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.