It¡¯s time to celebrate, to come out and play ? we¡¯ve been counting down the days. This weekend we¡¯ve got a band holiday! We¡¯re as sick with expectation as we are with what we¡¯re escaping. Lock up the house, load up the car, we¡¯ve twenty-four hours to spend in a goddamn theme park. We are so grateful for our new state-funded stately pleasure dome. Shock and awe and an over-priced gift-shop ? you didn¡¯t have fun if you didn¡¯t buy the t-shirt. Paying through the nose so you can prick-tease your animal instincts. Art starts to imitate life in the factory; the factory¡¯s a prison, so art is seen to atrophy ? all our days off in front of the TV instead of a stock screen. We just commute from one end of the conveyor belt to the other. Oh, the kids who would¡¯ve led the unions in the past now grow up staying silent in darkened cinemas. If every hour that I have spent stuck in a circus was spent learning a language, I¡¯d have so much more to say. And if every penny that I have spent on processed bread was spent on growing my own food, my skin wouldn¡¯t look so grey. Work and rest and play safe in the knowledge that this is the only way. The hand that feeds chooses the menu, but I¡¯m a fussy eater. Work rest and decay. One commodity a day will keep subversive daydreams away.
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Bread And Circuses
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