I didn’t write anything yesterday, not one solitary word – zero, zilch, diddly squat!
Catastrophe! – you might yell. Disgraceful! – might be your alternative exclamation. You could legitimately surmise that for a man who professes to be a writer to not do so or to be prevented from doing so must have been tantamount to a living hell. But I have to confess it was a calculated decision. A decision over which I had control, the choice to do one thing or the other – to either write a word, a sentence, a paragraph or nothing at all. The truth is I did not write anything because I was smashed over the head by a sledgehammer – shocking, I know, and extremely painful. Alright, it was a metaphorical sledgehammer but the viciousness of the blow nevertheless resulted in an epiphany, a realisation. You see, blood was certainly spilt and it was the essence of my creativity. Worse, the throbbing brain was devastating confirmation that anything I had to say would make no difference to the world, anyone, whatsoever.
It struck me that no matter how beautiful and luminescent the pearls of wisdom I wanted to spill, everything would continue just as it had always done, whirling around and around until it has run its course and spins right off the edge of the celestial table.
Politicians will carry on making pompous and cringe-worthy statements about how people in this and other lands should conduct themselves. They still won’t see it as interfering, oh no, they will declare they are doing it for our own good and for the sake of all mankind and despite our bewildered questioning, will mobilise our sons and daughters, send them across the water to foreign lands where people we don’t know and most likely don’t like will shoot at them and try to blast their legs off. Our hapless troops will be the human shield protecting our know-it-all politician’s vanity.
The rich and powerful will work tirelessly to suppress the impoverished and the weak because, they will tell us, democracy must be defended at all costs. As for the simple majority, the day-to-day act of living will carry on being complicated by pointless rules, regulations, laws, guidebooks, manuals, instructions and manifestos.
And what about wildlife? Not one single carefully crafted word would divert any beleaguered creature from their dogged tramp towards extinction. (Of course, it’s entirely their own fault, nothing to do with humans, oh no). I know we don’t really care about the slithery slimy ones, but the cute, cuddly ones – aaah! They look so lovely on bedroom posters, and mums in every corner of the country have calendars with pictures of them on it! Bears, monkeys, guinea pigs or whatever, their plight is only reported in the papers or on TV when only two or three of them are left in the world, scratching a cowering existence on some remote mountainside in South America. Phew! South America, thank goodness! It could be closer to home, Shropshire or Wales or elsewhere in this sceptred isle, and then we really would be in trouble. If it was closer to home, hardened politicians from all over the world would pull on their gravest most serious faces at some high-powered, no expenses spared, conference, vent their spleens, wag their collective fingers and make a convoluted resolution to have us all spanked soundly after fining us many, many millions of pounds. Rather unconvincing but it would make them feel better about themselves for a while, that they were doing their bit, bless them. On the question of the extinction of certain species, something has been troubling me for quite some time – at what point does a species know its heading for extinction? If they knew, would they hide away at home safe and warm? Would it stop their cubs even play fighting, just in case?
Finally and in some ways the most depressing: Not one of my intricately crafted words would make any local government Planning Officer beg forgiveness (and promise to never, ever do it again) for ripping up the countryside and covering our green food producing fields with concrete and tiny, tiny hamster boxes for unsuspecting people (who have no choice) to call “home”. The thing is, there is no doubt whatsoever those self-same Planners go home at the end of the day, exhausted with the supreme effort of destroying vast swathes of countryside, and lecture their children on how dreadful the nasty Brazilian government is for not doing anything to stop those nasty criminals from ripping up the rainforests, destroying them forever. . . pot – kettle – black.
There are so many other reasons why I wrote nothing. If I had the time, I would look them up in a book but the government is about to close the libraries. Anyway, I don’t care because when you’re ignorant you can’t be blamed for anything.
And speaking of ignorance, whether I write a thousand words or zero, zilch, the neck end of bugger all, it will not make that idiot American actress, Meryl Streep, rethink her decision to star in a “documentary film” about the life of Margaret Thatcher. She has obviously done no research whatsoever or is completely impervious (holed up in her Hollywood cocoon) to the blood spluttering, head splitting hatred most right-minded British people have for that woman.
Hey, Meryl! I’m sure it’ll be a winner. Plenty of champers at the launch parties and previews because after all, it’s just a film, yet another ridiculous American interpretation of British history. It’s going to be a winner but only because people with too much time on their hands and far too little on their minds will continue to worship at the alter of your celebrity.