The Mainstream Media

THE BATS ARE COMING HOME TO ROOST

In the immortal words of Hunter S. Thompson, the bats are coming home to roost for Labour. Their poll showing on Thursday was the worst it's been for forty years. That's forty years. So Labour are less popular now than they were during Margaret Thatcher's first term, when Michael Foot was leader. And then, if you remember--no doubt because of his intelligence, his honesty and his integrity--Michael was the most maligned person in Britain.

How the hell, I find myself wondering, did it come to this? A year or so ago Labour were riding high in most of the polls and David Cameron was being mocked as a pudgy Tony Blair impersonator who wouldn't convince even his own mother of his sincerity. But then we had the humiliation of the election that never was and it all seems to have plummeted downhill from there. It's a tragedy. And not least because the Conservative Party, when they take office after the General Election, will take the country right back to where it was before Tony Blair's landslide victory in 1997.

You think they've changed? Call me later, I have a refrigerator you might want to buy. George Osborne is already saying there need to be tighter controls on trade union activity. Consider it: tighter than those imposed by Margaret Thatcher, who castrated the unions,and upheld by Tony Blair, who had no more love of the principles of collective action by working men and women than she did.

The Conservatives portray themselves as congenial and liberal because they have learned well from Blair that this is the way to appeal to the middle Englanders who stabbed Gordon Brown in the back in London on Thursday: reflect their conceited and pretty much completely inaccurate view of themselves back at them. But like the middle Englanders, they are not who they seem to be. The Conservatives continue to be the mainstream home of everything that is unworthy, shallow, selfish, materialistic and generally crappy in human nature. As the old saying goes, be wary of wolves who have their hair on the inside.

You have been warned.

Now come back after four years of David Cameron and tell me I'm wrong.

Shakin' Stevens! (Huh?)

We learn this morning, with howls of incredulity ringing out across the nation, that the grandparents' favourite rocker Shakin' Stevens has been added to the list of people performing at Glastonbury. The same Glastonbury that was having trouble selling tickets for the first time in its history after putting a hip hop star at the top of the bill. (The media protests racism against anyone who doesn't support that.)

Well, the Eavis clan and whoever helps them with the bill do like to be ironic and "whacky" at times. They have that in common with the youth who are supposed to be their principle audience. You embrace something fantastically uncool, if I understand how it works, to prove in some sort of reverse way that you know what is cool.

But let me tell you something you won't believe. In his day, before all the commercial success, before the denim jacket and the white shoes and the spray-painted hair, before Bonnie Tyler, Shakin' Stevens actually was pretty cool. In the glory days of the rock 'n' roll revival in the early- to mid-seventies, Stevens had a band called the Sunsets and they were one of the most admired acts on the club circuit. The album I had of theirs back then was really bloody good.

Imagine how surprised everybody was when he sold his taste and credibility for a few appearances on the now-defunct "Top of the Pops". Didn't happen to Freddie "Fingers" Lee or Crazy Cavan & The Rhythm Rockers, both equally stellar acts in the rock 'n' roll world of the time.

Of course, things might have been different if the record companies had had the good sense to offer Freddie or Cavan Grogan (I think his name was), the chance to sell out. Imagine Freddie being introduced by Kid Jensen on "Top of the Pops" and then setting his hat on fire or dropping his false eye into a glass of water the way he did that night I saw him in the Railway Club in Wellingborough two hundred and three lifetimes ago.

10 Pence And Gordon Brown

Jack Straw, stuttering anxiously through a Radio Five interview this morning, said the consequences of the abolition of the 10 pence rate of income tax on the childless poor in this country were "unforeseen".

Perhaps readers will help me, because I can't figure out what's worse: the very likely possibility that that is a flagrant lie, or the idea that the previous Chancellor, now our amazingly ineffective and accident-prone Prime Minister, should have been preparing budgets in the manner of a Jackson Pollock wannabe throwing paint at a wall to see what patterns the drips made.

I never thought I'd say it, but I'm becoming a little bit nostalgic for the days of Tony Blair. I disagreed with him on almost everything, but he did keep Labour in government for a long, long time. Gordon Brown seems set to gift David Cameron the next election on a silver platter.

But here's another unpalatable thought. Perhaps that's what Labour needs. A Tory Government will be appalling in every way, make no mistake. But what use are Labour at the moment, to those who need them? Maybe a little time in the wilderness will help them to realign, find their focus and their conscience again so they can relearn who their real friends are. Those fickle selfish middle Englanders whom the abolition of the 10 pence rate was designed to attract?

If they are the constituency the party cares about now, I would have to question my own continued alliegance to Labour.

Oh, and by the way, despite what I have written above, I will still vote Labour the next time I have the chance to do so. But I'll be putting my cross in their box with no confidence at all that I'm using my vote in the most responsible way.

A Message For Those Against The Striking Teachers And Oil Workers

Pete Seeger always said it better than most.

Bruce is writing a new poetry book

Me and Woody Guthrie are hitchhiking across the UK next year in the middle of the New Depression going to play for striking workers at a benefit show, see, and Will Geer is waiting for us with bear hugs and booming quotes from Shakespeare.

No point in posting any of the poems here, though, because none of the ones I've written so far really stand without the others.

Anyone know of a publisher who might be interested in taking fanciful left-wing shit like that?

Trust me, in a year you'll all be joining unions as the great wave of the "economic downturn" swallows you.

GORDON BROWN TALKS TO THE CHINESE GOVERNMENT. EXCLUSIVE!

Yesterday I wrote a letter to my old buddy Gordon Brown to see if he could exert any influence over his Chinese buddies to stop the Olympic Torch from being paraded through Tibet. You know, "What do you need with all this hassle and bad p.r., guys? We know those ungrateful, backward Tibetans who all smell of butter and wouldn't know a benevolent liberator if they fell over one are gonna come out and try to upset the general gaiety of the event. So who needs the headache? And think how good you'd look in the Western media, fellers! They might even swallow that bollocks about you compromising and opening up a proper dialogue with those who have a dissenting view, the way the Olympic Committee did back when you were awarded the games in the first place. Give it some thought, eh? I'm saying all this as your friend you understand..."

A Poem By Emma Cox

SUFFOLK PUNCH is normally the place for my ego ravings, but a friend of mine showed me the following poem, which she wrote, yesterday and I wanted to share it with you. I think it's a really eloquent statement of belief; and although it's written by a Christian and I'm a Buddhist (albeit an inadequate one), you can see the common ground of compassion that the two systems can meet on. (Adding a fairly pedagogical note, I'd say you're pretty likely to meet a good number of Muslims and Hindus on that ground as well.)

CORRESPONDENCES TO THE KING

Jesus--my Saviour and my King!
How could you love me after all I have done and continue to do?
In my heart I know it's true, the message you came from Heaven to give,
but in my mind I am so confused!
Every day another killing, another loved life lost. How come, my King? Where R U in this?

Dear Child, I am in Heaven and I love you very much. I know their pain, every parent whose child has been slain.
I sent my only begotten son as a living sacrifice, to pay the highest price!
Instead of a crown He wore thorns, instead of a robe of purple they ripped His flesh til He wore a robe of scarlet!
Instead of His name being lifted in adoration, He was lifted as a curse on a cross.

This life is not easy, never did I say it was!
but read my Word and respond as I am calling you!
Leave you as a forsaken orphan? This is something I promise I will never do!


copyright Emma Cox 2008

a death

a yamaha 1200
underneath a car’s
front fender
outside my door
coming home
tonight. broken
glass, spilled
petrol running
down the road.
one boot abandoned
when they cut
the rider out.
a policeman
taking photographs;
and on the grass
across the street
six kids watching,
clutching skate-
boards underarm.
they’ve all
achieved
the appropriate
indifference,
but still they
look, they gape,
and no one
speaks a word.

last night at nikki's

a buddha in a santa hat.
a guitar propped up
at the bottom of the bed.
a lot of photos in boxes
that she took out
and showed me.
sleeping in my clothes
when she didn’t want sex.
her window in the morning
on the cold, cold road.
hungover and smelly,
too sick to chance
an arctic dip in the bath.
coffee as the day broke,
listening to her mate’s
shitty music downstairs.
not wanting to leave, but
knowing something was different.
last night at nikki’s.
i just shoulda gone home.

haiku: easter monday

with a stomach ache

thinking about my death--

snow floats down.

New poem: SUFFOLK BOYS

i see a picture on the internet:
ipswich town winning the f.a.cup
at wembley in 1976.

and i think, my grandad freddie garnham
is sitting in the crowd somewhere
behind mick mills, who holds the cup aloft.

he’d been to every game at portman road
for thirty years, maybe even more.
in the fifties he had known the players
(that was when their wages weren’t much better
than the blokes who worked at ransome’s like fred did).

wembley was the culmination
of ipswich’s slow climb through the leagues,
the reward for grandad’s dogged faith in them.

he filled a scrapbook with cuttings of the run
and gave it to me. took me to the ground
and showed me where he stood each week

to watch the tractor boys tame the opposition.
it was just behind the goal, in the corner.
that was when supporters were allowed to stand.

at wembley freddie sat--my gran was there--
and watched a team of heroes lift the cup.
the picture shows the sky was blue that day.

in his last year freddie didn’t go to games.
ipswich were crashing down through the league,
heading back toward division two.

"they can lose," he told me. he was short of breath.
"but i’m ashamed an ipswich team is giving up."

we suffolk boys were meant to fight like dogs.
my grandad wallpapered his entire house
a few weeks before the ulcers took him.

first date/ last date

she sd., why don't you get a haircut?
that past-the-shoulder look
just don't go in the noughties.

i sd., i am a traveller
from nineteen sixty-eight.
i'm going down to woodstock
when i've done my business here.

she sd., where's woodstock?

i sd., it's outside oxford.
don't you read "inspector morse"?

she sd., oh! that used to be on telly,
with that bloke from "the sweeney".

yes, dennis waterman, i sd.,
pushing my glass across the table.

she sd., i see it's my round!

i sd., bright as well as pretty.

but can you get them in, she sd.
if i don't go to the toilet soon,
i'm gonna pee my fucking pants.