Page 92 - November 2020
P. 92

November 2020           92
                      Litterateur



                                                THE CYNICAL REVOLUTIONARY

                “I  didn’t  expect  the  train  to  be  so  crowded”  I  ventured,  when  the  woman’s
                breathing had subsided to sub-crisis levels.



                 “Didn’t ye not know about the protest?”


                The post-middle-aged man across from her leaned forward, eyes fixed on me full
                on.  He  was  a  squat  butt  of  a  man,  clean  shaven,  grey  hair  cut  short  back  and
                sides.  He wore an imitation leather jacket over a check shirt and blue tie.  He too
                nursed  a  twin  flagpole  apparatus,  defiantly  held  between  his  legs  and  resting
                against his right shoulder.


                “Well, no, actually. I’ve been working on a …” I didn’t want to admit that I wrote
                poetry
                “…something I’ve been writing.”


                “Are you a journalist then?” he rearranged his flagpoles and sharpened his gaze,

                “every journalist in the country is writing about it. What’s up with you?”


                “I write poetry,” I said.


                    The  carriage  was  packed  with  middle-to  pensionable  aged  men  and  women.
                Some of the
                men were dressed in of fashion suits and ties acquired for their wedding or the
                funeral of a parent, others in tight or loose  fitting tweed or denim jackets, possibly
                borrowed  from  a  son,  or  a  brother  who’d  made  it  in  business.  Some  carried
                walking sticks.    Many  of  them  were  armed  with  flagpoles  of  varying  sizes  Their
                shoes, or agricultural boots, were from the sturdy, no nonsense class. A few wore
                Lidl or Aldi walking shoes. Some of the men clasped folded copies of “The Sun “or
                “The Star.” These were the downtrodden masses I once hoped would smash the
                chains  of  capitalist  oppression.  In  a  previous  life  I  would  have  seen  this  as  the
                moment the working class would take power, the inevitable march to liberation, as
                Marx and Trotsky had   prophesied. If it was in existence now, my   fanatical little
                group would be rushing out a special edition of ‘Workers’ Revolution’ to coincide
                with  the  event,  predicting  the  imminent  downfall  of  the  evil      multinationals,

                bankers, oppressive employers and their lackeys, the trade union bureaucracy.


                “You’re all prepared for the long march,” I said, “Chairman Mao would have been
                proud of you.”


                The duo looked at each other, she fidgeting with her bags, he rearranging the Lidl
                holdall on the seat beside him.
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