Not an evolutionary quest, merely a vicious but fair potted attempt to assess the rise of left wing dogma and its effect on our lives today.
Following Theresa May’s recent undertaking to audition for the post of England football team manager where she vowed not to have any practical game plan, ever, but also refused to practise penalties or even to use a ball in training sessions, I found myself ‘reviewing the situation’.
Clever fucker was Lionel Bart, he penned these rather prescient lines, lyrics for our times, in that well known Oliver tune;
This rotten life is not for me.
It’s getting far too hot for me.
There is no in between for me
But who will change the scene for me?
Now the left wing have hailed Jezza’s silver medal, he came second after all, whilst the rest of us tried to analyse how it had come to this and many of us concluded that historically the left, like rust, never sleeps.
Now with my grade B in O level History I am no AJP Taylor, moreover I am aware of Churchill’s famous quote, “History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”
I wondered how many skewed variations there are on the recent and distant past and which should I trust, do I accept the version that is most suitable for my personal beliefs and how can I be objective?
I concluded that as someone in his late 60s (early 60s if I am on dating sites, another corruption of history in evidence already) I should defer only to empirical evidence.
I can only say what I saw and I remember most of it, there are some herbally induced gaps from the late 1960s but more on that later.
For younger readers, I can now reveal, the post war years were the real austerity, we actually dreamt of food banks. Everyone over the age of 12 looked and dressed like their parents except that we were not allowed to smoke pipes. On the positive side some occasional use of Brylcreem was tolerated.
Ration books dictated the families’ share of sugar, butter, fruit etc. We had fought and won a war but we were living in conditions that suggested we had indeed lost, perhaps our first mistake?
We had Formica kitchen tables, even they mocked us, they were emblazoned with oranges, bananas and glasses of red wine beneath their laminated sneer. Strange fruits and liquids that many never had contact with and only saw in Pathe News Pictorial clips at the cinema.
No surprise then that in 1955, when the rictus features of Bill Haley and his Comets rocked around the clock, the youth went fucking Radio Rental, slashed seats with flick knives and fought in the aisles. There is only so much Formica you can tolerate.
The arch enemy of the Teddy boy slashers, the Teds, were the Beats. Beatniks were seminal, prototype SJWs, they dressed in black polo necks and cords, goatee beards were de rigueur, even for the women, and they drank early Craft beers in cellar bars whilst earnestly listening to Thelonious Monk, these hep cats avidly pretended they ‘dug’ it.
In between unmelodious, self indulgent 12 minute tracks someone would recite a poem entitled ‘I am a tree, a tall, tall tree’.
Harmless fuckwittery you say, not at all, these were the post war seeds. They begat the Greenham Common women and many of these early hipsters (spits on pavement) marched for the abolition of nuclear weapons, the CND movement.
CND, the campaign for nuclear disarmament, began in 1957, Michael Foot was a luminary in its early days and the movement was, at least partially funded by the KGB.
Their message was essentially that although we have an ‘H bomb’ gun we must promise to never, ever fire it again.
Beatniks were now dubbed Peaceniks and many thought it good sense at the time, the history of the wretched appeasement movement is timeless and strangely consistent.
As that well known Australian painter said, his name escapes me for the moment,
“Can you see what it is yet?”
Despite all this times were getting better, the 60s were coming, historically low unemployment, good times were ahead. Ercol dining tables with matching chairs, better haircuts and some fucking awesome music.
What could possibly go wrong?