Criminal Waste of Time

I’ve just finished ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists’ by Robert Tressell, a novel about a group of painter and decorators in southern England in the early 20th century. It’s a long rambling text in favour of socialism, the overthrow of the capitalist system, by showing the contrast between the poverty stricken working class and the rich “sweaters” that have everything and do nothing. The title of the book comes from the idea that the working class are happy with the current system and are essentially philanthropists, pledging all their time and strength to make money for the good of others, not themselves. It’s deeply moving at times, and generally convincing…until one character starts talking about how to organise society, and then I get a little twitchy. The following paragraph resonated strongly with me:

“Nature has not provided ready-made all the things necessary for the life and happiness of mankind. In order to obtain these things we have to work. The only rational labour is that which is directed to the creation of those things. Any kind of work which does not help us to attain this object is a ridiculous, idiotic, criminal, imbecile, waste of time.”

I wonder about this in relation to the Current State of Things. Now that we have more rights to protect workers, we are paid much better, we work only 35 hours a week, we have paid holidays…in comparison with workers a hundred years ago, conditions for the masses are greatly improved. However, we are all still employed in irrational labour. We have outsourced food production and industry overseas, leaving us staring at screens and jabbering away on phones. The service industry, which contains no job that is necessary in order to sustain the life and happiness of mankind.

Have we been granted better working conditions in order to placate us and keep us driving the industrial machine? When the people are on the verge of revolt, make a few concessions and they’ll quiten down, and we can keep the system going for at least another century. With comfortably pointless existences, as most of us have now, what need does anyone have for protest? Especially when looking back at history and seeing how much better we have things now.

It’s curious that so many Labour politicians cite this book as an inspiration to them, the reason they got into politics etc. I wonder how many Labour MPs and their supporters really believe that the service industry is a Criminal Waste of Time. Surely there is still purchase in this idea of Rational Labour, but for the life of me I can’t think how anyone would be convinced.

We'll Go Dancing

Brain's been in a fug the last couple of days, but after the regular chores of an evening last night, I managed to set my mind to finishing off this song about dancing with one's beloved. Think Piaf talking in the verses, and then a dreamy 3/4 whisks you away on the chorus. Taking in the glory of spring that is upon us at present, and a stock misanthropic theme, I bring you..."We'll Go Dancing".

We'll Go Dancing

I search this ugly town, for things that do not spark a frown.
Up treeless avenues, down barren streets that hold no clues.
But round the corner in the park, I find the backdrop to my heart.
Take my hand if you please, beneath blossoming cherry trees...

And we'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.

The insipid urban sprawl, and the ideas behind it all,
Are enough to take your breath away, but never in the same way,
As you do my love, come closer my love.
Click hard your heels on the floor, smash all that The Others adore.
We have momentum and flow, like a petal of Spring snow...

We'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.

Despite the heaven that we hold, you are embarrassed by my bold,
Nature to declare, this is more than an affair.
I slow to savour every aspect, you grow impatient with my step.
And as the band are winding-up, you skip out leaving me hard-up.
I'm left alone now with my thoughts, on this imaginary waltz...

We'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been, and consequently was,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.