Mark Carnage is speaking on the radio. The Loud Reef. A Lecture. Or something.
I am getting ready to go out and buy a loaf of bread, a small milk and perhaps a jar of cheap jam. I say “perhaps” because it was on offer at the One Shop last week and I’ve just enough money to buy it, if it’s still on offer. It’s the jam that’s more like cheap jelly than jam. It’s a grey-strawberry colour (more grey than strawberry). Anyway, that on two slices of bread will set me up. Thank God for the market economy eh?
You know what they say about the One Shop – next stop, the foodbank…
Carnage is droning on. And on.
I’m bending the wire in my mask to fit over my nose. I’m not going to be one of those old men whose mask is worn under the nose or, sometimes, below the mouth, under the chin as a chin strap.
It’s ok for Carnage and his class. They’ve got One Shop immunity and I expect their jam is jam and expect they never have to eat jam anyway. They have conserves or such with strawberries rolling in Golden Syrup or such. But when it’s offered to them they can say to the waiter, to their maid, even their PA, “oh no, my waist-line!” Wagging a finger towards their bellies.
Apparently, Carnage is a doctor and if his signature is anything like his voice (all of a continuous sentence, all of a scribble) no one will ever get their bleedin' prescription! What? That was another era? All digital now. I can do digital.
I wonder if I could get a financial prescription? You? Not until the seas boil over! Well, it won’t be long then…
“When Marx scribbled Capital” that’s what Carnage just said – “When Marx scribbled Capital!” He said – the doctor. And this guy knows his capital. He’s a banker, leader of the banks. No, not foodbanks. Well, not directly. And of course, with that voice, that lecture, he knows all about scribble too.
Ah, my mask is on. Now to psyche myself up.
There’s applause! Why? They’re asking questions. Why? Carnage is batting. It’s like Boycott all over again. Remember that innings? A whole day of Boycott dead-heading with his bat. Ball after ball of ball-bending boredom.
And now, Darling. You remember Alistair Darling - darling? He’s asking a question, darling. He used to have a big beard and silver hair. He had a big beard because he was a bit of a Leftie, perhaps a bit sympathetic to Marx’s “scribble” or just the cut of Karl’s jib? But the beard came off and Darling got into money and government and crisis and that voice-drone followed him everywhere.
Now, of course, my voice drones on and on but I’m not on Radio 4. I’ve got my mask on and am putting my coat on. In my coat pockets, a bottle of sanitiser (the dregs) and all the cash I’ve got in the world (the dregs) – bread, milk, jam! Perhaps not the jam…
Last night there were loud explosions in the neighbourhood. The Watch say they were fireworks but The Watch doesn’t want to upset anyone, so I say explosions. Is it worth the risk – going out? I mean, there are some broken biscuits left. Mostly crumbs but who says crumbs aren’t biscuits in the making?
I’m taking off my coat, bending the wire in my mask straight for another day. Yes?
Seems like the lecture is over. They’re satisfied – applause and all…
But what’s that? An explosion? Another? Coming from the radio. Fireworks? An iceberg has run aground?
It’ll be carnage.
And pigs in blankets.
On Christmas Day.
I’ve put some marge in with the broken biscuits – the crumbs – to make them whole again.
Have a good one.