Chapter 1
At home, on my chair, this is the chair I sit on, is it my chair, it is my chair. I thought about getting up awhile; just awhile. I got up and thought it is all me this, just all me. The chair remained in its place. It did not move. Why would it move, tell me that? Why would it move? I looked at the chair without blinking, a long while passed and there was no blinking. I left the chair, why focus on the chair, in my mind, my life was short, it was short so spending my time on the chair was itself a waste of my energy and capabilities, I would put my abilities in other places, other areas. I let out a big, giant yawn. After the yawn, I regretted the yawn, well, no, not so much, I did not regret the yawn so much. The yawn itself was necessary but the manner of the yawn not so much. Just before the yawn, my mouth opened as if by itself, when the mouth opened I knew it was open but before the mouth was open I did not know it would open. The sound of the yawn was loud, that was too much. If I heard a yawn such as my yawn I would be disgruntled, then think such a loud yawn was unnecessary. I was not long out of bed before I sat and yawned but I would not go out today or tomorrow or any day after that. I woke up and thought I was eighty-four but I am not eighty-four. I am thirty-four. I do not feel thirty-four. Oh, my back, legs, head, knees, gut, they all ache. It is the tiredness of life that comes with it. I am not sure when I would die but I was sure I would die. There was just boiled ham left, cold boiled ham. I have to arrange to go out by the door and get food so I can eat and work. Work is different. If I would have gone to school I would have learnt the mathematics of the world, I would have learnt how to read and write. I can read and write because of my own teachings. I peered out of the window. I needed to look out of the window in the mornings for the police. If they spot me they will grab me. How can I describe this place – I do not know, abode, of sorts, not an abode but a shack, a filthy, grotesque, abominable place. Not a flat I pay for of course, my occupation here is – how shall I say it – not through the legal route. The police once said all this is ‘squatting,’ this squatting business is not through the legal means. I do not care for legal means. I looked out of the window to see if I could spot them. I did not spot them. I wondered why it was so cold in here, why it was so wet, why it was so noisy. I used some good old-fashioned reasoning to find these things out. I discovered it was cold because there were no doors, windows or much of a roof, I discovered it was wet because it had been raining. It was noisy because the busy road was outside. It is a shame no running water is here, it is shame there is no heating in here, it is a shame there is no electricity in here, it is a shame I am here. Why am I here? That is to escape in the world. I have not quite escaped it and will not escape. Perhaps I should not have wanted to escape. It is too late to escape the world now. I have a pencil here to write on some rotten old paper. I will write to my mother and tell her to deliver some potatoes, celery sticks, cucumber, tomatoes, carrots, plums and peaches. How can I eat the potatoes? There will be a way to eat the potatoes. There is always a way to eat potatoes. I will start the letter.
Dear mother.
What can the next line be after I had just completed the first important line? This Dear mother is important, a very important start to the letter. If it was not Dear mother, mother will see the letter and see no dear on the letter. That is the start of the confusion, so Dear mother must be the start.
It is your son, Daniel.
That is the way it is, a son is what I am. Dear mother, my mother knows it is to the mother, my mother, that it is your son, Daniel. There are two instances for less confusion. There is the Dear mother, it is your son, Daniel. My mother has one child, it is me but one cannot be sure about it all. I will say it is your son, Daniel, then all confusion is put to bed. I must pause for some thought, inspiration. I consider the next line of the letter. How can this be composed? I should tell her the state of affairs so as not to confuse her. I have been at this place some ten weeks or so and some months, but did I count them? There is no way to count these things. One loses sight of counting, as there was hunger in my belly, and all this trouble with the police. I shall put a nice figure in the letter. That decision will be final.
I have been living here about ten weeks.
No, that is not right.
I have been living here precisely ten weeks.
That is the big three: who I write to, that is my mother, who I am, that is me, her son, Daniel, where I live, in my abode, not abode but shack, that is the three. What do I want to ask her, oh yes, potatoes. I need potatoes, but how to cook them. I will enquire about that at the letter’s end. I want some potatoes, no, that is not right. I would like some potatoes, no, this needs some thinking. First, I must notify her of my position. I am hungry, no, that is not right either. She would say such a thing as why is my son hungry, is he taken to eating more and more and can he never be filled up like a greedy crocodile? This thing must be thought about some more. I have no food. No, that is not right either. I must start from the beginning.
Ten weeks have passed since I was notified of my orders.
My mother is a curious woman and would ask what orders, so that must be in the letter to explain the order.
In the street, I was, on the broken box on the street with all the vice for us to know about. I was sent a paper from an official, a law is what they called it.
Two sentences without thinking to stop for another, that is a good two sentences. In the street, I was, in the broken box on the street. I have overdone it with street. There are two streets, not one street but written twice. It is confusing. How difficult it is to write a letter. This is too much. Too much to do. I will keep the two streets as it will be too long to write this letter. I will be here writing the letter until another ten weeks go by. Where did I put that letter of the official paper from an official, where, oh yes, here, under the stale soup. I will copy that in the letter word for word. First, I will tell her of it.
Here is the official letter and what is says.
This letter is a good letter already.
Daniel Jacobson,
It has reached our attention that you are living on Soho Street. This is a public space. A public space must not be taken advantage of. If you wish to sleep on the streets, it must be submitted in writing to your local authority. Failure to do so will result in a substantial prison term. Last year a new bill was passed and last week it was written into law. The bill is the ‘Protected Public Spaces Act.’ This means that homelessness is not a right but a privilege. Submit in writing your application to your authority and we will process your claim within 2-6 years. Hard-working homeowners are not terribly pleased the privileged homeless have the good fortune not to pay their bills, taxes and other such things a civilised society comprises of.
That is the letter I received. There is no confusion with my mother now, as that is clear in the letter I write. There is another problem. I am no longer on Vice Street or whatever it is called, but here, I need to think awhile and consider how, in which way to tell her this. I am here, no, that is not right. That will not do. That is it! I need, in the letter, to explain how I was there to here, how the journey happened. That cannot be too difficult. I will tell her this so as not to confuse her.
Then there came what they called the ‘law,’ that is the police, walking up and down with large and nasty arms, it gave me a terrible fright. I was spotted by one of these walking in puddles. He was far away but saw my broken box so I got up, leaving my box in the windy rain, ran as fast as anyone could, the police officer stopped for breath, but I did not see him stop for breath but he would be stopping for breath, but I kept on with the running. One man I saw close by, who had nothing but his underpants on, asked me why I was so much out of breath, I told him the reason why. He told me a word which I thought he invented but he did not invent it. It was a word all right. The word was ‘squat.’ He said be a ‘squatter,’ I asked him what it was, he was so clever he told me what it meant. He said he was a ‘squatter.’ He invited me into his ‘squat.’ I went inside and it was warmer and better than Vice Street or whatever it is called. I slept there with all those people. In the early hours of the next morning the police came in and grabbed them all. The police did not find me because I was washing my underpants in the rain. I am still here now, but by myself.
That was a long piece without stopping once. That is the explaining done. What next? Oh, yes. I want some potatoes, no, that is not right. She will say, What is it with my son and his potatoes, why can he not pay for them himself? I will explain further, because that is required. That is the thing with the newspapers I did not tell her about. Where is that newspaper I kept? here, underneath the rancid and mouldy boiled ham and where the dead mice are. I shall copy the piece in the letter. That’s the idea. I shall explain it has come from the newspaper because there could be confusion in that.
I have been here in this place for precisely ten weeks.
No, I have said that once in the letter, that is more repetition. If it is a long letter she would forget the ten weeks, I shall leave it in and think of the next thing to say in the letter.
When I was here for two days, some idle worker – who delivers many papers – threw them down outside my ‘squat,’ but more like a shack because really, I have forgotten what a ‘squat’ is. As I was eating a beetroot, I picked one of these newspapers up to see if I could make sense of these things those reporters write. On page five was my picture, it said ’Vagrant wanted on four counts (1) for the criminal act of being homeless (2) for absconding from a police officer (3) under the 1824 Vagrancy Act, which stipulates ‘Anyone in England and Wales found to be homeless can be arrested. (4) He, much to his own disgrace, was occupying a public space.’ Every day the same newspaper-person threw the bunch of newspapers. I was looking, and everyday my picture was there. These police, called the ‘law,’ are ready with a picture of me, asking people where I am, so I cannot be out of these doors.
That was another large piece without thinking what is next. She knows I cannot be out there so now come the potatoes.
Can you send potatoes?
No, that is not right. I should tell her there is no money to buy food and I cannot go out; I will say as much.
I cannot go out and there is no food here so if you please mother, I would like some potatoes.
Don’t forget the other things.
I also, mother, require cucumber, carrots, celery sticks, tomatoes and peaches.
The lettuce, that was another item that came about. That is the letter. I will say goodbye, that is how to end a letter nowadays.
Goodbye mother.
There are lots of dead vermin all over those papers. I found some letters with those old postage stamps. That will do for the posting of the letter. How to post it, that is the question. There is just one way. I will leave in the early hours, no, I cannot leave, well I will not think about it until tomorrow. I should have put in the letter how to eat potatoes with no cooking devices. Not to matter. I will find a way. I always find a way out of these things. One gets used to living the same way for years and years. I thought how other people live, they live better and do things differently but I have always been this way, there is no changing now. It is no matter anyway because when one lives in penury then one is unknowing what they are missing. It is best this way. There is no other way. How can there be another way? I peered out of the window, people walk with large boots on, one could get a real big booting with those big boots on. There are lots of boots like that these days, what boots are they, who can say? I would not like to say but I can say what these special sorts of boots could be used for, they are not the usual types of boots either. They are not boots to wear at a disco or party, not to wear in school or to go shopping in, no, they are not the sort of boots for these sorts of things. These are boots worn by men with long legs and big arms only, not small men, no, that is not allowed, I think it is forbidden as I have never seen a small man wearing them, perhaps they would be too small for him, they certainly would be too small for him. These boots are a very specific type of boots. They are the boots of the workman. The workman is strong and sometimes can be a blockhead as they talk a great deal of this, that and whatever else it is they say. It is just talk anyway. These boots are a thing of fashion these days, but I do not know too much about these things. Is it ten weeks, it must be ten weeks, but how would I know it was ten weeks, or not ten weeks? I do not know if it is ten weeks, but how many weeks then, it could be more or less but I do not know. It is ten weeks, I will say ten weeks. In ten weeks, since these, what is the word? since these ‘squats,’ no, not squats but ‘squatters’ were here I have spoken to nobody, what a queer thing that is, very queer indeed. Who would have thought it? One can get lost in all those thoughts, all that thinking. I thought about the hunger in my stomach, the police, my health status, it is all terrible. That is the thing: there is a problem with the letter, a problem indeed. That letter should be posted. But how does the system work? It will go through the delivery system, mother will not receive the letter for several days, when the reply and delivery for my potatoes and such things is complete then my hunger will be the end of me, I will be a corpse.
That is the last of them beetroots too. This hunger is too much. When people have the luxury to buy food, that is a great luxury indeed. There are other luxuries I can think of too. There is one luxury of sleeping in a bed without giant, monstrous springs sticking in your back, bottom, elbows, hands, legs, toes, fingers, neck, everywhere. It is a luxury to have a roof over the head, I thought what a roof would make it; it would make it warm, or maybe not warm but warmer, that is it, warmer. But to eat food, that is the one, to eat food, people do not eat the usual things I am accustomed to either. It is beetroot, pickles, anchovies and pilchards – all by themselves – all alone. There is food I can say is hot, there is hot food and they eat it by way of cooking. They have the systems, not systems but machines in their homes: a cooking machine, the machine of the fridge, there are other machines too, there it allows to store and cook food, then, normally, it ought to be eaten. That is the way it is, the normal way, but this is not the normal way, no, certainly not the normal way. How can one not be hungry without food? There must be a way, there is always a way. There must be a way. I cannot go out, that is true, not with the police called the ‘law’ lurking around the corners of all the towns and places on the lookout for me, the witch-hunt for me, yes, the witch-hunt, that is a good one I thought of without prompting, a witch-hunt. Never mind that witch-hunt, there is a hunger in my belly, a great, terrible hunger. How best to defeat hunger without eating, I should think awhile. Food, what is like food? Drink perhaps, drink, that can prevent the hunger awhile, but how to get a drink. That is an idea! To drink my urine, but no cup to direct the urine into, there must be a way out of this problem, there always is, always. What can I find as – what can I say – as an alternative, that is the word, an alternative. What do I have here, of course, the beetroot jar. That will be my drinking vessel but it is rotten with mould and stained beetroot around the jar, how to clean it off. Should I pee into it as it is, no, that is not good either, there must be a way, there is always a way. There must be something to wipe the thing down with; let me look. Under every corner, every area; no, there is nothing like a rag or cloth. How about the clothes I have on? That is an idea. What an idea that is. But it appears I have not thought it through. There are these clothes only and no other, I should add more to the letter, ask mother to send me clothes, but not to matter about that for now. How to wipe this jar down, let me see, there is a coat I wear which is torn and tattered, bruised and battered, but in one piece, this, then, I conclude in my own thoughts is too big for it, how can a large coat such as mine fit in a small glass and clean it? Impossible! What is next? oh, yes, off comes the coat, what do I have? There is what I should call a jumper, a sweater, a shirt, a pullover, an apparel, a garment, but let me take it off and inspect the filthy thing with tomato juice and mustard sauce covering most of it, well, here it is. Oh dear, it is the same, that is too large to fit into the small jar. That is not the correct cleaning device for it. What’s this, this is my – what do they call it in the cultural parts – a shirt and perhaps a t-shirt, yet, I do not know which is which, whatever anyway, it is no matter, it does not affect my current circumstances. What of this t-shirt, I will call it a t-shirt. I must take it off as to inspect it, understand the size in terms of the small beetroot jar, oh not again! This is too big to clean this small jar. This is a curious item of clothing, as it was all nice, clean and warm, the back of it has a hole the size of a great big plate. That brings me in a fit thinking of food again, the plate should not be mentioned, what else, oh yes, the size of the towering helmet of a police officer, that is right. What next, there is nothing up here. The pants, are they too big – I should say so – but let me see, I should inspect them further and take them off, is it the usual thing; I think so. I remember, that is the zip that is broken, that wobbly button, how to fix it, not to worry about it now, no, that is thinking for later. These ten-week unwashed pants smell something foul, a very foul smell indeed, it has a stinking odour to it, here they are, let me hold them up. Oh dear! This small jar would be a small affair where these pants are concerned, they are called pants? I think so, they are pants. This is taking too long. I must hurry the process along a little or a lot, I will hurry it along a lot. This is the end of the clothing matter. Not so fast, there are some left over, still on me. Those are underpants. Will they clean the small jar? They are small enough, I should take them off and see. What is that thing that dangles down as I take them off, I see what that is, let me inspect these underpants I just had on. What are all the stains? Those stains at the back is for a lack of toilet paper, but those other stains, what are the...oh my memory on this one is a little better, my memory is not so bad, it is a good memory sometimes. Those stains – I can remember one day in this place – I looked out of the window for a while and saw passing girls in some fashionable type of skirts, it was all the rage when I saw their walking buttocks, I could contain myself no longer. The explosion was large, my underpants were filled up with it, so it left a stain. But there is nothing else. What is this? those things on my feet, no, not those extracts of shoes, what is underneath it? oh yes, socks. Just the job to clean the beetroot jar. For a good while, a long while, not a good while either – that is to say I have not had a good time of it – that is cleaning the small beetroot jar with my socks, I cleaned and cleaned, within these last two hours it was clean like it was new. I was happy now. What a strange occurrence happened just then, it was a strange occurrence indeed. There was a great big chill in the air, every part of my body caught a chill, it was because my clothes were off. The jar was filled with a nice tasty drink, I put my clothes back on before I sat down to drink it then there would be no hunger in the stomach. I drank it in one big gulp. I did not care for the taste, that is not the issue, it is to fill my hunger, I was no longer hungry, I did a good job of this one. I can say I am not hungry, but how long can this last, ah yes, that is the idea, more urine will come all the while. It is better than the previous ten weeks when I had been doing it all over the springy mattress, that mattress does have a foul odour, perhaps that is the reason why. That is not important as I shall leave these quarters in these next four years or thereabouts. It is not so long. How to get that letter posted, I shall think about that later. What about work? I should go back to work, but how? I cannot go back to work; how can I go back to work? The very thought of it is an impossibility. That work finished some sixteen years since. It was a warehouse of a kind, do they call it that, I think so, it is a warehouse. It is that work all day which was good for me. That was the good old days. That work lasted some two years. It was that conveyor belt, that is what it was. Put things on and sometimes take things off, this went on all day long, every day, it was a good job to do. On and off, on and off. That was the job. Nothing to it. It was nothing thinking about my troubles in the caravan because the work had taken over my mind, the caravan would wait. Mother lived in the caravan and so did father. That is not to say I was born there. I got payments from the warehouse once in a while, sometimes not for a while. That money paid to me was for the caravan, my mother and father saw to that business with the wages. I was paid once in a while, sometimes we went outside the caravan to eat sausages with mustard. I overdo it with my mustard. The world will make a mustard of me yet. That caravan was not a caravan to live in. One winter, when I was eighteen or thereabouts – yes eighteen – there was a great winter with great gusts of wind rocking and blowing the caravan here and there. One night, when the wind was the heaviest in some tens of years, the caravan blew into the sea. Father drowned, mother crawled to a giant rock. I swam for three days and have not seen mother since. For fourteen years, I lived in this place, not so big, with trees, grass, a hut where I lived. I made a fire in the old-fashioned way, there were fish, pigeon birds, crabs and scorpions to cook. I became mad, I went mad, when great big tanks overtook the island I swam for eleven days and became comfortable on my box for two years since. There is a biography in that. Not long, just two pages, or maybe more, no more than five. I am tired with this life, how is one to get along with no training for society? I have lived how I have lived but that is not how to live for some people. I should ask mother for some beans but how to open the beans? That is a problem. These socks are awash with beetroot juice, that is not a problem so much. It is to go barefoot like Jesus or was it Moses, Muhammad, Jacob, Abraham, Isaac, King David, Job, Luke, Matthew, Paul, John? I heard those names in the book but was sure one had no boots on their feet. Who was it? It is no matter, none of it matters as much as those potatoes and such things. I must fill up my stomach. I can’t go on like this. I must trace my life and discover – that is the word – discover where it went all wrong. What can it be? I was born, that is something I can be sure about, but how? who is to say that is not the case, is it the case, I believe it could be either way, that is I could be born or not be born, could I always have been here? how can I have been here? That is too much thinking, I think I was born but there is no memory of it, did it happen? maybe so, that is the beginning, being born. I am sure I cannot discover this whereabouts of memory, but what has been spoken to me by mother and father? what does mother say about all this, let me think on this carefully. I have it. My memory falters here a little. There are but three options of my coming into the world. One time mother told me it was at the fierce and filthy prison I was born, at some other time she said it was at the brothel and she said a cave at the bottom of the sea. It all sounds strange but must be true; one must be true and father also says it is one of these places. Let me think on this. Father told me it was the brothel, that is one discovery over with. Why was mother in a brothel, for what purpose? Mother was more in the dark about these matters but father told me the plain truth. Father met mother – he told me as such – when she was on a walk in some distant, dark place, he, finding her aesthetically pleasing, slapped, punched, kicked, bit, booted mother, ripped her clothes and ravaged her anus. I was brought into the world this way. Father – after this occurrence – brought her to the brothel and chained her up, making her work all the while, that was the beginning. Then there was the caravan when I was there, the brothel business was gone forever. Father went to the prison cell. Mother and I lived beneath the sea in a cave of sorts, yes, a cave, there was a great big smell, not a smell, no, a stink is what is was, there was a great big stink in this cave. We stayed in this place some years and waited for father to come home, when he did, we moved into the caravan. Father no longer tied mother up and ravaged her, no, he said that was inappropriate behaviour. That is a biography enough. Now here I am. I noticed, sometime later, after I had my sleep – it was a little sleep for the tiredness of all this and that and whatever else – I looked through the window, well no, that is not true either, there is no window of course, but one could say that is a window, I would then say, no, there is no window, it follows, it does follow, that is where windows go, but there is an empty window, it looks like a window but that is the trick if it all; it is windowless. I was awake, that is right, awake, through the window, well not the window, but it was outside and there was something, what was it? I knew what it was. It was the damned old paper-deliverer, they were dropped, once again, to this place. As there was little to do in a place such as this, I, without attempting to go out, picked one up then looked at it awhile.
There were many stories in the paper, these stories, whatever they be, always confuse me a great deal, what are these stories they speak of, enough stories here to fill up a great big yellow tank. There were fifteen big stories, I counted them many times, as there was nothing to do until nightfall, I concluded there were fifteen long stories and many more short ones. The fifteen were all confusing to me. There was one on the front page which is story one:
A 27-year-old woman, a fat one, very fat because she believes in the old adage in indolence, is to have her fourth child. Before we proceed thus further it is this indolence which is a great irritation to all of us. The woman, here, is indolent and fat, a very fat one indeed, this is her disease, yes, she comes from a line of all indolent, obese slobs. They do not work at all and produce babies like a rapist produces his penis. Her home address is 34, Wendell Road, London. These perverts, these fornicators in our system must be stopped. These people are draining the system with their paunch bellies. Sign our petition, sign it! Fat, indolent and jobless people to stay clear of our hospitals or be ridiculed and lampooned in public.
I found this story to be a great struggle to read because I did not think it was a story but something else. It is true people have babies. It surprised me only one woman like this one had a baby of late, there were no others, I think maybe they were, or not. It is the newspaper’s job to find out these things in any case, they have found this one out, maybe they found others who had babies but forgot to tell us about these things. That maybe so, because these newspaper reporters are very busy, I know this to be the case, it is a very tricky job. Story two:
Do you think you are safe at night? Never! You cannot be safe or even think it when we reveal the shocking, mind-numbing, mind-splitting facts. It is this: prisoners are being set free from prisons! Yes, these criminals who rob, rape, murder, pillage, colonise, disenfranchise, insult, assault, molest, all working class of course, are being let out of prison! Yes, a revelation, an exclusive! You heard it from us first. This is how secretive the whole practice is and we will explain it thus: there are courts where these evil, sick, depraved, perverted, monstrous criminals go, but something shocking remains, these judges have been giving them only years at a time in prison! These people, well not people really, but criminals, yes, they are being released from these prisons when we all thought they were there to die an unceremonious death. Sign our petition!
This was stranger still. My father went to prison for a time and half, that was the one, a time and a half, I like that. I will say that. People will say it is a time and a half all right, I will remember to say that. What did I say about my father – I remembered what I was saying – they have these prisons in different places, these courts too. My father was in one, the judge, the man who likes to knock his big hammer, said you will be out in prison in some five years or somewhere near. It was confusing with these newspaper stories, they maybe not sure about these things called the law, who decide some things, it is confusing what is read in the newspaper these days. Story three:
Traitors listed! Trade union leaders, human rights workers, doctors, nurses, teachers, ex-servicemen and women, some members of parliament, and more, many of these people are traitors. There is a patriotic war going on and these people do not support us bombing barbaric lands! One of these nurses, who is called Karen Taylor, said, ‘We need to protect civilians.’ Outrage, blasphemous, grotesque! She speaks about foreigners like they were her own children. That is the shame of patriotic countries. She works in our hospitals, saving our children when she talks about these foreigners she loves so much. To hell with these foreigners we say. Sign our petition to shut these traitors up.
This is a strange paper with these things they say, I would never have believed it before. They say this war, well, that is true enough if they say so, whoever heard of this war business before? These wars are strange affairs, what is a war anyway? I suppose it is a troubling situation when things are amiss in some affairs happening in places. I thought someone might say this is not the right war or say this is wrong for this and that or whatever but I learnt through the paper it is not right to say different things, we must believe the same thing, that must be true enough then. This war, whatever it is, we must support it or be traitors, I do not like to be called a traitor so much, a traitor is not nice term, that is sure enough, I do not know about the war, that is not important now, I will support it or I will be a traitor too. Story four.
Liberal views on the rise! Shop a liberal. Gentle readers, good readers, loyal readers, we ask you this: if you experience anybody expressing a liberal view, write to us with immediate effect, and we will publish their utterly disgusting names, the ruin of this country they will become, yes, a true epidemic, a plague on us all, a Black Death most foul, a stinking foul contagion, they must be exterminated, yes, exterminate these views, the best way to rid these barbarian liberal views is to read our publication. They must read it! Sign the petition and get people to read it to prevent the spread of liberal views!
Another petition, they have over-run themselves with all these petitions, that is what I thought in any case. This is a clever paper when they say liberal view, I have heard this word before but until now I did not know it was a bad word, strange because I see liberal is a bad word. Story five.
Special feature: the patriotic event of the week is the sporting spectacle. A match is to be played as part of our national heritage, yes, it is our national sport. We are playing a foreign land, let us gear up for war and crush the country with all our mettle, spirit and resolve. Come to the match and scream all the obscenities, and curse the other team with all you can with their foul and unpleasant country. Wave your flags and show we are the greatest country in the entire world.
That is another thing I did not think about before now. There is this country, that is one country, but how can one country be different from another? I know that is the way it is or whatever with countries being different, I had never heard of this thing before, it is right, after I read this, this is what I thought, it is the case with the country being better than all the others but the newspaper taught me this, because I never would have thought it. Story six.
The new leader of the opposition is a dangerous man. You heard it here first! He is a communist, a traitor, an enemy to the people, he hates wealth creators, and instead talks about lazy no gooders who have never worked, who get thousands of pounds a week on benefits, most of which are foreigners. He said scandalous things like the poor should be treated no differently than the rich, business leaders, bankers, the honourable members of parliament, how can anyone with sense treat the idle poor with compassion and make the country the greatest place in the world? There are a bunch of these poor people who are the lowest ones, the homeless. Kick them off our streets and have them pay their dues back. We say no to equality! This evil lurks everywhere: this is feminism, socialism and equal rights. We say no!
This is some strange paper. This is a world we live in, that is true, I can admit to as much myself, that is some admittance of the world, our world, this world, for is there another? I do not know of one. Papers – I have been told in education-wise – are for our good information and knowledge, this one written here is not as my experience would have it. I was sleeping on that large, broken wet box for long enough, for as long as I can remember, the newspaper has my situation in it. I can say it here this instant: this homelessness, I was, and others I saw, it followed from it that this newspaper have all their information wrong. It is an abomination itself. What is it with these newspapers in getting their information wrong? I read this same story some twenty times and each time became more angry than before. I screwed and crunched this lying thing, that delivery man can keep his papers. That is enough of newspaper talk.
