Woolwich: A snapshot

Asking witnesses to film them with their mobiles, the Woolwich killers float in a realm between Caliphate and Geordie Shore. Here is a place where Jihad and X-Factor intersect, pollinate. Our new Jade Goody has a red right hand.

The Prime Minister (PBUH) flies in from Europe. He will show resolve, compassion and good hair. The electorate will remember a lost Brighton weekend when he had answers. He convenes an emergency group called COBRA. It is written in capitals so that you can feel safe.


Now the the right wing media come to our inner cities. They divide communities and friends and piss in our kids' play slides down at the park. They loiter outside of newsagents spitting headlines as we pass by: they prefer fear. They foam at the mouth with Elgar and Kipling and Clarkson yet bank in Zurich.


 On ITN Chowdury jacks off  angry young martyrs, exposes and broadcasts his erection: a 5th century Avengers Assemble. His words are steel, his eyes fire. His hands are soft.

   

Along twilight streets EDL members pole-dance for cameras: authentic voice of a St George Neverland; never was, never could be.  Their assault on the working classes is time-honored and simple (so simple they don't even see it): you can find a Muslim--any minority--on a street near you, but never your government.


Left wing media: surrogate sex therapists for troubled nation. From white-skinned Islington they tell us how we fuck wrong. Cloned columns begin 'Of course it goes without saying that this is a heinous crime...' and so they stop by paragraph one. Bevan, Priestly, Orwell crushed by these insincere,  their corpses hocked for clickbait.

A young man ceases bleeding onto tarmac. That's when you know someone's finished dying. I should have noticed, I suppose, but the twitter feed rolled on.