What follows is a conversation I couldn't help but catch as I walked from the polling station and across the school playground behind two loudly spoken women after we had all exercised our democratic rights. (The words may not be 100% precise but they are pretty close - I didn't have a notebook to hand!)
Woman #1: I hope Corbyn doesn't get in. He's a nasty piece of work, used to be in the IRA and he hates Jews.
Woman #2: Yeah there's too many immigrants. Send them all back.
Woman #1: So who you vote for?
Woman #2: I wanted to vote for Boris but he wasn't on the list so I did 'Brexit'.
Woman #1: Me too. Won't make any difference though. They're all the same...
To be perfectly honest, I wish I hadn't been privy to that conversation. It was a depressing augury. I was almost expecting one of them to say "Anyway, the end of the world is coming soon". She may have done so once they were out of earshot - which imaginative flight of fancy led me to thoughts about elections just before Christmas, the festival of Saturnalia, the crowning of the Lord of Misrule et cetera...more of which further on.
My favorite overhearing dates back to a few Christmases ago. I'd opened the front door on Boxing Day night to let the cat in - there was a perfectly serviceable cat-flap in the back door, but cats will be cats - and a middle-aged couple were arguing loudly as they walked past my house:
She: But you don't even like Christmas pudding!
He: Yes I do. I love it. It's you I can't stomach!
I suspect I only remember this overheard exchange because it was both somewhat bizarre and unwittingly witty. Ah, that Christmas spirit.
I'm currently reading Ian McEwan's 2016 novel Nutshell and thoroughly enjoying it, one of the best things I've read in a long time. I mention it here because the protagonist is an unborn baby who overhears everything from the confines of his mother's womb. It is brilliantly plotted and wittily written; actually an audacious take on the story of the love triangle in Hamlet. You don't need to know the play to enjoy the book but it will double your pleasure if you do.
Saturnalia, then. This is the season - December 17th to 23rd. The Romans gave us one of the major precursors to our current festive period; Norse yuletide being the other. (Check out my Yuletide blog from the tail-end of last year for more details of the latter.) Little gifts, much feasting and a few days of turning the world upside down in the name of comic relief - the Romans wrote the script, all in honor of the God of life spirit and appetites, Saturn.
I'm sure that, like the majority of the good people of England this month, Saturn would have admired our intoxicating new Lord of Misrule, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, larger than life, buffoon when it suits, 'lovable rogue' in the eyes of the many - certainly in preference to the vinegar serious Jeremy Corbyn. Well, the people are getting the present they asked for, with a jolly populist ho ho ho. I hope they remember that a turkey's not just for Christmas! OK, I'm done with the commentary and will waste no more words on the subject. Let the future unfurl.
It's penultimate poem of the year time. This is still a work-in-progress, so subject to change, but I offer it for what it's worth (the imaginarium being a bit depleted at the moment)...
Saturnalia
Allegedly overheard
through the wafer thin walls
which the Devil's Diner shares
with the CIA,
the good ol' USA is now "technically"
not so much a democracy
as a demonocracy
and bad men are running the show.
There's no denying
it was a populist steer,
what many people voted for,
though not a majority,
let's make that clear.
What was it a wise man
once implored?
"Forgive them Lord, for
they know not what they do."
Heaven help us all then
as Saturn rings in the changes
at the ragged, weary end
of another crazy year.
While he stands there four-square
in his bronze-gone-wrong,
with his gritted millionaire's
lying white teeth, his onion tears,
still black-heartedly playing
on our simple hopes and fears,
there's a plan to impeach
this Lord of Misrule.
Time has come
to teach the baby-faced Fool.
Tie his feet with wool.
Thanks for reading. Merry Festives, one and all! S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
Reactions:
