The Silent Battle

Another diversion from the Four Letter Words but it is coming back soon. You may recognise the poem between the story, this was first read out at Battle’s Folk and Fable Festival in 2024. 

The Silent Battle 

With apologies to Pastor Martin Niemöller

The alarm goes off on my watch, I look at my phone and my favourite search engine tells me how many minutes it will take me to get there. It also states the standard of other driver’s behaviour based on their past journeys at this time using their phones to calculate this impossible description with the use of big data stored in a glacial stream cooled warehouse of servers. 

I got hit.

I park the car in the usual space, take the same photograph of a QR code that directs me to a paying website for Battle railway station. No need to pay the station master for that service when it is farmed out to a third party who dictate that the end of the day is two or three in the morning. They came for the car park manager, but I said nothing as I wasn’t one.

I got hit.

By a man with a stick.

I cradled my coffee cup with my flat white pressed and foamed from a machine. They came for the coffee barista, but I said nothing as I wasn’t a coffee barista. With my second QR code nestled in my digital wallet on my phone, I unwittingly stole another person’s job. They said it was convenient, reduced the viruses passed after 2019. But I saw no ticket conductor amongst the rucksacked and kindle reading commuters. Not a furled umbrella in sight as their phones had told them it was going to be a summery day with a high pollen and pollution index. They came for the meteorologists, but I said nothing as I wasn’t a meteorologist.

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit.

I saw no ticket inspector but I said nothing for I wasn’t a train conductor or ticket inspector. At my destination, that QR code reads my digital wallet on that rectangular piece of metal and gorilla glass. One ticket barrier guard hovered by the wider exit gate awaiting the ones whose tickets were refused and caused a human log jam. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

Relayed satellite feeds counting the unknown masses filtering from the terminal stations, like ants, counting their steps, rewarding them on their phones with a digital gold star. They came after the personal trainers, for they were on their watches and in their phones. I said nothing as I wasn’t a personal trainer, look at me.

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick.

Not buying a newspaper but relying on carefully curated and censored topical tales from the Internet sites and apps paid for by the ruling parties and media monopolies far from the centre of the news. They came for the journalists, but I said nothing as I wasn’t a journalist.  

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit.

Trained by an app to follow the lanes, roads and streets as well as avoid the mews and the cul de sacs. The backpacked commuters walked on the week days to a fixed path on a digital map that virtually unfolds from a geo-rotating satellite. Like soldiers on the way to a battlefield, different sized backpacks, medics, planners, strategists that read the notes of ancient Sun Tzu. They came for the map makers, but I said nothing for I was not a map maker.

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit.

Secreted on the terms and conditions of a four by four, that Chelsea tractor. That one term, easily missed, that states “your four by four will be used in the theatre of war if such an event should occur. You will use your training that you gained when you first took ownership of the vehicle.” Remember that weekend, when you learnt how to get out of a ditch and complete a three point turn in a compact Farmer’s Market on a Sunday with only ten minutes before it opened. The petrol, diesel, hybrid, hydrogen and electric vehicles drove into the ULEZ valley, half a yard, half a yard, half a yard onward, all in the valley of the ULEZ and the Congestion Charge. Drove the six hundred, forward the cavalry, charged for the privilege if they crossed into the bus lane or the yellow hatched squares. Into the valley drove the six hundred four by fours. They came for the diesel chugging, five gear, five wheel, four by four Chelsea tractor driver, but I said nothing as I wasn’t a diesel chugging, five, gear, five wheel, four by four Chelsea tractor driver. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick.

Cyclists forgetting their highway code, criss crossing pedestrianised pavements, pelican and zebra crossings, red lit interchanges and roads as they narrowly avoid white-sticked, partially sighted pensioners on their way to the post office before they are taken over by a hard to use audio controlled pension release system that barely hears the frail voice of a dehydrated pensioner who lost a quarter of their pension to the greediness of a multi-media tycoon. But I said nothing as I wasn’t a dehydrated pensioner, at the moment. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

The erect lamp posts and monumental statues played host to rectangular and hemispherical camera housings of closed and open circuit televisual cameras relaying and playing their signal to anonymous offices on the fifteenth floor where banks of monitors recording the pace and place of pedestrians and vehicles alike. An algorithm replaces the cheese and pickle sandwich consuming security manager who has split one too many oat milk caramel lattes on the last console. They came for the cheese and pickle sandwich eating security manager with a penchant for the oat milk caramel lattes, but I said nothing as I didn’t like cheese and pickle sandwiches with oat milk caramel lattes and I wasn’t a security guard in a darkened room.

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

With twits.

At the strike of eleven in the morning after being in their offices and cubicles, the backpack wearing, empty metal coffee cup carrying masses join the queues for their favourite branded baristas. The Heroes, Costa Lotta’s, the whale hunters of Newfoundland, the independents and the ones that embrace the cramped conditions of a Vee Double U camper van. Then the assortments of street food vendors who originated from South and North America that brought the pie rates of the Caribbean, the fish baps of Greenland and Iceland, the Scandinavian midnight snacks to the Eurasian and African heritage carbohydrates wrapped around a protein. All were brain food for the infantry of the corporates and three people mind banks that sat in a pastel coloured bean bags in a converted grain store on the second floor by the River Thames. These caffeinated milky drinks that were made from grain and seeds combined with fake meat proteins and seeds fed the camouflaged infantrymen and women and those who have not made up their minds yet. Awaiting for the silent call to arms. But I was an observer, so I said nothing, I was not a member of the infantry who was feeding a body poised on the edge of war. I just put my noise cancelling headphones tighter over my ears. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

With twits.

Who have some shitty sticks.

The lunch time rush had been and gone without a whisper as they had hauled food stuffs from the eleven o’clock coffee break. A lone bruised apple toppled over itself with the addition of gravity and a passing breeze until it had been picked up a lone robotic waste disposal cleaner. A mechanical cousin of the Roomba, automatically sensing detritus in its sector, clearly taking the role of the man with a mop and bucket, the wire rimmed black sack carrier that stoops to pick the rubbish from the floor, organic and non organic, recyclable with non recyclables in the same sack. They came for the cleaners, but I said nothing, as I wasn’t a street cleaner. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

With twits.

Who have some shitty sticks. 

Who like to hit.

I looked at the shiny new placard put up at above head height, below the corporate branded and paid for urban graffiti that pronounced that this concrete garden square was the property of the multinational that had paid for the decoration and the plants that offered fruits and vegetables. It was open to the foot passage of pedestrians as long as they did not sit down and enjoy the view. They were not allowed to skulk or be skulked at by others purporting to be skulkers. The area would be closed one day a year, this day would be identified in the major national newspapers a month before and a hand written sign would be added the day after it had been closed. This was to ensure that the corporation still had the ownership over what was once a pathway from one public house to another tavern. They took the spaces that were once public, but I didn’t say anything as I didn’t use them. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

With twits.

Who have some shitty sticks. 

Who like to hit.

People like me.

So as the minute hands gets closer to the time for leaving the offices, the pastel coloured beanbags of the converted grain store, time to put the ultra-violet light weathered rucksacks on their back, one shouldered or two, sharpened pencils between their fingers in case intra personnel  defence was needed to get to that taxi, tube or train. Hanging by their hands as they stand rigid in the metallic trains underground, some flexing as if they were urban snowboarders travelling down the mountains in their mind. That forward flight towards their journey home. Although some seemed to look like paratroopers ready for the jump. 

I got hit. 

By a man with a stick. 

A twit. 

Of a man with a stick. 

On that stick. 

Was some shit. 

That twit. 

Of a man hit me with a shitty stick. 

I don’t like to mix.

With twits.

Who have some shitty sticks. 

Who like to hit.

People like me. 

I am in such a fix.

Keanu Reeves once stated in an interview that “Sometime we get caught up in our daily lives that we forget to take the time out to enjoy the beauty in life. Its like we are zombies. Look up and take your headphones out. Say hi to someone you see and maybe give a hug to someone who looks like they’re hurting.”