A Soul Stamped Flat

Have you ever seen a soul crushed flat, like a layer of cheap fish paste in a particularly disappointing British Rail sandwich? I have seen such a soul. This morning.

In the main square of town, outside the Council offices, Rupert Murdoch's little minions regularly set up this sad, pathetic little tent to shill their vulgar satellite stations.Go down to the Costa Cafe on the corner of Henblas Street and Coronation Walk (what I call "Silly Walk") and you'll see them, with their little tent unfolded out of the back of their van like the veiny frills of some lizard.

This morning, as I crossed their path, one of the little insects stepped out from under the tent and, with the most unconvincing display of enthusiasm I have ever seen, proclaimed that - at long last - they had resolved some minor glitch and that they could see Murdoch's BSkyB again. "yaay," he half-yelled. "Wau," went everybody else.

I shared a chuckle with someone who looked as bemused as I did. I said "Minor victories seem like major accomplishments to the insignificant."

I had seen a soul stamped flat. A soul crushed by the despair-inducing weight of his life choices, to the point where getting a signal from a vulgarian's satellite on a small screen in the middle of a public square felt like a major achievement, like earning a PhD or a Nobel Prize.

And like the British Rail fishpaste sandwich that epitomises misery itself, it all looked so very disappointing.

No comments:

Post a Comment

"And if we have unearned luck, now to scape the serpent's tongue, we will make amends ere long. Else the Puck a liar call ..."

So speak.