A Human Crisis

The Jungle in Calais, the island of Kos, the border of Macedonia and Greece – these are all points at which refugees have converged, seeking a better life. Yet our (UK) government’s rhetoric remains unchanged. “We need to protect our borders”, says David Cameron, an excuse to ignore the problem. We’re not advocating letting everyone in, but we’re asking for policy to be based on compassion. Instead of “How do we keep these people out?”, we should be asking “How best can we help these people?”

People. That’s all they are, they are not migrants, they are fellow human beings, yet the media, much of it, until very very recently, until images of drowned children washed up on shore reared themselves on social media, has been negative. So let’s see this as an opportunity to help our fellow human beings and give them the first true glimpses of hope they’ve seen in a long while.

Guaranteed, these people will pay this country back with hard work, gratitude and add to the beautiful cultural melting pot that is Great Britain.

Featured image from Greens EFA on Flickr in accordance with Creative Commons

A Human Crisis

Cameron would have us believe they’re a swarm
Come to camp out on our lawns
Taking food from our children’s mouths
Invading in thousands from the south.

“People know what I mean”, he says,
Not like cockroaches, rats or locust plagues,
These people who have travelled far
Across the choppy waters in the dark
Having already worked harder than we ever will
Toiling against oppression, violence, and endless ills.

They are strong, they have proven themselves worthy
They have mustered these last bursts of strength to make this journey.
Children in tow, dead left behind,
No time for tears, they’ve had to survive.

Meanwhile we: Latte’s in our laps or ales in our glasses,
We discuss bringing in the army,
To tackle these most desperate hordes
That sleep in tents pitched out of doors.

See, the discussion has been set, we argue within defined parameters,
We think we know it all, are smart and informed but we’re amateurs.
Arguments bounce between ones and zeros
Each choice a brand of fear though.

And so our brave leader says, “privilege for all”,
It’s a choice, didn’t you know? Be rich or be poor.
“But we need to protect our borders”
(From rampant migrant scum sewing seeds of disorder).
Well, hasn’t that attitude worked out well
For these poor souls who’ve been through hell,
Makeshift toilets dug in the ground
Injuries sustained along the way abound.

So I say “fuck you, Cameron” and your heartless narrow band,
You’ve traded empathy for some ideology you’ve picked up from Ayn Rand.
It’s that “there’s no room”, “appeal to the lowest common denominator” politics of fear,
The same shit Farage spouts while drinking beer.

I want us to grasp those last dying fragments of compassion in our hearts
And Instead of capitalism vs socialism vs Corbynism endlessly debated, let’s just make a start.
Come up with a plan, scrap that hundred billion quid of nuke
And prove the Great in Britain aint some fluke.
Put people right up front and call on wisdom
Not on a predatory, misinterpreted sense of Darwinism.

Tories, neo-whatevers, Blairites and tax swindling scum,
Let’s wipe those lines in sand we’ve drawn and be said and done.

My history with dogs

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I’m going to tell a little tale
About my history with dogs.
I’ll start way back when,
I can’t remember my age,
Older than seven, less than 10.

Frost crunch footsteps on grass,
Hitting golf balls in my local park.
My dad’s by my side, nine-iron in hand
And he’s swinging that thing like “isn’t life grand”.

All of a sudden out of nowhere two snarling German Shepherds
Bundled towards me with their eyes transfixed.
They cut their own hot billowed breath like a razors
And out of silence I hear my dad shout, “Chris!!”

I snapped out from my stupor and ran with all my strength.
Now, I’d love to say I was a natural sprinter
With my athletic build and supple long legs.
But sadly I am not, and it looked and felt like certain death.

So it was lucky for me my dad intervened,
He timed it right and took his nine,
Cracked the canines on their noses
And I collapsed, cheeks flushed like roses.

Everything stopped and was quiet,
The dogs stood at attention and let out little whimpers.
Their master huffed and puffed down the winding path, waving his hand in the air as if to say
“I’m here now!”, but the fat fuck was still miles away…

German Shepherds, the chosen dog of the Nazi’s!
They’re a dog of oppression, of fascism and hate!
I wonder at the outcome of the war had the Nazi’s replaced
The German Shepherd with the dachshund.
The world would be a better place.

Then year after year after year after year
I was convinced dogs could smell my fear.
They barked as I walked by them on the street.
They eyed me up and down and growled
And while I lay in bed at night they howled.

I kept my distance and for years it stayed that way.
That is until I was given no say.
See my sister bought a puppy
A little runt, a bitch, a Staffy.
And I had a go, “what about when you go away”
“what do you know about dogs anyway ”
“plus don’t you know that staffys bite”
“and you’ll wade knee deep in piss and shite”
But it was no good, she was here to stay
And so I learned to love that bitch anyway.

They called her Paris, Paris Taylor

Yes she had a second name.
My sister explained,
If you get a chavvy dog you go all the way.

Fair enough, I thought to myself,
But you’d just graduated from a theatre degree,
So you could have probably found a better way
To make scathing social commentary.

Eight years have now passed,
And in that time my love for canines grew
Mastifs, Ridgebacks, short haired pointers
And maybe even poodles too.

All except chihuahuas, I can’t fucking stand chihuahuas.

It’s weird, I can’t walk past a dog in a park anymore without giving them a stroke
Its owner looking at me strangely like “who the fuck’s this bloke?”
To me it doesn’t matter, boy, if your owner is a girl
Who’s buxom assets carry favour with men across world.
I’m really only in it for the endless games of fetch
And not the lustful daydream of my face amongst her breasts.

But there’s one strange thing about my growing affection
Beyond calling out to them in cutesy inflections.
Because I still don’t have a dog of my own.
And I can’t in all good conscience bring one home.
Cos I live in a small, north London, poxy first floor flat
That being said, I’ll never ever ever ever get a fucking cat…

 

* Artwork from DogArtists.co.uk