Is it getting harder to be you everyday? Can’t take the workouts or the dressing downs, the slow resentful meals in stylish rooms in expensive, now depreciating homes? Mr and Mrs B.N.P, C.J.D, O.C.D the silent white minority, who are you? Are you terror struck in commuter town, or fearing the black face in the white hoody bluetoothing broken dreams via mobile data streams with no time to look where he is going? Who is tending your bloodstained flag that once screamed Empire but now whispers “spare change please” to the iPoded and zoned out passers by; a rag wrenched up by a threadbare monarchy to a lukewarm reception, a tired crowd, vaguely nostalgic, twitchy and bored?
Are you the Khakis hordes on their way to purchase LCD wide screens and potter vacantly through miles of car parking and bright Muzak convenience? Who is your team? Who do you support? Are your dreams in full colour featuring lip gloss sticky girls from the pages of the Sunday Sport spread out and sensual, almost too young, almost nude? Almost yours, but not really there. Do you rejoice in your St Cheryl X factor morality knowing that your X tube secrets could catch up with you - who’s that dogging in Grantham serenaded by a wet and miserable Sunday evening, just another way to spice things up and now you can’t look her in the eyes.
Where is your truth? It’s written in a language you won’t recognise, talked about in rooms you don’t know and you’ll never have access to, it is mahogany panelled, suited and titled, a secret ceremony of boys club control. Do you sit sweating in the dark waiting for a grimy hand to break your window locks, whilst the white-collar criminal has your password, confidence and handshake? Are you stopped and searched, tagged and DNA tested, young, black and suspect? Are you that loathsome single mum, benefits cheat, immigrant, all gold teeth and grabbing hands scourge of the Daily Mail outraged, we fought the war, we pay our taxes! Are you dreadlocked and dropped out, drugged up and dead-eyed, angry and on the frontline of a culture war you’ll never win; this is not your society, you can’t afford a voice Swampy. This is your Nation, humane, but confused, ailing but growing. Centre of an old world, a relic, broke, rebranding and channel changing, afraid but with eyes fixed on the future.
Are you the Khakis hordes on their way to purchase LCD wide screens and potter vacantly through miles of car parking and bright Muzak convenience? Who is your team? Who do you support? Are your dreams in full colour featuring lip gloss sticky girls from the pages of the Sunday Sport spread out and sensual, almost too young, almost nude? Almost yours, but not really there. Do you rejoice in your St Cheryl X factor morality knowing that your X tube secrets could catch up with you - who’s that dogging in Grantham serenaded by a wet and miserable Sunday evening, just another way to spice things up and now you can’t look her in the eyes.
Where is your truth? It’s written in a language you won’t recognise, talked about in rooms you don’t know and you’ll never have access to, it is mahogany panelled, suited and titled, a secret ceremony of boys club control. Do you sit sweating in the dark waiting for a grimy hand to break your window locks, whilst the white-collar criminal has your password, confidence and handshake? Are you stopped and searched, tagged and DNA tested, young, black and suspect? Are you that loathsome single mum, benefits cheat, immigrant, all gold teeth and grabbing hands scourge of the Daily Mail outraged, we fought the war, we pay our taxes! Are you dreadlocked and dropped out, drugged up and dead-eyed, angry and on the frontline of a culture war you’ll never win; this is not your society, you can’t afford a voice Swampy. This is your Nation, humane, but confused, ailing but growing. Centre of an old world, a relic, broke, rebranding and channel changing, afraid but with eyes fixed on the future.
