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Len Webster's ORWELLIAN NIGHTMARE
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Text and photographs
(c) Len Webster 2004
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FORWARD
'Did you see what they did to that statue, Daddy?
See what they did to the Square?
Burnt it to cinders, those boys did, Daddy.
You don't believe me? I swear it's true!
What'll happen to the boys, Daddy?
Will they be put in jail like you?
Did they fight for the right
To stop thieves in the night?
Did they do what they could to be free?
Or were they caught out messing about
Like the time you lifted your hand to me?
Since that time, I've tried to be good, Daddy.
It's not always possible, I know.
But why did those boys or that boy light the fire?
Were they trying to give us a show?
Did they think it was Bonfire Night,
Want the flames to burn bright,
Attract crowds to the sight?
I saw the burnt figures, Daddy,
Black and standing like demons over the Square.
I've dreamed of their faces,
Still gripped by the fear.
Do eyes fall out of their sockets or melt, Daddy?
And those real men in furnaces,
What happened to the metal they smelt, Daddy?
Is it the same as 'smell', Daddy?
Are they burning in Hell, Daddy,
And the one who lit the statue,
Will he rot there for all time
For murdering our history?
Or will we forgive him his trespasses
And let him go out and sin again?
And does nobody care any more?
What's it like in jail, Daddy?
Will you get this in your mail?
Is someone there your friend?
Dad, are you sad to have killed the man
Who broke into our house that night?
Do they read what I send?
When will YOUR sentence end?'
[* Raymond Mason's 'Forward' statue was unveiled in Birmingham's Centenary Square in June 1991. Nearly 12 years later, on Thursday, 17 April 2003, it was set on fire and destroyed by young vandals.]
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ORWELLIAN NIGHTMARE
The New Establishment is very well-meaning,
Believes in Democracy, holds itself Accountable to the People,
Gathers in Evidence
To re-mould the Truth about itself,
All in the cause of guaranteeing Our Freedom
And doing the Right Thing.
The New Establishment promises to be
Our Deliverer from the Past
That has been shunted into sidings
And fossilized in museums for children,
Dismissed as an irrelevance and an inconvenience,
A threat to the New Moral Order. Best forgotten.
The New Establishment is oh-so-Politically Correct,
Believes in itself and Equal Opps,
Has a Mission Statement or two to ensure
No-one is in any doubt about its
Constant Search for Excellence
And its Drive Towards Prosperity.
When the Awful Media attacks it for Incompetence,
The New Establishment clusters together to assure us
Everything is fine, that black is white and red is green,
That nothing is exactly as it seems
To the Salivating Mad-Dog Media Pack
Out to destroy our Belief in Ourselves.
Showered with Evidence, we blink and grumble,
Choosing a prejudice and sticking with it until
The New Establishment, so very, very well-meaning,
Reassures us of its Good Intent, its Commitment,
Reminding us of its Many Accomplishments on Our Behalf,
Of Money Well Spent, Time Well Saved, Wars Won
And Enemies Vanquished, especially those on the Home Front
That threaten the New Establishment.
We should be grateful for its Constant Struggle,
Acknowledge our dependence with humility,
Admit that day is night, might is right,
Give in at the first sign of a fight
With the colossal fraud demanding to be fed,
Give in to the calculated attempt to tamper with the head.
But, yes, of course, the New Establishment is very, very Well-Meaning,
Holds the People's Best Interests close to its heart
And will therefore hold fast to its Firm Belief
That it is Right until proven Wrong.
Then everything will change
And a people marched up to the top of the hill
Will, unknowingly, be led, oh-so-cleverly, back down again.
ON THE RUBBISH DUMP OF THE CENTURY
They were the cheated generation:
Young between two wars
Then trapped in promises
Of better times to come,
Stuck by green stamps
That pledged fair shares,
Unprepared to take
Before the cost could be met,
Watching their modest ambitions
Slip through the net,
Knowing the fickleness of politicians
Was no worse than the misguided idealism
Of those who believed the Kingdom of Man on earth
Could be sown by a state.
Now old and livid, displaced,
Resenting the lies and the cries
Of the perceived dismal young,
They drift on a raft in a darkening sea,
Watching firm friendships grow fainter
In a world desperate to defy destiny.
THE CHIEF EXECUTIVE SPEAKS
he's there
grey hair balding
on the stage
facing the rows
where gaps flourish
in enforced submission
he's there
twisting words
out of the laptop
on the lectern
before him
bored and heavy-headed
the enforced ranks
look up
look down
look around
sometimes shiftily
all have aims to be set
all have targets to be met
would rather be elsewhere
and he
lover of technology
that does not quite
match his expectations
preaches of the future
that slips away
as soon as it's predicted
he will sleep
easily tonight
in his bed
beyond consciousness
he'll snore
axing numbers
when cuts are required
to shape his strategic plan
PIERCED & BARBECUED
'someone nice,' says she,
trying noncommittally
to reply to the question,
'who skewered the kebabs?'
'someone nice,' says she,
a word I was taught to avoid
for fear of recrimination
for vagueness
her obfuscation is deliberate
'someone nice,' to her,
is someone to envy
for his youth and position
though in this country
he has no official place
except as a number to be reduced
like fat rendered over a fire
someone nice has secured her
taken her, body and soul,
his ritualized presence
grafted upon her
their time together uncertain
a token eternity
subject to the will of a bureaucrat
roasting the skewered meat
clandestinely
WINTER MORNING
You wake up heavy-headed
And you start to sing the Blues.
You turn the radio on
And get the early morning news.
A one-way journey starting,
But you don't know where to go.
You just begin by farting
And hoping it don't snow.
It's the bloody English winter
And it plays darkness in your head.
You kinda wish you'd retired
And could damn well stay in bed.
You hate the sound of Radio Four.
It's too early for that hassle.
You can't bear to hear some old bore
Spouting from his ivory castle
And pretending he has answers
To the savage people's prayers.
He's doomed, you're doomed, you stumble,
But you navigate the stairs.
By evening it'll be over,
This one-off winter's day.
You'll have survived the routine gloom,
Or maybe not - who'll say?
When my mum once went shopping
She said she'd meet my dad.
She never did. He collapsed.
A heart-attack. How sad.
You go out in the morning.
You don't have to come back at night.
One death is all it takes
To put you out of sight.
'Make sure you have clean underwear.
It's sudden this and that.'
Good advice they used to give.
I think I'll wear a hat.
If nothing else, it'll protect my head,
Provide me with a rudder.
Prevent me from thinking much,
Make me smug and warm. I shudder
And I wake up heavy-headed
And I start to sing the Blues
And I turn the radio on
And get the early morning news.
A one-way journey starting
And I don't know where to go.
I just begin by farting
And hoping it don't snow.
It's the bloody English winter
And it plays darkness in my head.
I kinda wish I'd retired
And could damn well stay in bed.
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'EDUCATION! EDUCATION! EDUCATION!'
BOTTOM OF THE HEAP
Is your teacher very smug?
Does he care about you?
Is he a she or a bit of both,
A budding captain or one of the crew?
Is he living in a paper house
Showered with fluff and fluster?
Does he scuttle like a mouse
Or like a cleaner with a duster?
Does he hold his head up high
Or droop and look discontented?
Do you hear a frequent sigh
And feel the smile has yet to be invented?
All these questions roll up into one:
Is your teacher very smug
Or is he just a broken mug?
NATIONAL CURRICULUM
So, you want to be a teacher do yer?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Wanna be a teacher, eh?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
Oh, you wanna be MY teacher, do yer?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Wanna be my teacher, eh?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
Who's pulling YOUR strings, Beanpole Prat?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Any idea who's doing that?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
Trying to put the world to rights, are yer?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Think we should respect yer, do yer?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
S'pose you want our thanks, eh?
NO WAY! NO WAY!
Stuff that up the usual place.
OINK! OINK! OINK!
How much you paid for taking this shit?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Must be a fortune, to put up with it!
OINK! OINK! OINK!
Oh, really, you've got my ILP?
I SEE. I SEE.
What d'yer think that'll teach me?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
So, you want to be a teacher, do yer?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
Wanna be MY teacher, eh?
OINK! OINK! OINK!
You're a bit of a one, ain't yer?
OINK OINK! OINK OINK!
You know I know you won't stay.
OINK! OINK! OINK!
(c) Len Webster 2004
For further information, e-mail: lensfiction@yahoo.co.uk
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