The sweet chocolate biscuity texture of the tiffin feels so good; it’s slightly salt taste refreshing and soothing at the same time.
It’s 4:27pm on a warm September Saturday in my favourite Costa Coffee. I’ve just cast aside the store’s crumpled copy of the Daily Telegraph in disgust. I think it’s a sign of fogeyism; is that even an official disease yet? Never mind, the baby-boom generation will ensure it soon will be.
And what, you may ask, was the cause of my consternation with that erudite journal, the Telegraph?
Well let me tell you I have been doing that ‘tossing aside’ quite often lately. This time, the source of the irritation (and that really seems too small a word for it) is yet another atrocity committed in my and my country’s name by this zombie-like Labour government.
Our Special Air Service (SAS) has been a world renowned armed unit for as long as I can remember. Certainly since they crash raided the Libyan embassy live on prime time television to free hostages.
Yet even they have fallen foul of the Brown legacy (and how apt that colorful and evocative phrase now seems). Oh, yes. You see our beloved SAS are now being ordered to train those self same Libyans. Truthfully. It says so right here in the broadsheet Telegraph, so hell it must be true.
Now, as I sit sipping Mocha coffee, I ought to be chilling. But instead all I can see are clandestine liaisons with Libyan’s shippin arms and explosives to Irish extremists who used them to kill and maim the innocent civilians of Ireland as well as British soldiers and policemen.
How short a memory our nation has. How sleazy a conniving and cowering leader it has.
In our name he Gordon Brown (as the head of the Government) sees fit to forgive and forget. To free mass-murdering terrorists. To arm and train those who did us harm. To dismantle and enfeeble our manufacturing base. To saddle each and every British citizen with massive debt.
This towering master of Orwellian double-speak, who can stand at the heart of parliament and deny a lie with a lie. Is belittling each and every one of us. And we can do nothing. We can do nothing?
Nothing except cast aside our newspapers, switch off our radios, bury our heads in a stream of commercialised TV pap. Heaven forbid we find the passion and political will to stand up for ourselves. Heaven forbid that we wake from this slumber and find anew the sword that is Democracy.
Democracy I say, with a big D, not the emasculated turn up and vote once every half decade watered down lukewarm syrup little-d democracy we have been lulled into.
No. I mean active Democracy as the Greeks might have recognised it. Democracy that scared the communists shitless; and believe me the Chinese still fear it so.
We British seem content to watch our democracy from our sofa (thank you Sky TV). To silently cheer marching Iraqi activists or boo the flag burning Palestinians.
Rarely does real Democracy ever stir our heart. Even when Margaret Thatcher had the effrontery to propose a poll tax the average Britain barely twitched an eyebrow in defence of Democracy; although the marches and protests were enough to foil that dastardly tax.
And therein lies the strength of Democracy.
If we care enough. If we act together. We can change the world.
Just check the things that are being done in your name.
Are you content.
Or will you get up of your arse (that ass if you’re an American cousin) and say so.
A march of one will be a start. Write your MP. Tell your local newspaper. Complain — it’s anti-British I know, but dire times need dangerous tactics.
If I can leave you one image of Democracy then let it be Tianenmen Square. A lonely Chinese student standing in the road. A tank rumbling to a confused halt.
Speak out. Our nation is under attack from within.
Ian Bridge
A professional writer and a member of the Chartered Institute of Journalists, Ian's communications services are for hire. See the Services page for how Ian can help you better communicate.
Act soon, after all ... "You cannot not communicate.
