And blank-faced kids in cold streets and subterranean clubs will perhaps one day just grow up, become fat like their fathers, spawn new kids to despair in another kind of void. They had their own mums and dads, in wall-papered livingrooms, that they grinned with and had joyful dinners alongside, and the kids are of the same earthy cultural cut as their parents, cut in stone, predictable as death, so that the sweet-faced girls will turn sour and embittered, and the brave young lads that were once so cocky in their jubliant gangs will end up suicidal in some garett on a bleak night alone. All of us immerised in the horrific mainstream, springing up like ugly mushrooms on the fungus of the millenium, accepting clumsily an inherited culture, like the outsized cast-offs of older siblings.
It amounts to a t-shirt and a record and a five-pound note wasted, to a nose-ring or a tatoo or a new pair of shoes, to a pass-time in empty rooms before death. Put something on the stereo to make yourself feel better, involve yourself in something greater, dream till your heart's exalted of great revolutions, and then sleep again in your cold bed. And all for what?
So you can be laughed at by cracked-faced schoolboys on concrete steps, as a sideshow, a waxwork, an ineffectual mannequin dressed in the borrowed clothes of old revolutions, never realising that a new revolution is needed, a revolution that rejects all the old cliches and starts afresh. Otherwise we'll end up the stock characters of sit-com jokes and vulgar cartoons, everybody's favourite public domain cliche, reduced to a caricature, ceritfied harmless. Guffawed over by ignoramuses, or simply sniffed at disinterestedly by all the petty vulgarians of the ages.