There’s nothing duller than an anarchist.
First there were the ludicrous, floppy-haired rock-star offspring, swaddled in cash and daddy’s absent-minded affection; seething with empty rage at all that unfulfilled potential and mindless privilege; coddled to the point of slack-jawed apathy; jolted out of their pot-fuelled reverie by some perceived injustice; angry, opinionated little turds whose Eton accents belie the confused sense of social injustice rattling around in their tiny little minds. I’m talking about you, Charlie Gilmour, swinging from the cenotaph. And you, Otis Ferry with your flagrant disregard for our historic seat of government. Here’s a thought: Get your hair cut. Get a job. Get out of my sight. In that order.
Courtesy of bbc.co.uk
But the seeds of discontent have wafted down to the masses. Filling the nostrils and piquing the interest of council estate slackers and BMX gangs idly circling south London’s underpasses in search of rizzlas. And now they come. The mindless hoodlums have put down their xBoxes and their cans of White Lightning and are rising up. Pooling their resourses. Chancing their arm.
“Redistribution of wealth,” they screech, through mouthfuls of sausage rolls snaffled from Greggs the Baker. “Claiming back my lost taxes,” they roar, as they loot a toaster from Argos.
One suspects that bitter irony is lost on these foolish little scrotes. That the people who REALLY cough up taxes are us poor saps in our overpriced shoeboxes above picture-frame shops in darkest Streatham, trying to drown out the sirens by downing cheap sherry and doing frantic sums involving soon-to-be-spiralling insurance premiums in the event of a baying hoodie shoving a petrol bomb through our letterbox.
The REAL tax-payers, let’s not forget, are the small businessmen sobbing on the kerb outside their independent carpet shops razed to the ground by a bloke with a puffer jacket and a flame-thrower trying to impress a girl with a Croydon facelift and a look of bored detachment who has just promised him a hand-job round the back of the tram station.
So don’t give me any of that working class hero bollocks.
Redistribution of wealth? I would die laughing if I wasn’t so sad about that dear old fancy dress shop at Clapham Junction, burnt to a cinder so the cackling mob might disguise their leering faces as they continued on their destructive path. REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH?? HA!
Stick on a pair of tights and fuck off to Sherwood Forest, you cretinous oafs.
Better still, build a time machine and go back a couple of hundred years to the days when being a marauding avenger against some perceived authoritarian misdemeanour really meant something. Back to the days when the stinking rich flaunted and preened and galavanted, and ground the little man’s face in the dirt with sneers and hobnail boots. Back to the days when the poor were raped and pillaged and everyone wore britches and frilly cuffs and stuff.
Then I’d back you to the hilt with your outraged rampages. Especially if you dressed as dandy highwaymen, donned pistols and face paint and held up horse-drawn carriages with the swish of an imperious hand. Then all you’d need to do is scoop up the swooning damsels and whisk them back to your lair. They liked a bit of rough back then, so I’m led to believe.
Back to today though, and one can only assume there is some noble motive for all this nonsense. Because if it is just mindless, opportunistic violence, I weep for our children and will plan my emigration forthwith. To Beirut, probably.
No – there is nobility in it. There must be. The teens who are out there night after night with their bricks and their bottles are tortured heroes to a man. Though they appear feckless and thuggish, I suspect many are closet romantics who have spent many hours quixotically wanking in a darkened room as Lord of the Rings plays out on their widescreen tellies and their mums heat up the Findus crispy pancakes in the kitchen. There is the gallant Aragorn, up on his horse, galvanising his troops for an assault on Sauron’s army. Behold, a thousand disenfranchised, youthful thumbs poised on Blackberry messenger, ready to recruit an army of fellow idealists.
“Hold your ground,” they type. “Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, of Peckham Rye! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of woes and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight! Come now, brothers, let’s go and smash up Debenhams!”
There is young Trevor from Hackney. Sixteen years old, head full of dreams, scrawling in his journal with shaking hand:
I must win the heart of the fair maiden, Sharon Dobson, I MUST! For the way she twirls her pigtails and looks at me with such cool detachment makes my loins ache and my heart sing! Attired in my finest low-slung jeans and a T-shirt that proclaims my deepest desire to “Fuck the Police”, I shall rise up against tyranny and take what is rightfully mine! That’s right! I will liberate a fun-sized pack of fishfingers from its frozen prison in that bastion of capitalist greed, Iceland – and then, THEN, I shall rescue a 42-inch Samsung flatscreen, cruelly nailed to the wall of Ladbrokes. Take that, society!
Oh Sharon, ice-maiden from 7b! Maybe then you will let me get to third base and my peers might recognise me as a worthy human being! I must stop now, dear diary, and reserve my strength for a considered assault on Wimpy. Onwards! Upwards! Victory will be ours!
Well lay off Debenhams, if you wouldn’t mind, Trevor old son. Because if that gets torched I’ve got nowhere to go to continue my collection of Rocha John Rocha leisurewear. I’m buggered if I’m spending the rest of my life shopping at Topman.
Honestly. This country.
9th August 2011