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Corbyeaux, he’s dancing round the tories…

Submitted by on June 3, 2017 – 11:30 amNo Comment

red flag

Sometime last autumn a couple of knobbies were having a couple of pints and talking knobbily. Profound levels of this knobbiness translated itself into twenty three Reds finding themselves at L’Orient away at Bastia in May. I know, I didn’t either. And countless times over. I did eventually but at the time I was much the same as you are now.

Knobberousity often compounds and contracts into densely compacted pieces of intense joy and happiness. And so it proved. But that’s football. As we all sat around the bear’s-arse port knobbing on about belt-use on the bridge at Roma or crisp-based water-aboarding – listen here and bear with it till the Mexican dog bit, seerz

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or why the sentence ‘it’s a fckn emu, man’ can batter your innards to ache

through to why Soya Milk Mark, the only vegan amongst us, was bizzed on by a seagull and bitten by a lobster within the space of one Pietra – quite possibly the only beer with a pie in

Coz you're too pie, pie

Coz you’re too pie, pie

It was no disgrace to take a second prize to it, as it was a seventeen-year-old-Whiteside of a lobster. If you ever want to disperse the gruftiness of twenty three Reds then simply pick up a lobster out of a freezer in the bar area and proceed to walk among them. Toecull toe-train and Bunty-levels of behaviour.

As that swelling contentment, that so often gets off the embattled, big red bus, plonking felicity, calmly idled its way through my ageing structure I indiscernibly apologised to the twenty two younger Reds around me for the failures of my elderly self and of my elderly generation.

pure velour

pure velour

My young U.C.A.T.T shop steward, Laurence Scott picket line fighting, Eddie Shah abusing, thatcher despising, miners’ support group collecting, Bootle Street attending self would not have believed we would have not won by now. It was supposed to be all over with. We were born in the sixties, educated leftward in the seventies and took the fight to the unelected and unaccountable owners of finance’s forecourt and we were going to cuff the good-jesus out of their vile, bigoted, oppressive, profiteering ways.

silly blue boys We could hold our newly-borns close in our arms and change the words of Donny Hathaway’s song and gently sing to them ‘one day, all beer will be free’

We fought and were fighting. We were going to take the hardships for future generations and present to them our victories, no longer going unnamed, as a gift for them to keep unwrapping until their children came along and they carried on the unfurling. Red baton to Red baton. Hippies with hatchets and hammers. Our class revenge exacted, enlivened, entwined, ensconced, exemplified and exhilarated in the beautiful faces of our smiling, cared for children. We failed. We tried and we failed. We tried.

I blame my forlorn, quietly apologising manner around that Mediterranean, beery table on the esteemed but definitely dead journalist, Paul Foot. As well as saying the impacting-for-life-sentence ‘Socialists will reclaim the word love’ when I saw him speak over three decades ago at a meeting for building trade activists, I also read his fraternal ‘Three letters to a Bennite’ which was an open, engaging, peaceful letter to those working for the Tony Benn for deputy prime minister campaign in 1981/82.

Arguments with resilience in their resonation, with bountiful echoes of relevance to our times now, all these losing-years later. If there was any chance that I was going to dismiss the validity of Paul Foot’s arguments due to his poshness then that was smashed when I also saw Duncan Hallas, a working class Mancunian and ex-engineer eulogise at the same meeting.

They gave me an inkling into knowledge, a ropey, red rope ladder to scramble up and peak over the boss-built-barrier into another, fairer world, where we all look after the perky health and deep-deep-well-being of each other.

And yet here we are, invigorated once again. Socialists can never let the scurrilous owners and perpetrators of Eton-evil rob us of hope, as many times it feels like hope is all we have. Socialists only ever ask for a chance. We are in the minority, we are always getting beat. Like United in the 20s and 30s. And yet here come the youth. Hand painted across Waterloo Bridge is the truism ‘Theresa May stands for the establishment, media and bankers. Corbyn is you and me’
Corbyn bridge

Hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of youth have made a moribund, blairite dinner-party-labour-party, bosses’ B team into by far the biggest social democratic movement in Europe. My auldie generation may be goosed and have to apologise and ask forgiveness for not making every day a Bastia-away day but somewhere. Just somewhere. The red thread was left dangling and it wasn’t too cotton-thin, it never snapped, it always welcomed, it may have sighed with the heaviness and heartache of our good hidings but it always wanted goodness and kindness and loving to be the real treble that we all want to win.

Power does not lie in the 600 of Westminster. It’s us. Our communities, our families, our friends, our workplaces, our streets. And June the 8th has got the venom that lies beneath the Mike Ashleys and Phillip Greens concerned. There’s a possibility that from June the 9th we may start making them more than concerned. It’s only a chance, a slight chance but 93rd minute winners are what makes us who we are. And who we are, are the potential gravediggers of thatcher and blair’s right wing consensus. shovelYou bring the shovel, I’ll bring a flask.

Bringing a local necrophiliac for a weigh up or getting a passing taxidermist to bung them to bursting with the pelts of their fox hunting dead may seem a tidge vengeful but I can understand some wanting to do that as the tories have made us suffer for so long.

This is a ‘Vote for Corbyn’ election. Forget that you have to vote for the political coward Lucy Powell or other such shameless samies as your vote will be seen as a vote for Corbyn, a vote for just the beginning of egalitarian change, a reminder put down in the road that we are taking the match out from between the two blades of their unforgiving Stanley knife and are refusing to let our young be railway lined as we were.

The happiest of homes

The happiest of homes

Stroll to the ballot box but insist, encourage, coerce and cuddle those you love and care for to get out. I know my girls will be coming with me. Happiness is like that. We have a chance. A chance to reclaim love and every smile and every laugh and every emu that it comes with. We can go up the dancers whilst having a dance. And that would be lovely…

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