FARTLEBERRY FINN
Whenever I hear one political party or politician accuse another of “pulling stunts” or “playing politics” I am, in an instant, removed to a faraway time filled with humid memories of a series of dark, dusty and morbid rooms; little boxes, all characterless, and coloured pelican-shit grey that lay within the red brick walls of the late 20th century Brutalist stalag that was my high school during the 1970’s.
It was a place where boys gleefully gambolled and strutted and chattered their way toward eventual manhood, their minds for now still hovering between the simple life of a child and the complexities of adult existence, hovering within the clammy and indecisive recesses of adolescence, where hitherto unthought-of dark and dirty desires were ever-present, and sudden, dangerous impulses lingered whose potential consequences were never considered of import.
Within these rooms were we taught, on little wooden chairs at little wooden desks, how to correctly answer questions that would one day be asked of us, and how to answer those questions to the satisfaction of those asking, so that we may one day be judged whole and receive grateful permission to proceed to the next level of our game.
Within these walls did we not-quite-children whisper naughty things to one another; we giggled at fart noises and threw erasers across the room when the teacher was out and called each other names. We were teased and tormented and we teased and tormented in return, in accordance to our pecking order in the tribe – Ralph or Jack, Piggy or Simon or Sam – young, apprentice savages studying hard the harsh lessons of survival; by day we pushed at each other, by night we mostly pulled at ourselves, our bodies having been gripped by lustful fevres that had no thought of place, time or propriety, slaves to the spurting cream seizures of fuck.
Within these walls did we also imagine Grand Worlds for ourselves – Where We Could Be Heroes, If Just For One Day – the lofty heights we would attain, and the treasures we would accumulate – whether they be by talent or Machiavellian appropriation – Grand Utopian Worlds of societal perfection and order, where neat and tidy people lived neat and tidy lives in accordance with the Righteous Will of an Anointed One, a Grand Master of Beneficence and Mercy, and that person would be us, imagined only as every piece of Teenage Wildlife can, fuelled by hormonal narcissism and an unshakeable certainty in their own infallible judgement and immortality, as they are.
I do not often think of these days, those lazy, hazy, crazy days of high school, as my memories of them are not fond, and hold nothing of value to me.
I was glad to leave it all behind, happy to leave all those childish things best left to childish people, and move into the wider world of adult life, and it is in this world I still reside, with no desire to whisper naughty things to another or call a workmate names or throw erasers at them, no desire whatsoever.
And yet, whenever I hear a political party or politician accuse another of doing something they have themselves done, or would do; whenever I hear one call another a name, or conjure some slogan or soundbite they believe bless’d with biting wit or daring comedic invention – which they never are – or whenever I hear one refuse to answer a direct question with a direct answer in the manner of a child refusing to eat its vegetables with a quivering-lipped “Because!” as its only reason, I am toss’d back through time to these musty days of high school and its horrid memories of horrid children behaving horridly whilst thinking they’re funny and clever, which they weren’t, and I do wish not to be reminded of such things …
It Giveth Me the Willies and It Maketh Me Want to Scream.
SMELLY TONGUES 