I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don’t disfigure it,
and if it turns out what I say is untrue,
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one
David Berman
England is waiting for the ashes to start. It’s a dynamic and evolutionary tale. It’s Handel, St George and Oscar Wilde. A German, a Turk, and an Irishman walk into bar; we’re their punch line. The sun will never set on the nations that make up England today. You take your England where ‘er you go. I’ve taken my England pot holing with no equipment in Thailand with the locals; taken it up to Annapurna base camp, changing into my favourite t-shirt half way up the last ascent. I’ve plummeted into the ravine of alcoholism and clambered back out again with England on my back and on my sleeve. I’ve waived a toy gaming gun at my England out of a London window on crack and heroine; sat serenely in with it in Lakeland meditating on love and compassion. Show me a BNP member and I’ll show him the flaw. Time to wake up and smell the coffee, make mine sweet and black like the first cock I sucked. All this begs the question, so did those feet in ancient times really walk upon England’s mountain green? Well they did in Scotland; Prestwick march the 3rd in 1960 to be precise.
By Albi Vinehart
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