Prologue
621 Words
PROLOGUE
There had been the Arab Spring. Well, what was called the Arab Spring, but there had been a spring, first in Tunisia, then Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Bahrain and Syria, Morocco and Jordan – all springs of varying degrees of success and all aimed at overturning an oppressive regime, or what at least was deemed to be oppressive, but had, in the course of time, been shown to be benign dictatorships, if that is possible?
To say that Britain faced, or needed a spring, might be pushing the analogy too far, but certainly the people felt oppressed by the establishment, comprised of the government, civil servants, banks and financial institutions, corporations, as well as wealthy individuals, all perceived to be in the grip and control of the elite; the one per cent. The people felt and were, in reality, disenfranchised. The elite, the Eton bunch, the old-money privileged, felt they had a God-given right to rule. A divine arrogance, established through generations of the same families, all moneyed, and all convinced they knew best. The plebs? Well, they should be grateful for what they got. The crumbs off their table.
To say Britain needed a spring would also depend on which side of the fence you sat, silver spoon in a bouche raffinee, or a rusty nail stuck up your arse. But, something was brewing, and it looked as if it was not just letters to the newspaper, tuts at coffee mornings and grumbles in the working-men’s clubs. This was different, there was a groundswell that was germinating, flourishing and growing in momentum. It had the hallmarks of a peasants’ revolt, led not by an uneducated Wat Tyler, but some more powerful and influential persons and organisations supporting the movement, goading it even, some for altruistic reasons, but others saw that a dystopian society made for more opportunities to make smash-and-grab raids on the country’s family silver. These unscrupulous institutions could do very well indeed, provided it went their way, which it was anticipated to do. As it had always done. But would it this time? They played a dangerous game and so what of the risks? The people would not see them until it would be too late.
On the other hand, would the power of the people be enough to overcome? And what was it they had to overcome? The enemy was nebulous and this had always been the way. Who are you fighting? Certainly in some cultures, as proven in the Arab Spring, the people had a known enemy that generally did not shield itself behind the pretence of a democracy and, the people had the will and the spirit; never say die. But did the British? The Brits had to be up for work in the morning, of course, but that was becoming less of an issue as jobs disappeared or people were slammed into zero-hours contracts. They would be up, but then a phone call; no work today. Idle hands? Maybe not, there might be something good on the telly, though this had been manipulated as much as it could with diverting news, often made up, of gung-ho sporting fixtures, jingoistic headlines, anything to distract the plebs, but even that interest was waning as people started to become aware of their cruel circumstances. It is hard to ignore hunger.
There were rumblings of discontent. The whiff of revolt in the air. A gathering storm, the big Mo. The established order was being challenged on several fronts and many of the traditional barriers, proven successful in the past, like starving the poor, disabled and sick, were being charged down. Revolution was being nurtured, but would it be a bloodless coup and, most of all, would it succeed? Read on…
PART 1
THE DANCERS, THE PLAYERS…
- Writer
