Being an MA student at the crumbling and ever deluded faux-red brick institution of Aberystywyth University aka “The oxford of Wales” (according to some overly talkative Swansea cunt of a cleaner that I met in the A and E of Redditch last year) I am firmly placed in the ranks of the third rate jobless intelligentsia. My subject being the grand bastion of Social Sciences (woooooooo) only adds to the hilarity of the cruel joke of a career path I have chosen. Anyhow I digress. When I am not busy studying to become the embodiment of a social oxymoron, I would rather not mingle with the average Joe or Jane in the street for whom I have nothing but the utmost contempt and disgust and instead opt for a good read to top up my bitterness points. Recently I’ve discovered the book The Radical Soap Opera: Roots of Failure in the American Left by David Zane Mairowitz, a great read that I’d suggest to anyone. The crux of this book is Mairowitz’s lamentation of the tame, pathetic and often delusional nature of the far-left in the US, to which he sees himself politically aligned to. This book really struck a chord with me, being a haggard and cynical lefty who has been passed around from overnight Trotskyist parties to Soya weaving Anarchist Collectives like some cheap Croydon whore in the winter of her career. I guess in many ways I am GK Chesterton’s definition of a lefty “loving humanity yet hating your neighbour”. GK you clearly did not have my neighbour Chas who is the text book definition of a bastard. Once again I digress.
My first contact with the British Far Left was when I was a gormless sixteen year old signing a petition against the Israeli bombings of the Gaza strip in January 2009. I signed my initials down on that paper, which I imagine fueled a toasty winter fire in the Israeli embassy, in the most revolutionary and counter-hegemonic fashion possible man. My signature was so radical that the vibrations could be felt all the way in Havana. Anyway after this key moment in British workers history I got chatting about politics and radical folk music to some citizen smith or other from the SWP, who told me I should bring my guitar to the protest they were having tomorrow outside Worcester City Council (the hub of the bourgeois machine) and busk in solidarity. The next day I caught the 144 into the city centre, donning my most provocative Che t-shirt guitar in one hand and Billy Bragg and Bob Marley chords in the other to stick it to the man.
The SWP and I were a match made in heaven. I was a gobby naïve little shite they were a bunch of predatory delusional middle aged men. After a few months of showing up to meetings and “protests” (in the most generous sense of the word) I soon realized that most of these group outings seemed to be paying 50p to get pissed in the local Wetherspoons and bandwaggoning every little local cause from saving the local market building to rallying against the raised prices of Bromsgrove Park bonfire night. Whilst these causes clearly left the World Bank and Wall Street trembling in their boots, it was clearly not enough to quench my revolutionary thirst. The one day at some old protest or other, probably once again taking on the bandits of Worcestershire County Council, a guy came to me with a message. “Hey Comrade! The SWP are total statist dicks, Stalinists in Trotskyist clothing” you should totally join the Socialist Party E&W (not GB those guys are also dicks)”. I dutifully did and hey presto we were soon handing out the petitions outside Kidderminster council gates.
Being in all these Marxist Parties is a bit like being trapped at the bitterest work Stagg doo in history in many ways. You all hate each other, get horrendously pissed to tolerate each other’s company and then bang on about what damn swell time this utopian future is going to be like when you know very well it’s based on foundation of callous pragmatism, fear, and lies. Maybe if we put down our placards, vacated the council gates, cut our hair, and spent some time trying to actually have a road map rather than a ladybird book for our political ideas we might just get somewhere. Then again we’d have nothing to do on our Saturday afternoons apart from wanking like hogs on ecstasy, and it is the Ale festival at spoonies this month.
Wankers of the World unite we have nothing to lose but our brains!