Fight the cuts
Cuts, that says. Fight the cuts.
What do we want?
No cuts!
When...er...do we want the absence of
cuts?
Now!
Boris Johnson wants to close a few
London stations. Without knowing which ones are in line for the axe,
I'll nail my colours to the mast. Unlike the train line axe, where
the quietest routes are first for the chop, the quietest London fire
stations are slap bang in the middle of loads of very, seriously rich
folk, so normally they're let off the hook. Calls the whole thing
into question doesn't it?
It's an excuse for some marches and
demos, though. I must have a tribal nature, because I can't wait to
join any rabble that'll have me. The last one I went on was organised
and dignified. For about five seconds. Just long enough for the union
guys to hand out the 'how to demonstrate with quiet dignity'
leaflets, and start their pep talk...
“Now, the press, the television, the
eyes of the nation are on us, and we have to...”
A figure appeared at a window. Fat
bloke in a suit.
“Who's that?”
“Dunno”
“Sssssuuuuuuuummmmmoooooooo, sumo,
sumo...”
“He's definitely not one of ours...”
“Who ate all the pies?
Who ate all the pies?
You fat...”
Union blokes exit demo left, muttering.
Rabble get on with the serious business of hurling abuse at anyone
appearing at the windows.
“Is that a cleaner?”
“Nah, that's one of them, she's got a
suit on...”
“You don't know what you're doing,
you don't...”
Talking about not knowing what they're
doing, they're trying to privatise the fire service. That would be a
serious mistake. They privatised taking prisoners from the police
cells to jail. Thatcher's lot, that was. The very first day, the very
first van, the very first job they had to do? The prisoners escaped.
Group 4 that was. Of Olympic failure fame. They privatised the exam
boards. Our water, sewers, what a success story they...er...'aint.
The old fire brigades were private. They spent as much time training
to sabotage rival companies as to put out fires.
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