“Put on a proper suit, do up your tie and sing the national anthem”
Maybe I should wear a proper suit and act properly in Savile Row as they make the tender cuts. Maybe they could measure me by red tape from groin to collar and suggest I go for the slightly soiled blue suit on offer modelled by the faceless dummy far removed from limbless mannequins shoved to the back where no one will see. Maybe I should go to Oxfam in Mayfair and buy a decent blazer yellowed under the arms from a decent fellow nervous as he passed a swarm of probable migrants looking for their country in alleyways and skinny dog lick puddles selling voodoo and big issue.
Maybe I should do my black tie into a knot for the black hat Doctor Akbar wore on graduation day whose smile is in a cardboard box as her old joy sickens her and there is nothing she can prescribe for it. Maybe I will buy a blue tie and fasten it to the neck of a chopped down tree for another Supermarket with a smiling slave in a fleece sewed by slaves with a label in Comic Sans saying “Hi I’m Wendy and I’m here to help you or more importantly “I’m here” until I stopped smiling.
Maybe I should sing the national anthem in a job centre where people vanish from England and as I hold my head up high my broken nose shall leave a red carpet for a doctor to stitch me back together again. Maybe the worst is over when the bruise is no longer blue, maybe I’ll go for that Corbyn look and wear red again and speak with reverence about my Mother who once turned red when she left a crease in my suit for my first ever interview as a slave selling posh holidays in the stone cheap suit of Cov where buskers in ripped jeans sang real fuckin anthems in dirty jeans with mouths that cleansed the shit from Westminster to the arse end of Hertford Street.