Blair The Dead Pig

Do you remember the high hopes many in this country had for “New Labour” in 1997. As we turn our faces from the rotting carcass of moral decay and mendacity that is the death of this vile administration ,that early optimism is hard to recall. Look at these quotes on which no comment is really needed.

"Education will be our number one priority";
"we will rebuild the NHS";
"we will help build strong families and strong communities";
"we will be tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime";
"we will clean up politics and put the funding of political parties on a proper and accountable basis".
It is almost beyond belief that so much good will , and there was considerable good will, was wasted . I happened to read this poem about the utter deadness of a slaughtered pig which reminded me of that strange thing , time ,passing and this governement. Can it be that this is the same Blair who said those things , who made those promises? His administration has no right to persist, and yet it lies there like the pig , inert and pointless. Remembering what it was all supposed to be for is almost impossible but once ..once it was all going to be Cool Brittannia…..


View of a Pig

The pig lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, they said, as much as three men.
Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes.
Its trotters stuck straight out.
Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off.
It was like a sack of wheat.
I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this pig
Did not seem able to accuse.
It was too dead. Just so much
A poundage of lard and pork.
Its last dignity had entirely gone.
It was not a figure of fun.
Too dead now to pity.
To remember its life, din, stronghold
Of earthly pleasure as it had been,
Seemed a false effort, and off the point.
Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me — how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

Once I ran at a fair in the noise
To catch a greased piglet
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of metal.
Pigs must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse’s —
They chop a half–moon clean out.
They eat cinders, dead cats.
Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.

I stared at it a long time.
They were going to scald it,
Scald it and scour it like a doorstep.


...and good riddance say I