Thursday, November 26, 1981


I went into school and tried to read Kerouac’s Desolation Angels but left again at one-thirty with Lee and Peter: I was knotted and hate-filled, burning up inside, tension that was only released by my records back home.

Art was much the same and I spent the evening slumped before the box, watching Shirley Williams win the Crosby by-election by 5000 votes. Predictable really. Dad was really bitter and angry about Lord Scarman’s report about the Brixton riots, sighing despairingly and sounding so cynical, warped, and racist: “Why don’t they just go back where they came from?” etc. Mum, semi-patronisingly, attempted to explain the truth.

Truth is, our society’s at the end of its effectiveness. There are no political solutions possible, which why the Crosby coverage degenerated into petty, vindictive, bigoted schoolboy partisanship. The SDP is just another dead-end.

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