Heroes

Its election morning, and if this were America I’d be wondering who out of Brown, Clegg or Cameron would make the best President. And I suppose I’d be thinking the same if I were in France or Italy. And I’m not going to place my vote based on some remote figures personality. Because if I were, it would be Brown I would pin the tail on. The one eyed donkey, who’s failed a course in how to smile on TV, and who really dislikes ignorant street opinion. The man who can never look smart or slick. The PR man’s nightmare.

Clegg, Cameron the names are as interchangeable as their personas. I’m reminded of Breakfast TV presenters, who invariably trigger a gag reflex when their smug faces appear on screen. I’d rather give my vote to a tramp outside a tube station, than to the PR man’s wet dream.

This Hobson’s choice makes you hanker after real heroes, but as the Stranglers succinctly listed in their song (No More Heroes), most of them die or are assassinated. And most of them were megalomaniacs, who outstay their welcome.


As Mark Antony (the Shakespearian version) said:

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him;
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones.

I concede Brown being the most Charles Laughton like would make a good Roman Senator, and I’m certain Clegg and Cameron raided the dressing-up box during their privileged upbringings. But a Caesar, they are not; and I’m glad they’re not. And I’m glad the attempts at American style Presidential debates were a failure. And I’m glad that no matter how hard the Broadcast/Print Media try to present the Election as a pin-the-tail on a donkey contest, they fail.


For me the Election is not about Heroes; but what the next government can do for me. So for this reason, and this reason alone I’m voting Labour (faults n’ all).

How High the Moon

I happened across a Guardian blog last night, it was late and the painkillers were wearing off. There are some benefits from being on benefits; for example free NHS dental treatment. For years I had free dental insurance, came with the job, but now I’m getting the basic service.

Basic means simple crowns and extractions, no hygienist, no fancy bridge work. And my choice was quite simple, do I persist with an abscess that’s been plaguing me for years or have it pulled. The abscess lived under a root canal filling, so was hard to get at. Antibiotics brought it down, but then it would just get infected again and come back.

My dentist, when I was on the insurance, suggested an extraction and bridging work. But with my new status, all I get is the extraction. So for want of a better alternative, I bit the bullet and had the tooth pulled.

Because of my condition I was also witness to the dental nurse explaining to the dentist why she had adrenalin on hand. The practice had misplaced my notes, so my heart condition was not necessarily apparent to a busy dentist. But his nurse must have a good memory.

During the procedure the thought of my heart stopping or having another attack did cross my mind. And when he was done, the dentist said you’re sweating. It was only later after the drugs had worn off, and the persistent flow of blood became uncomfortable, that I took some more pain killers.

As my mouth was filled with a gauze bandage, a friend called the doctors to see if paracetamol was ok on top of my drug cocktail. And luckily, my medicine cabinet of a body, can accept a few more pills if need be.


By the time I got to midnight, the soreness was back, but the blood flow had subsided. I was getting ready to turn in, but took one last look at the news. Follow the volcanic ash clouds progress, check out the election. I came across a huge blog with hundreds of posters. Considering the first post was after 6, it had stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity all night. Now I was into the next day, and still the posts were coming in.


The blog was about David Cameron’s promise to cut the benefit of people who refuse to work. The first query I had was, well that’s already happening, so what’s new. I did not read every post, some were the usual – I don’t want my taxes supporting the unemployed; some were humorous; some were spot on. Like the person who pointed out that Labour has already implemented this policy. They also pointed out that people like me, who’ve worked all their lives are given the same as spotty teenagers, how can this be fair?

An architect who had trained for six years and practiced for eight pointed out that when the Jobcentre offers him a burger flipping opportunity, its unlikely someone with his CV will get past the slush pile.
I got to the last comment; there were still clots of blood in my mouth, and a dull aching pain. And there was an overwhelming feeling of sadness, of wasted energy. On another day I may have commented, pasted in the URL of this blog. But instead found myself with nothing to say, or rather nothing new to add.

Today I see the unemployment figures have risen to 2.5 million. I have an interview coming up next week at the Jobcentre. So when they ask me, how hard have you been looking for work? I will say How High The Moon.