It is the day of Her Majesty's Platinum Jubilee (though technically the anniversary of Her coronation was yesterday - that is, Thursday the 2nd of June, 2022). I read in the newspaper today that this is a 'Platinum Age'. Indeed it is, for that such term has no precedent whatsoever in the ancient world: not being outlined by Hesiod, Ovid or indeed Seneca. This is not a Golden Age, by any stretch of the imagination. These are the Dark Ages, in actual reality. In many ways, the final years of Elizabeth the First's reign mirror that of our most noble and glorious Monarch's. These days are marred by war, poverty and plague. They heyday of fine literature is over. There is no real advancement here (evidenced by the state of our airports, which still look much like they did forty years ago - give or take - whereas in many other countries such as the U.S.A. or China, airports change with the times). Would that things were different, but alas, they are not.
What of it? What might there come from this cost of living crisis? What might be as a result of these post-apocalyptic times in the shadow of nuclear war and mutually assured destruction?
There is one thing which one ought to plough all one's energies into, according to John Braine, at least: writing. I feel another play coming along. It is one I have been working on (and off) for some half dozen years now. It is, on the surface of it, a play written about two brothers in the ancient days of the Roman Republic, but is actually, beneath the surface, about 'austerity' (the rich getting richer at the expense of the poor that get poorer and poorer still). It is entitled The Brothers Gracchi, namely, Tiberius and Sempronius Gracchus. It is drawn from ancient sources, such as Cicero, Plutarch and Florus, yet is actually about a social failure of a society, no different to many Western societies today. It is not actually about any particular nation state, but is more about rich criminals getting away with blue murder, while those that are honest, hard working, that served their country in the very best capacity (as a soldier, as serviceman, in Her Majesty's navy or air force) being exploited at the expense of the already filthy rich enriching themselves further. I have seen many things in my life: a single mother, alcoholic, an addict, turn her life around, get dry and clean, look after her boy, work hard, only to be made homeless, though she was a native of that town (Cambridge). All the while addicts and drunks get given places, though they had not worked hard. I have seen soldiers sent out on the streets, though they were born and bred in those places. I will focus all this energy into the play. It is not a nice play. It is not a patriotic play. It is not a play which has a happy ending. The bad guys win (because it is a realistic play - the good guy never gets the girl, and the morally upright, the hard working, the true patriot, never comes out on top in real life. It is the offshore moneylanders that win, the kleptocrats.).
In future generations this will be derided as my very worst work by patriots and conformists. It will likewise be seen as my very best work by social reformers and critiques of society. It will be forgotten, because it is not (1) magical, and (2) patriotic. That is the very reason that Edward the Second and Doctor Faustus are the only two plays of Christopher Marlowe to be performed still, most often. Even so, it is an important play.
Imagine, for a moment, a man that has played a thousand gigs the world over, then had studied classics for a dozen years, only to end up, after such a colourful and vivid life journey, full of experience and learning, in precisely the same place he was when he was 19, when he is 44, moreover beneath the heel of foreign thugs and juvenile deliquents, subsisting on minimum wage, in spite of all his experience, academic accomplishment and natural talent. This, is why these are the Dark Ages. According to the Cambridge History of the Medieval World (the new edition), a university degree used to be the first step towards a knighthood. This may have been true 700 years ago, but this is certainly not the case today. The British will offer the earth: a good job, rich rewards and honours. Yet when it comes to delivery, the British do not put out. They are like a frigid date on Tinder: all mouth and no trousers. No backbone and no bottom.
Max.
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