We sit at the watering hole, scratching our arses and dealing out equality. What’s ours is ours and what’s yours is over there and not worth thinking about. Scratch that. What’s yours is ours, whatever it’s worth: for better or worse; for richer; for richer; for stinking rich. Which is how it should be, all things being equal. Just look at us, tutting at the sinkhole, dabbing crocodile tears as shacks slip out of sight and crocs snap limbs from thin torsos as readily as fat cats. Subject or object: there are equal opportunities for opportunists and – following the money – there’s always a wallet in equality and a profit is honoured everywhere. It’s the whole truth, the whole world over, the golden rule of thumbing coked noses as the crocs stretch out on the five-star loungers with their cocktails and canapes, burning straw houses for the hell of it and pissing upstream. You’re welcome at the watering hole, but it stinks.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor