It was round about that time that all the scientists, technicians and
researchers decided to go on strike.
It was amazing - industry ground to a halt. Universities, labs and
research establishments went quiet. Experiments ceased. Robotic
research? Frozen yoghurt? Compooters? Hi-tech shoe insoles? Forget it.
The scientists reckoned they’d had enough. So they packed it in. A
right old attack of guilt about what they’d done, what they’d
achieved. They just got sick of the work - boring you see.
Some of em bought Crayola crayons and thick cartridge paper in big
rolls. You should have seen them crayoning away on the kitchen table,
or on the parquet floor in the dining room. Blimey, what a site. The
sheer look of glee on some of their cherubic faces - apple cheeks all
shiny.
Others brewed pots of loose leaf tea. Earl grey mixed with a good
strong black tea seemed really popular. It was fantastic - fantastic.
Everybody started popping round to each other’s houses. Just ringing
that old doorbell. Stereos were suddenly cranked up past 6 on the
dial - you could hear that jazzy guitar riff from I Feel Fine, with
the slightly, nicely-off vocal harmonies blasting through the fug of
titrations and equations.
And all the white mice escaped of course, joining their wilder
cousins in the skirting boards of semis in Basingstoke and Bow. Bless
their beady little pink eyes and TCP smelling fur.
Predictably the non-technical managers went a bit pale. Stock holders
and all that. Top military brass caught their fingers in their pencil
sharpeners - moustaches quivered, and a dull look came into their
eyes. Now that was sad to see. I saw one slope off to his garden
shed, where I last saw him sorting through an old bundle of Monkees
fan magazines from his youth. And polishing his medals with HP sauce.
Other folk, like politicians - same story. You just saw this sort of
look that spelled.. well -help me. Again, I saw one sitting in a tea
shop in Piccadilly. A real inward gazing look there around the eyes.
There was a juke box in the cafe - Yesterday was playing, McCartney
singing his poignant lyrics. Smoke curled up from the cigarette of a
waitress on her break - the Greek owner swept his dark hair from his
forehead, and flipped two fried eggs, while a couple of would be
musicians - a bongo player and a bass player, lugging his full scale
Fender Precision bass - swung by. A real atmospheric moment there in
that tea shop - as a passing cloud cleared the face of the sun, and a
yellow/orange, almost sepia or burnt yellow beam of light lit the
dark brown of a group of mahogany chair legs, bringing out the
alizarin crimson of the grain. Mmmm... golden moment.
The Old Etonian slipped his pale hand into the breast pocket of his
rather chic tailored dark blue Saville Row and brought out a wallet
from which he extracted a folded Polaroid of a small wooden sailing
dingy, moored on the bank of a small lake. His blue eyes, slightly
flecked with a slate grey, were misty, even moist, as he realised he
couldn’t jump ship. It was the job centre for him, that or begging
round the corner at Cambridge Circus, outside All Bar One. Actually
the thought warmed him - a nice golden retriever, or a good cross,
not too big that it couldn’t sit in his lap as he fended off the cold
with a decent parker, a giant sized latte from Pret and their free
sandwiches, the prawn and rocket, or the spicy falafel and humus and
mint being his favourites. Actually he often grabbed a cappuccino and
muffin there on his way up Whitehall.. why not, same sandwiches, same
street, same air same rain...
No, that was it you see - the gearing down. The long gentle slope to
a nice barefoot in the dust languid afternoons in the bright sun and
chilling in the shade of a thorn tree. The trick of light, hazing
dust and smoke from the open fires. Burning tar on the wooden beams
as they crackle and spit and the pressure cooker starts to hiss -
soup is served folks - can you tear yourselves away from your endless
crayoning, you old scientists you - we got a song to learn.
So once more from the top “Jo Jo was a man who thought he was a
loner!!... Git Back Git Back....””’ And as Fela once said to Africa
’70 - “The next mo** to make a mistake is sacked!” Only joking.. now
here we go.. One Two Three... “You say you want a revolu...”
Simon
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