ECHOES OF JOHN OSBORNE – AND THE GREAT IN BRITAIN.
But WHO really runs Britain ? And Horses for the Masses.
You might well ask, but if British common sense and Logic has anything to do with it, anyone could hazard a guess as to where the national driver is. Could it be a temporary glitch or perhaps the storm before the rainbow ? Only the Crown can tell and I cannot help wondering that even our source of inspiration may not be too sure where the ultimate gear levers really are.
A sad state of affairs. Anyone with a reasonably functional brain would no doubt endorse that in view of the increasingly strident, if not unusual clamour, from most sections of today´s society. But it is not just a national cry of anguish. Elements foreign to the once pinnacle of international example, that Britian always was, make an ugly appearance and surprisingly take root against all odds. It is perhaps the cry of a sense of isolation that frightens those brought up to values which made sense of life and lively pursuit. John Osborne was probably right all along and maybe he should not have capitulated to the nostalgia that tugs at the lapels incessantly, with threats of eternal damnation, if unlike Whittington the Briton does not come home.
Britain may have it right, in fact the Foreign Office might even know what it is doing, but the end results are beginning to look like that extraordinary wave that appears to loom way above in trawling days. British concepts, like fair play, respect for others, goods, wives and opinions may mean little to the yuppism that our beloved Margaret brought in for some good reason, perhaps, but why once ushered it should break every ethical code in the gentle pursuit of success for its own sake, is a mystery. Maybe it has accidently got hold of the wheel with its built in ethos that everything goes, in the race for cheap success. To these, cultural values and meaningful existence implies giving in to nothing that spoils the fun.
Recently, a helpless little pony fresh from giving years of fun and laughter if not its unyielding back, patiently keeps the rifle held by a sick member of a degenerate abattoir, firmly against its own head. The ugly instrument of man´s control of fate fires its deadly charge, it would seem not once or twice in tremulous reluctance, but hundreds of time against creatures only a God could have designed and lent us for our pleasure and exercise of Love. The sounds of glee and riotous fun – those that gave it everything to live for, now silent, now gone in the evil gloom of that dingy, death glorifying, God forsaken, hole. He-she was probably not so old but cast aside as other needs and toys took their place. The pretence that there was no more life to work for - no need to feed and perhaps glean a few Judas coins from, now hollow and strangely still.
Seconds later as the filthy photographs which injured millions of simple loving souls for ever, showed our angelic martyr fall to the ground, indecently assaulted like some fiend with the sharp knives that would drain its precious blood. Pain, unable to express itself physically but resonating in every tingling nerve of its still beautiful body may have hopefully gone with its soul. Many, unwittingly and sacrilegiously ate part of that divine creature whose only guilt was to seek solace in the world of men. All living creatures which presently share the same fate are no longer capable of offering their own flesh as economically and hence the equine barbarity. Perhaps at last, like all things putrid and satanic which litter our past, all this will one day go and release us for the better and greater increase of respect for a life, that even now despite our spaceships, we are resigned not to understand.
But perhaps all this is just a reflection of a deeper illnesses which affect a society that was and incredibly still is, the envy of many of its European partners and which cannot bring it down to make it pay for all those generations of example that shamed them. Perhaps it is too late, but there is something to be said for those outraged stalwarts who react admirably when placed with their backs to the wall. Perhaps the institutional filters if not the ones at the main gate, may rediscover the purpose for which they were put there after centuries of labour and strife. Perhaps it can be done without sacrificing any principles that took them to those heights of human values that made some stand out so differently from the others. Perhaps it´s all a dream and not something caught between sleep and wake. Perhaps those who like me, belong to an older world of simple values that do not bend with expediency or opportunity, can be allowed to take the wheel awhile and show that elitism is not a sin, but a matter of survival. Perhaps Britain could just put the great back without feeling that others might not like it.
But WHO really runs Britain ? And Horses for the Masses.
You might well ask, but if British common sense and Logic has anything to do with it, anyone could hazard a guess as to where the national driver is. Could it be a temporary glitch or perhaps the storm before the rainbow ? Only the Crown can tell and I cannot help wondering that even our source of inspiration may not be too sure where the ultimate gear levers really are.
A sad state of affairs. Anyone with a reasonably functional brain would no doubt endorse that in view of the increasingly strident, if not unusual clamour, from most sections of today´s society. But it is not just a national cry of anguish. Elements foreign to the once pinnacle of international example, that Britian always was, make an ugly appearance and surprisingly take root against all odds. It is perhaps the cry of a sense of isolation that frightens those brought up to values which made sense of life and lively pursuit. John Osborne was probably right all along and maybe he should not have capitulated to the nostalgia that tugs at the lapels incessantly, with threats of eternal damnation, if unlike Whittington the Briton does not come home.
Britain may have it right, in fact the Foreign Office might even know what it is doing, but the end results are beginning to look like that extraordinary wave that appears to loom way above in trawling days. British concepts, like fair play, respect for others, goods, wives and opinions may mean little to the yuppism that our beloved Margaret brought in for some good reason, perhaps, but why once ushered it should break every ethical code in the gentle pursuit of success for its own sake, is a mystery. Maybe it has accidently got hold of the wheel with its built in ethos that everything goes, in the race for cheap success. To these, cultural values and meaningful existence implies giving in to nothing that spoils the fun.
Recently, a helpless little pony fresh from giving years of fun and laughter if not its unyielding back, patiently keeps the rifle held by a sick member of a degenerate abattoir, firmly against its own head. The ugly instrument of man´s control of fate fires its deadly charge, it would seem not once or twice in tremulous reluctance, but hundreds of time against creatures only a God could have designed and lent us for our pleasure and exercise of Love. The sounds of glee and riotous fun – those that gave it everything to live for, now silent, now gone in the evil gloom of that dingy, death glorifying, God forsaken, hole. He-she was probably not so old but cast aside as other needs and toys took their place. The pretence that there was no more life to work for - no need to feed and perhaps glean a few Judas coins from, now hollow and strangely still.
Seconds later as the filthy photographs which injured millions of simple loving souls for ever, showed our angelic martyr fall to the ground, indecently assaulted like some fiend with the sharp knives that would drain its precious blood. Pain, unable to express itself physically but resonating in every tingling nerve of its still beautiful body may have hopefully gone with its soul. Many, unwittingly and sacrilegiously ate part of that divine creature whose only guilt was to seek solace in the world of men. All living creatures which presently share the same fate are no longer capable of offering their own flesh as economically and hence the equine barbarity. Perhaps at last, like all things putrid and satanic which litter our past, all this will one day go and release us for the better and greater increase of respect for a life, that even now despite our spaceships, we are resigned not to understand.
But perhaps all this is just a reflection of a deeper illnesses which affect a society that was and incredibly still is, the envy of many of its European partners and which cannot bring it down to make it pay for all those generations of example that shamed them. Perhaps it is too late, but there is something to be said for those outraged stalwarts who react admirably when placed with their backs to the wall. Perhaps the institutional filters if not the ones at the main gate, may rediscover the purpose for which they were put there after centuries of labour and strife. Perhaps it can be done without sacrificing any principles that took them to those heights of human values that made some stand out so differently from the others. Perhaps it´s all a dream and not something caught between sleep and wake. Perhaps those who like me, belong to an older world of simple values that do not bend with expediency or opportunity, can be allowed to take the wheel awhile and show that elitism is not a sin, but a matter of survival. Perhaps Britain could just put the great back without feeling that others might not like it.
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