It seems that I must endure the injurious Captain Bligh, the crew of the Bounty: the cast of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. This evening’s duty will be a long one, and I shall not leave until the last pan is washed, the final bin taken out and the last sections of the sable soaked floor well swept and mopped. It shall likely be the Witching Hour before I am relieved of my ‘illustrious’ duties as an unskilled labourer: twelve years of university studying Latin and ancient Greek well spent! (£15,000 worth of debt incurred well spent: let the State foot the bill, as it is absolutely certain I will never amount to anything more than the lowest most basest slave that ever subsisted in this once great nation).
I have been reading about the (current) War. It is evident that the Russian Premiere has read his Homer (shown by the Oliver Stone interview). I too, am revisiting Homer's Iliad (trans. Stephen Mitchell). I suspect that the Premiere has also read Machiavelli’s The Prince, looking at the areas which have been attacked.
Bligh supports the Russian Premiere, and indeed the Chinese (his home nation is closer to the Kremlin than most EU countries: ruled by a dictator, whom Bligh also supports). I find it curious that Bligh believes that the Russian Premiere’s invasion (or ‘special military operation’ depending on your perspective) was successful after only a few days. Bligh believes that the news is fake. Others near here, too (both further to the right than the most dyed in the wool Conservative) also believe that Russia’s action is somehow justified. It is crazy. The whole thing: madness. Famine. War. Poverty. A world turned upside down. According to one ardent spiritual seeker, even the very heads of the Earth Zone were appalled at how mankind could be so cruel to itself during the Trojan War.
I must away to man the Bounty, returning to my duties as a galley slave under the command of the uneducated simpleton from the village. This, this, is Dark Age Britain, 2022. Not empty rhetoric from spinning politicians, nor sensationalism from the media, but the actual reality of what is going on, here, now, for those hard working, well educated, talented, honest, compassionate and kind souls that subsist in this once proud and glorious nation: now reduced to a country of slaves and criminals.
Well, that went well (sincerely). Bligh is off on shore-leave with his Tahitian concubine, there is a meeting of the village elders, with flower necklaces, dancing, drums, and of course, negotiating for bread-fruit. As a result, a somewhat calmer and more even minded member of staff was in charge (naturally, half my age, of course, and also from the same country, of course - in Eastern Europe). There is also a young Romanian lady that has recently joined. Her English isn’t great (but that’s a positive advantage here in Dark Age Britain). She has risen the ranks quickly (again, half my age), and credit where credit’s due: she is good at her job. Efficient. Utterly humourless. Works hard. I guess that the Lilliputian and the simpleton from the village are on a par with her, in terms of the pecking order (id est: above myself, the basest most worthless slave in this whole wretched country. Naturally, I am a native born Englishman, hard working, honest, well educated, well spoken, polite, courteous, kind, mindful: therefore I am the lowest in status. This is, after all, not Elizabethan England or the Italian Renaissance: it’s Dark Age Britain. Education and polite accomplishments mean nothing here, most of all being honest and kindhearted: those traits are to your detriment here, in this country).
The simpleton from the village spent much of this evening making the sound of a duck. Ahh, yes, my "learned" colleague, and my well-heeled "superiors" (though in truth, they are superior to me, in every respect: despite the fact that they are mean, base, uneducated, uncouth and really very stupid: this is not, after all, Elizabethan England...).
Yet now, I am permitted a few hours respite, a glass of fine red wine (for I’ve started drinking again: I just don’t care any more - live? For what? Why? There’s nothing to live for, so why not drink?). After a mellow glass of ruby-red plum and rum 19 crimes, morale is high, even if productivity is low. After all, there is always House of Cards to watch, of which, I am into season 5 already.
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