— And we talk over pitchers, of Grolsch, in Carling 4 pint jugs, plastic, at Rowans, about the class system, but really, it’s the Union Jack in my pocket that means the most to me, the faded dreams of the Commonwealth, the travesty of Zimbabwe, the fact a knighthood had to be rescinded in the first place, the turning away (cue ‘On The Turning Away, Pink Floyd, ‘Signs of Life’, over four minutes long) and my own travesty of soundbite politics buried in a Midlands apathy that has never really left me. Give a fuck? Why pay £12 for a pork chop – well, that’s what it is. And although we pour much needed cash into a Desolate Thursdays Rowans in Finsbury Park, they still pack us in at £5 a head into their tiny karaoke room and you wonder who broke Britain and you realise that ultimately, it was Blair, the liar, who sold a nation into war with the US, over oil and Halliburton contracts, and an endless conviction that despite the social welfare state and free education ALL YOU NEED TO SUCCEED IS FAME. X Factor and TOWIE has literally broken an already weak-minded nation. Blair: a permatanned ghost that wavers between Palestine, Africa and the US, with his staff of dozens, it was he who led us all down a path, early 2000s, where Labour is Conservative and we are all ALL BOURGEOUIS NOW. Who do we vote for? Ed? Hmm. So — I can buy Tallegio while the fabric of my community, if it ever existed, falls apart, and the flats near the Boleyn are still unfinished, two years on (private venture) while any other private venture (LOCOG approved) two miles in, closer to Stratford, has had public money spunked on it until it resembles a bukkake. Abbey Mills Pumping Station surrounded by barbed wire fences. Cleaned and now inaccessible. Greenway to Abbey Mills closed off by a lack of gardening until it is impassable. Greenway itself, diverted for over a year. Boris?? Can you hear over your desire for ‘ultimate power’. So: ‘This is England’, as the Clash sang, and now those miserable ex-Punks are advertising British Airways. Note: Joe Strummer is dead, Rest In Peace. His memory ill served by those that survive him, and an England on its knees begging the IOC to travel first class from Zurich, stay in Park Lane, travel down the closed off A406, and spunk its meagre, aged load on its carefully bunched tits.