Do Your Thing

Having completed The Long Year, I was scratching around for a new project and alighted on an old one. Many years ago I wrote a comic novel, rather in the fashion of Tom Sharpe (if I may be allowed to flatter myself a teeny bit) whom I'd been reading quite a lot of at the time. To my dismay the manuscript was lost, though I can remember, of course, the gist of the thing. I do well remember enjoying the writing - writing comedy is something of a challenge, not easy - and I do remember making myself laugh a lot during the process, though sadly I never got much feedback, and I'm not entirely sure if anyone other than myself read the finished piece. Consequently, I've decided to write the whole damn thing again from scratch, with just the kernel of the idea I had way back when. It should keep me busy for a few months at the very least.

Additionally, I've committed to writing this blog on a semi-regular basis, and I have my fortnightly challenges from Biggar Writers to meet. I don't want to moan - oh no - but I do seem to be rather short of hours in the day. I should have anticipated this. I remember my father retiring and one of his first complaints was that he couldn't for the life of him figure out how he ever had the time to go to work. I know the feeling only too well myself, now. I wish I'd listened harder, taken more notice, prepared myself better. But then we never do, any of us.

There's a lot out there limbering up to get us, and we're not taking much notice. There's the impending climate and environmental disaster on the horizon, for example, a lot more probable than a stray asteroid, by the way. And then there's the political disaster choking the life out of us, as the neo-fascists all over the place run amok destroying the last vestiges of reason, stoking up hatred, tightening their clammy grip on power, and almost guaranteeing that nothing will ever be done about huge global problems like climate change. Who can say what will finally break the storm and raise the waves of protest and anger. Not me. But an inferno of sorts is surely due in the not too distant future. And, however that pans out, you can bet your bottom dollar few will be wondering or worrying about the environment.

In the meantime, we're all, more or less, going to get on with our own private obsessions whether we're oblivious of the oncoming disaster or not. In a way I'm envious of the substantial mass lumpen-proletariat who live their lives entirely detached from the thrill and thrum of the development - and in this case, disintegration - of the socio-economic and political structures. Current affairs to them, I assume, is which celebrity is sleeping with who. And I'm not knocking them, I'm really not. I envy their peace of mind. Though I don't envy the inevitable shock to their nervous systems when they get incinerated in the oncoming firestorm, short-lived though it will be. Maybe the survivors among them will the first to revolt, fight back. But I wouldn't bet on it.

A better bet would be the engaged and committed, destined for near sainthood, perhaps, if enough of them survive, if there is any kind of future including them. For I fear they are an endangered species, and I'm specifically not talking about the (admittedly passionate) fascist, nationalist nut-jobs. Like the clap, they will always be with us. The only question is if we administer enough penicillin to keep the disease under control. But back to the threatened. They're easily identified. In today's Britain, very: anyone opposing the Brexit juggernaut, criticising the current government, holding (if only faintly) liberal views about democracy, the rule of law and an interest in propagating the truth, social justice and basic levels of human decency, and having the nerve and resources to make those views widely known, not exclusively through social networks, I might add. Will we never learn: Nazis don't just come for Jews.

Anyway, on to the disengaged but vaguely aware of what's going on grouping, which I guess includes me. What's our excuse for not joining and swelling the ranks of the engaged and committed? We're pretty certain Brexit will be a disaster. We loathe Boris and his chums and all their doings. We can see the assault on democracy, free speech, freedom itself, the daily undoing of the liberal consensus, the slide toward a fascist state. Yet, we do nothing but moan and groan, a bit.

Put like that it's a little depressing, but some facts have to be faced. First and foremost, most of us (me included) are not equipped physically, intellectually or emotionally to put up a decent fight against the dark forces of nationalism. Deep down we know that. We feel disempowered. And there's always that garden shed to paint, that guttering to clear, those songs to sing or novels to write. We can get on with our lives even as more and more of it is imperilled. And we can hang on to hope. And we can continue to grumble, to moan and groan, and we should. That is the little bit of soft power we can exercise. At the very least it will provide succour for those among us braver and more capable of taking up the battle directly, those endangered future-saints, who in the end all hopes for a future worth living depend upon.

So keep on complaining, loudly and broadly, as often as you can manage or feel like it, in the pubs and restaurants, in the street, in texts, on FB, Twitter, Instagram. Don't be shy. Denounce this government's evil malpractice, and call out their incompetence. Keep it simple. Make it a drip-drip water torture like endeavour. You're not making a case, just sowing some seeds. And leave it to the "experts" to take down Gove, the professional "truth seekers" to expose and vilify BoJo and the righteous and decent from all corners of the country to oust Cummings and remove his malign influence from public life.

Meanwhile, grab a bit of life, do your thing, whether that be singing a song, painting a picture or writing a book, or whatever the hell it is that turns you on. Shed the guilt; it's not your fault. One has to keep sane, somehow.

Good luck.