women
should never be taken seriously, no matter how big or how brimming
with psychotic rage a girl is, while threats of retaliation
made in self-defence by men are a vile abomination
(so it’s your fault the relationship ended, you’re the one who destroyed it
and you should apologise to her and flush your pride down the toilet).
© Alfie Shoyger
pushti pezevenk (Turkish): gay pimp
shishna (Bengali): cock, penis
gora gandu (Punjabi): white poof
Que devez-vous faire maintenant?: "What should you do now?"
Warum dann musste Opa seinen...: "Why then did Grandad have to nearly break his back? We might as well listen to Wagner and speak German instead".