The Zima Confession
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“OK Guildford boy. So you like to tag along to the odd meeting. You like to slag off the hardcore members but will we ever see you put your money where your mouth is?”
“If I thought it could do some actual good I would. I mean the way society is just now… there’s lots of things wrong. Systemic things. You know yourself how we’ve discussed it all; over and over again. Things that are wrong. Things that are wrong with the system itself and so can’t be fixed by the system.” He wondered if he was getting a bit drunk. He didn’t usually use Glaswegian expressions like “You know yourself”. He would normally say “As you know” or whatever the correct expression was.
“OK, agreed. So what do ye propose then?”
“Nationalise the banks without compensation. Step one.”
“You can’t just do that though.” Stuart said with the sort of patience usually reserved for small children, “You can only do that after a revolution. Industries can only be nationalised after they’ve failed. Or by force, after revolution.”
“Not true. Labour’s in power now and there are already mutuals, co-operative banks, the National Savings Bank. Why don’t they just expand that sector and take over the banking system step by step?”
Stuart shrugged. “Step by step hasn’t worked. The Left has already tried Parliament. Every time they do something the Tories just reverse it next time they’re in. Plus the Left never stick to their guns when they get into power; they always change. We’ve had Keir Hardie, Aneurin Bevan, Benn. Even Harold-bloody-Wilson was supposedly ‘hard Left’ and look what happened.”
Stuart’s attention was drawn to the door again. Richard looked too, hoping that Linda had come back. He was immediately disappointed. Instead of Linda MacKerricher wearing a mini-skirt and boots, someone wearing a duffle coat and a Partick Thistle hat and scarf was trying to push a bicycle into the room. It seemed that the Thistle fan was intending to ride the bike around the room as an amusing stunt. This was giving rise to a bit of an altercation because several of the punks were trying to prevent him. Their idea of anarchy in the UK did not extend to permitting people to ride bicycles in rooms.
“OK, let’s agree, as usual, that only revolution will really change things. So how do you do it?” said Richard.
“How would you do it?”
“Just what I was trying to say a moment ago. You need something to trigger it, an act that causes significant damage to the existing system so that it’s unable to function properly. Once that happens the socialists will rise up and the system will be unable to defend itself.”
Stuart didn’t say anything but nodded briefly in agreement. Then, remembering there were more important matters to attend to, he stretched his head back and began tipping half a tin of Tennent’s Super Lager down his throat, seemingly oblivious as Richard continued his monologue:
“We’re just kids right now, students. We know nothing. We don’t know anybody who knows anything or has any influence. Even guys like Eddie are half-way to Walter Mitty; they’re kidding themselves. But all this education we’re getting might eventually be good for something. If we could keep in touch with the people we know who really want to change things and make a difference then one day we might be useful.”
Stuart had stopped gulping the lager. His head lurched back down to its default position as he crushed the empty can into his fist. He studied Richard for a long time, as though he was somehow having difficulty recognising him. But finally a glimmer of comprehension flickered to life.
“What exactly would you do?”
“Sabotage. I mean something big. Something fucking big. Remember what I was telling you about Georges Sorel?”
“And you’re volunteering…?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Count me in, man.”
A wall of sound slammed through the room as The Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen blasted out. The punks immediately started pogo-ing in a frenzy, forcing the hippies lazing on the floor to reluctantly create space for them. The guy who had been singing Leonard Cohen songs left the room, meekly cradling his guitar to prevent damage. Stuart had to shout:
“We should go and see Eddie with this idea. He’ll know what to do about it, or he’ll know someone that does.”
2. Eddie’s Kitchen
“This idea of yours is aw very well but you realise it could put us aw in jail?” Eddie’s mean, feral eyes stared at Richard accusingly through heavy black-rimmed glasses, making him look every inch the wee Glasgow hard-man he aspired to be. Richard had been invited round to his flat to go through the sabotage plan for the third time and it was becoming clear Eddie had little faith in either him or the plan. They sat in the cold kitchen to avoid disturbing Eddie’s dad who was watching TV in the living room.
“It could, but this is what we’re here for isn’t it? Handing out pamphlets to people who chuck them into the first bin they walk past will never get us anywhere. We’re supposed to be a revolutionary party not a pamphlet distributing party.”
They sat in silence. Richard wondered if he’d pushed Eddie too far. Anyway, he was past caring. He looked round the cold, outmoded kitchen. There wasn’t much there to soothe their nerves; an old-fashioned pantry, solid enough to withstand nuclear attack, had been painted yellow in an attempt at modernity. A worn-out Tricity cooker, covered in grease. Pitted brown linoleum on the floor. A ceiling pulley for hanging washing on.
The council had vowed to build modern flats ‘fit for heroes’ but, somehow, they had created drab, grey schemes instead. Out in the street there were no facilities; no shops and nothing to do. Inside there was no comfort. Attempts to cheer up the interiors of these houses nearly always ended in tragicomic kitsch – in this case exemplified by the wallpaper with its repeated pattern of crowing cocks. Perhaps the cocks had provided a few moments of jollity once, but they had been crowing at least since the mid-sixties and looked a bit worn-out. To top it all, there was a lot of tyre screeching and occasional gunfire coming from the living room. The TV was blasting out at maximum volume to compensate for Eddie’s dad’s deafness.
“So what sort ay event do you think’d be sufficient tae trigger revolution in the UK?”
“It would have to be big, Eddie.”
“So big it’s impossible?” Eddie asked slyly.
It was clear Eddie thought he wouldn’t or couldn’t go through with it and was just looking for an excuse to avoid marching and agitating – the sort of party work that Eddie thought was essential. “Eddie,” Richard was trying to contain his anger.
“Eddie, when Marx was writing he expected a revolution eventually, but he never lived to see it. Well, we’ve had dozens of attempts since then. We’ve got the USSR and China to show for it – OK, Cuba and stuff like that too. None of these were good or real revolutions. We still haven’t seen what Marx was expecting. We need something better, more final. And it has to be in an advanced economy not a backward one. So if this puts me out of action for a while as far the Party’s concerned – even if it takes my whole life – then so be it.”