A Quick Drink

I seem to be the only bastard sober enough in this place to recognise a complete knob-head when he’s in your face – and we’ve got one now, occupying every available space with a TV screen. There’s dozens of them here, just in case you miss anything they want you to know, or see, while you drink your way back to sanity. And now some flabby-cheeked aristocrat is telling us about economics. No-one here cares, they’ve got more pressing problems to fix, broken dates and lives and the sheer emptiness of all that they do. Or could ever hope to.

But he goes on and on about pulling our weight, necessary measures, tighten our belts and curb our excesses. This from a man more likely to die from gout than hunger, who has the look of certainty in his eye, like an arresting officer. There’s nothing to be surprised about here, except for the absolute victory of a spiritual chasm – that no-one in this bar except me should see a red mist, because the only freedom in this society is our right to exist spoon-fed by TVs in an open prison.