Notes from the Bloodless Revolution

 

Waving flags and singing songs, crowds march, demanding more than reason. They’re dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, ready to dance and dine, with wine glasses raised in a toast to the hauntological frisson. The glasses are tuned to the exuberant trill of Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! and the whole throng high-kicks to its martial disco beat. The word on the street is Party, and although responses are complex – some think Marx and some think Magaluf – a good time’s guaranteed as soon as the statues are toppled and they’re passing out the vodka and Red Bull. It’s like the poll tax or the miners’ strike, like suffragettes or luddites, or like villagers torching the castle, but with a touch of May Day and Mardi Gras, and a hint of what-the-fuck. I’ve a flag with a dragon and I still fit my wedding suit, so I pick up my song sheet and a fistful of unreasonable demands, raise my D minor glass, and hit the street singing.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Painting Nick Victor


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