Chapter 2.

Ipswich,off the town centre, by the 'Waterfront'. With thanks, here.

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"Well son, it's - grnnnhurrr - it's about the International Womens -" a sneeze broke the flow of the call, and at once the ceremonial filling of the hankie had eminated from the other end of the 'phone, -"Day on Gyppeswyk Park." Coatsey heard the flick and scrape of a Zippo lighter, no doubt to torture the tip of another Pall Mall untipped cigarette, the many thousands of which had brought Dickie to the physical state he was now in.

"It's the Nacton Brown Sisters collective, son, " contined Dickie. "They have a No Platform stance to both the FullBurkas4Life, they say they're religious bigots, apparently, these Islamic Womens Force Cornhill Mosque people, and to the Kingz of Da Niggaland rap artistes, who the Nacton Brown Sisters say are mysoginistic fascists, and we were so hoping to do the big unity thing from the platform during the height of the event..."

Dickie tailed of into another fity of sneezing, and Coatsey, whilst waiting for the call of the elephant's graveyard, the accompaniment to the emphysema which was slowly killing Dickie, began to wonder what had happened to the movement that had been his mother and wife for thirty long years.

Cornhill Mosque. Formerly the Old Town Hall, Coatsey had spent many a draughty meeting in Room 3, a pile of Socialist Advice to sell, esconsed in a Lidl carrier tucked between his legs, dreaming of the laughs and debate with the guys aftewards over a frothy coffee at the Late Nite Milk Bar, long gone from Cox Lane, gone like the thick luxurious hair that once covered his head.

Now the 'call to prayer' wailled from it's newly installed tower, towering high above the Golden Lion Halal Dining Rooms. How ironic - the Town Hall, built on the site of St. Mildreds Church, and now the Moslems have returned the place to it's former function, he mused.

"I was hoping..." said Dickie, and Coatsey,with kindness, cut over him " Yes, Dickie, I'll smooth some ruffled feathers, pour some oil to calm the rough waters". He hoped to cut the conversation short: Dickie could be a waffler if you let him. Lonley, I guess, thought Coatsey. " I'll talk to you anon then, Dickie" said Coatsey, hurredly, and as he lifted the receiver from his ear he heard an "OK, son" and then the handset was laid to rest on the cradle.

"OK son." thought Coatsey. Of course the poor old bugger had lost his only child, Leon, to the forces of the State, in the last great barricade fight. His son's last words had been "I'm not giving the revolution to a bunch of Islamofascist fucking scum", and he had died, cradled in the arms of Coatsey.

As Coatsey - badly wounded but walking, falteringly - had been lead away, he remembered how the Islamic troops, in their black uniforms celebrated their victory hacking the dead workers to pieces, torturing those too sick to travel to the Great Equal Equality camps. Of course, even the Islamic fighters had eventually been brought into the Great Equal Equality, and we have now to treat them as our Great Brothers and forget the past, thought Coatsey. But to forgive?

Since the Great Change, Coatsey had spent much of his time, and many barrels of oil, 'smoothing things out'. Now that we are in the Age of Equalitarian Equality, proclaimed by the present Great Leader, Comrade and Brother Patrice Ogobuluu, Peoples Delegate from Tottenham,  and Prime High Chairperson (and Honorary President of the Council of the Ummah of Ipswich University of Islamic Jurisprudence) of the folk of England, there had to be much labour each and every day, to ensure that all voices were heard, all carried the same weight, all given their fill of Equal Equality. Not one ounce more, thought Coatsey. Absolute Equal Equality, nothing more or less.

Chapter 1

Tomline Road, Ipswich. Early 20th Century. Here.

Coatsey looked up from his coffee. It was a rain spattered Monday, little different from all of those Mondays which had pervaded his life since his childhood . “Rain rain, go away, come again another day...” he re[peated softly, to no-one, as he was at this moment alone.

The scrape of a Swan Vesta, the heavy draw upon the hand rolled cigarette now in his left hand."Mien Gott", he ejaculated, looking at the old, heavy cased clock, I must put this fine novel by Zoe Heller down and return to what is truly important".

Shuffling the collection of pamphlets, old newspaper clippings, empty Rizla packets and other hard to identify ephemera which seemed to clutter his life, he spilt the dregs of a rather interesting wine bought from Aldi merely a day before. A stream of the most base, gutter German invective - only shocking if you spoke German like the boys of the butchers and and beer halls of the 'Red' Wedding - spewed forth like a churning volcano from the core of his very being.

"My keyboard! Ruined - " he said, with a hint of irony, because he saw in this seemingly random happenstance, an allegory of the struggle he was so closely involved with - and had been for thirty years- with this simple accident

"There's a tenner down the drain" he concluded, his words shaded slightly with a moment of almost dream like resignation, as he thought of his life in the seventies - Oxford, Worcester College, with the flaxen haired girl - just what was her name- she was 'the' uber- Bennite, anyhow, whose late night secluded get togethers, a few trusted comrades in a cramped flat, arguing over the syndicalist leanings of Ken Coates seemed like utopia.

They seemed so close, but-

He closed his eyes, and he saw her, first suggesting that Kinnock – the precursor to the reactionary fascism now building here in his beloved county of Southfolkshire and across a once fine, good nation – may be right about Strident, the Anarcho-Stalinist entryists. Then she stated that Paragraph 2 subsection V, line 9 of the Party constitution really is a bit old hat, and that Blair had a point. .

That was the break.

Even though it had been written by Coatsey's personal, political nemesis – the Fabian Society – to placate the proletariat in 1918, at the foundation of the Labour Party he had so loved since childhood, he saw something darker than the flaxen girl's desire to modernise the Party. She had become the willing tool – clay to be fondled, formed, moulded, shaped and generally mauled about, more like – of the new Eastern Region Labour Party agent, Dirk Sackville – North. Tall, a flashing smile of perfect teeth, at forty five, not a grey hair or laughter line – he could pass for thirty.

He was returned to reality by the harsh electronic shards of the telephone. He said “Yes?” in a flat monotone, barely any intonation except just enough to make his verbal gesture a question not just a statement. “Yes?” he repeated, as the only sound from the receiver was a muffled heavy breating.

“I'm – huff – sorry, son”, from the caller. “Dick Stotter here -wheeze- matey”, the speaker continued.

So what in god's name could Dick want, he mused silently, staring across the Dockside from the hall window his Wherstead Road home. Dickie - as he was known to the delegates - was a harmless old chap, good natured but bloody hopeless, and a bit in a time warp. His glory days had been the sixties, but his commitment couldn't be faulted, going so far as to hand deliver by foot all the agendas for the Ipswich and District Labour Assembly – he must walk miles to save fifteen quid, thought Coatsey. A lifetime for a dream – and at seventy nine, this dream, mused Coatsey, seemed as far away as ever.