The sun sets, and now the moon lights their metallic forms with a cold glow. The smackheads who deal as children learn to read next to them, are forced to do cold turkey on the bear baiting post, tattoed necks enclosed in a spiked iron collar. "Draw them men! Quarter them so they might feel it, but not too fast!" they cry, facial hair stirred by the winter breeze. Their Civil War justice is swift, and merited as they arrange for them to be hung drawn and quartered, dragged screaming into four wriggling bloody pieces by teams of cyclists, the modern day cavalry of our confused world. They could pause to take in the forever green landscape, before espying bike thieves making their way about town with bolt-cutters they are too brazen to hide. Watch a 400 year old sword plunge into the jugular of the abusive drinkers who congregate at their feet, scraping grimily off their calcifying cervical vertebrae, while the drummer boys beats them unmercifully with his lead stick. I don't want these fellows to do that (too much), but it's easy to imagine them coming to life, in a time and culture alien to them, and reacting with fear and violence. The notorious Italian porno-comic Sukia featured them coming to life and, ahem, "seeing to" the eponymous heroine and her male friend on a trans-Atlantic liner voyage.
which I always think of when I look at these two chaps, are amongst the most culturally significant pieces of statuary ever found. One looks West, the other East, both poised for action. The sun has gone in and is no longer glinting off their patinated forms.
Outside the library window, two statues stand, figures of the civil war, a bronzed embodiment of 400 years of history, where they fought for the right of Parliament, or the right of The King. "Ulla-la la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la la la" is just about acceptable I suppose, but visitors, travelling spacemen, stick to "Take me to your leader." "Gort! La la la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la la" - well, that wouldn't have helped. If the Vulcans had said that to us that wondrous day after Zephraim Cochrane had got to Warp 1, we'd have thought they were taking the piss. Having travelled "for light years of time" - oh and by the way, light years are a measure of distance, not time, you fool - you'd have thought Homo Superior might have something more interesting than that to say on a First Contact. "And it went la la la la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la la la." So far, we've heard nothing back, and we're not even sure that if we did, we'd recognise it. We've sent them plaques with naked pictures on, a record with birdsong on, or a beamed message to the globular cluster Messier 13 with a digitised image of DNA within. We've always wondered what form our first communications with a sentient extra-terrestrial lifeform would be. Where a mother and child were lying there on a bed," "He followed a light and came down to a shed, Possibly because it doesn't contain such lyrical gems as But they have better taste.ĭriving Home for Christmas by that other craggy Chris is their favourite. It's Christmas you see, and you'd think Chris' Von Daniken inspired talk of the birth of Messiahs being a 2000 yearly thing heralded by the appearance of the Angel Gabriel in a spaceship would be dominating our local gold station's seasonal output. I have never paid the ferryman, I never even fixed the price, he drowned Mr de Burgh for me for free. Chris de Burgh is a rolled up jacket sleeved, mono browed buffoon who's best known song is a paean to strange love with Cardinal Wolsey in drag. I haven't heard this song for such a long time.
0 kommentar(er)
