Song of the Labouring Poor

(written after the burial of Margaret Thatcher)

We’re all as rich as Croesus now
and the labouring poor is no more.
Class war went of the window;
and, instead, we have social rapport.

Since Marx was proved wrong, the militant left –
and it never did know what was what –
has found itself bruised and divided,
bereft of all hope and sans plot.

Today we have ‘strivers’ and those who ‘aspire’
and consumers hell-bent to consume;
but, try to disguise it however you may,
the truth is it’s all bust and boom.

Joe Public won’t even get angry
at the way the big banks carry on:
he’s stupid and slow and appears not to know
how the great money swindle was done.

No one believes in the family of man;
it’s every man jack for himself.
It’s less about truth and conviction than
power and status and personal wealth.

At the top it’s all champagne and roses
and, while those in the middle get squeezed,
they still get to look down their noses
at the class this last century deceived.

But it may be the time is for turning:
this circus may prove the last straw.
The bonfire she lit is still burning:
may its torches not light us to war?

 

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A Ceremonial Occasion

I planned it, of course I did, and the devil was always in the detail. Doing such things on the spur of the moment must is the province of the young. Not that that the elderly can’t be impulsive but, let’s face it, the odds are against it.  Most of us, hidebound by caution, grow old before our time.  Not that there are many that would make it a choice to be staid and predictable: the sad truth is that, little by little, we lose the strength to resist.  

 

Anyway, speaking for myself, I do like to do things properly. And something like this, well, I’d mapped it all out – let me see – oh, a long time ago.

 

A state funeral, in case you’ve never seen one, is ever so much more than a spectacle.  Though, of course, it is spectacular, there’s no getting away from that. How could it not be with so much history behind it, all that pomp and ceremony, all the trappings of wealth and power?  There are your bright-eyed sailor boys, smart as new paint and proud to be doing their duty. I do like to see their well-scrubbed faces shining in the sun.  Then there are the horses, sleek and strong, but always so patient and so gentle; and the stern faced policemen who loiter on corners, keeping an eye on the crowds.

 

But a state funeral is also a very solemn occasion.  The whole nation seems to march to the beat of a single muffled drum.  You might argue, I suppose, that it isn’t about grief, especially if you’re watching on television.  Believe me, though, if you’re there in the flesh, it’s a very different thing.  Standing by the roadside as part of the crowd, you can’t help but feel the atmosphere. Oh, you can feel it alright, right down in your boots.

 

I was in the crowd in 1965, on the morning of 30th January.  Everything about that day is sharp and crystal clear.  I was eighteen years old and, the evening before, we went up on a Green-line bus.  We got off at Aldgate East and walked the rest of the way.  I remember I went with Ma, her sister, and a friend of mine from the factory. We all slept on the floor that night downstairs at Grandpa Clive’s.   But, before it was light, we were up and dressed and sitting down to our breakfast.  There was ice on the inside of the windows, it was that bloody cold.   

 

Anyway, we filled a flask and Ma made a whole loaf of sandwiches.  Cheese and pickle, egg and tomato, and corned beef with sauce. I remember those sandwiches.  We waited for hours so, without them, we wouldn’t have made it.   We laced our flask with a good nip of brandy and that was all the food we had.

 

Ma had been worried we’d get there too late to be able to see what was happening.  Somehow, though, we were lucky enough to find ourselves right at the front.  We found a place outside the Tower, a stone’s throw from the entrance.  If we’d been been camped on the pavement all night we couldn’t have got a better view.  

 

Everywhere you looked, on both sides, there were hundreds of people just waiting, huddled together in patient rows that mostly went four or five deep. Despite the weather, there were more than a few children and one daft cow had brought her poodle.  It sat in her shopping bag wrapped in a shawl and I remember it made Ma laugh.

 

I remember the soldiers that lined the whole route, very smart and handsome.  They stood stock still, like statues, with their rifles turned upside down. They kept their heads bowed down so low, and no one moved even a muscle, except that one boy seemed about to faint and had to be helped back to his feet. Then there was a silver band whose drums were draped in black fabric.  It gave the beat a muffled note that sounded very solemn and sad.  I remember how, when the coffin passed by, there was suddenly no more music.  The cortege went on its way to the rhythm of a single slow drum. 

 

It was eerie then how the silence grew.  You could have heard a pin drop.  Where the guns had been booming all the way from St Paul’s, now there was the silence of the grave.  Then they dipped all the cranes right along Hayes Wharf, and the sight of that just hammered it home.  It was as if, when those monsters bowed their long necks, they somehow spoke for all of us.  Ma turned to me and her eyes were rimmed red and her cheeks were wet with her tears.

 

The Havengore was just setting off on its voyage up the Thames. Ma squared her shoulders and bowed her head and hissed to us to do the same.

 

‘That man saved our hides.’ she said. ‘He was the saviour of this country.  When the rest of them would have given up, it’s because of him we’re free.’

 

I’m sorry.  I’m rambling on.  That’s not what you’re here for, is it? You want me to tell you what’s going on today. But memory is a funny thing and it’s odd how these details come back to you.  How can the world be so much the same and yet so very much changed? Mr Churchill now, say what you like, he was a proper national hero. Someone who deserved a bit of a send-off. You don’t begrudge it for a man like him.

 

            A cup of tea?  That’s kind of you, dear. I am a bit shaky.  No, no, honestly, I’ll be alright. I just need to catch my breath.  Do you know, duckie, when I come to think of it, you have a look of our Ryan about you.  He’s going to be a fireman, you know.  We’re all very proud.

 

I like a man in uniform.  I expect your wife does too.

 

Of course, I’m not sorry, not in the least.   I meant all those nasty things I shouted.   I would have said a good deal more but I’m afraid your young policemen shut me up.  The balloons were a good idea, though, all those beautiful colours.  It took me all night but I wrote on every one:

                                        Remember the Belgrano Dead?