Young Writers Society

To people who don't know a bit of sociology and/or history, this might not make a lot of sense.

KARL VS. THE KIDS

So this is it, kids, this is mister white middle-class burnout come to give you the low-down on what’s hip and what’s real. I can see it in your faces, you know, every single smug slouching one of ‘em: you really reckon you’re the big horse in the derby, that you got somethin’ the guy next to you ain’t. Well let me enlighten up you minds, children and childrenettes – doesn’t matter even if you do. Who knows: maybe we could get some fresh-faced university chit with a degree in Worthless Optimism to spot the next Prime Minister from you pack of shit-smugglers, but I’ll tell you what I can see. I may not have the PhD in being sparky, but I ain’t stupid neither; I could point to the next John and Jane Doe with my eyes closed. After all, I gotta room full of ‘em.

Now I’ve been around a long time, longer’n you kids can remember; I’ve seen a few things come and go, but there ain’t a thing bin peddled past my nose a time more’n Equal Opportunities. Hell, I’ve seem ‘em wheel that old geezer out more times than the Pope at mass, and never changed it a bit that I can see. Oh, sure, they’ll dress it up nice’n pretty, and poke it ‘till it says somethin’ you’ll believe, but when push comes to shove, ‘ole John Q. Prole gets the best of the praises and the worst o’ the money, don’t he? Just so long as you all keep pleased with whatever shiny new toy’s hangin’ in front of yer noses, everybody’s happy to pat you on the back and take a feel for your wallet.

Me, now, I’ve got a good set of peepers in my head. I can see you all lookin’ round, tryin’ to figure out what dark hole I crawled out of to get here, but don’t let the damn great beard and the ‘ole jacket fool ya: I know what I’m talking about. I’ve bin there, see, I’ve knocked heads on the barricades and cheered with the rest of ‘em at the idiot words in taverns and bars. Oh, maybe not literally, but I was there – they couldn’t’ve done a damn thing without me. Taught the Bolshie buggers everything I knew, didn’t I, and look at ‘em now; why the hell couldn’t they have done it right in the first place?

Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, not a damn bit. You’re all happy, ain’t ya? All reckon life’s pretty sweet? Gonna work your way to a nice cushy job with a fat paycheck? Yeah, ‘course you are: world’s just gonna bend over backwards to sort you out, ain’t it? Ain’t it? ‘Course it ain’t.

That’s the problem with you kids today. No revolution in your blood, ya know? In my day, we were all over the streets like a damn rash, couldn’t put your banner down for a second but someone else’d stick another one in your fist. Americans, Russians, even the bloody French were doing it, but you lot can’t get off your asses for one afternoon. To hell with the means of production, I’d like to meet the man producing the T.V.

Eh, what do you know? We used to have real men and real wars, not this oh-god-I'm-out-of-scented-bath-soap-kill-you-with-a-big-red-button crap I hear these days. You probably don’t even read books anymore, do ya? I wrote a book once, ya know, not that any of you’d care, no you bloody well wouldn’t.

Damn, is that the end already? Alright, alright, hold your horses. Homework for next lesson: I want a detailed plan of how to overthrow the bourgeoisie in England and put up a communist state in it’s place. No, don’t moan at me, you ungrateful sots, I wrote whole philosophies in the time it takes you to plan your intros, get on with it.

Bloody students.

Now where’s that bottle?