…the motives of a people who no longer have hope, when it becomes the norm to bury their futures again, and yet again, hope being the one commodity scarcely making its presence felt…
'This Is England', is a British drama film centering on young skinheads in England in 1983, a film illustrating how their subculture, which has its roots in 1960s West Indies culture, especially ska, soul, and reggae music, became adopted by the far-right, especially white nationalists and white supremacists, which led to divisions within the skinhead scene. Consequently, grabbing attention was the title of the drama pronouncing it’s parallels with a subculture, in England, of West Indies culture, about to bury the dead of another slayed by the epidemic dubbed ‘knife crime’, and as in one more, as in yet again, as in younger than the fifteen year old just two months past. And why the mourning of such a death has become monotonous in its proceedings, alas giving way to a common theme among the very same mourners, who sincerely express, accept as true that they; the people concerned have given into despair, despite holy, and so called “revolutionary” efforts the hopelessness plagues the very fabric, of the cultural fabric, who in turn are acting out, via the repetitiveness of their distresses the motives of a feeling of which no longer has hope, when it becomes the norm to bury their futures again, and yet again, hope being the one commodity scarcely making its presence felt.
Knife crime in the city of London has risen to a four-year high, 1,749 knife incidents in August 2016 alone, a statistic which lends to the transformation of information to insight, a comprehension of the victims of knife injury who were patient, aged under 24 predominantly living in the London boroughs of Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Newham, Southwark, Haringey, Croydon, Islington, Hackney, Lewisham, Brent. Thus we take a look at the City, we try and understand the dynamics involved, we; the inhabitants of the City may even try and fathom the realities facing different people, all the time, in this City, and with all one’s understanding available to them, interpreting the headlines, the reactions, the ‘why’ and the what to do ‘now’, capturing this comparative tenet was a seventeen year old boy who spoke of his impression, a black boy, because before he was a boy he believes what matters is the tone of his skin, above anything else the colour of his skin, for him, responsible for everything to do with him, this boy who shall remain nameless, in the spirit of all the dead boys before him who clearly remain and lived nameless, no pause in his sermon-like language as he cringingly articulated his feeling, this Boy who spoke about his thoughts and feelings on knife crime, voicing the why’s, and the maybe’s, and the nothing changed in a very long time, the specifics of his why’s, and maybe’s for him not the trustiest things his words rang true, for him the ’48 hour grief’ ringing true, for him what should let everybody know just where boys like him, and their families are at, the community reaction the period of ’48’ hour grief’ where the people concerned are at, and have been for a very long-time now.
His very own coining of the ‘48’ hour phrase emphasised the ease in which the grief now forgets why it mourned in the first place, the phrase stressed how quickly the lessons of the grief were forgotten, as if the lesson was never learnt in the first instance, for him a condition running rampant in London as with other places in his worldview, within his information age he is well aware of, interfacing humanity, on behalf of every common and obscure race any statistic cares for, here in the cultural nexus of the Big Smoke where ordinarily life is lived liked a party, and the year is 1999, for the Boy concerned it being that urgent, it being that needy, and according to young impressionable minds it certainly is that apocalyptic. Consequently, despite what papers might, and won’t say, the problem resounding its fears is a lack of hope encouraging motives to seek other alternatives, and it’s no wonder why fear does that, amongst the crowded function of the City, where to get by in the City is living by the code of those who have it, and those who want it, those who have it, enjoying it, regardless of how they got it, and those who want it, not getting it, despite hard work, dedication, and swear allegiance to the capitalist method of doing things, it is the worldviews, it is the pseudo-democracy still lying about what it can deliver, it is the apparent divisions, discords and disunities amongst kith and kin; of which is a moment in time spent relating to a spiritual blackout, where and when all these factions, within the one same faction coming up with an assortment of well-intended ways of doing things never come to a cohesive, and inclusive effort in what would facilitate all their inspirational needs, an arrangement that continues to drive the contempt for not having hope, the very basis upon which change tends to root it’s standpoint; hence without hope there being no standpoint, there being no focal point to pursue efforts from, there being the few and far between speaking and doing for boys and families like this black boy, but alas not together, thus for some an example of divide and conquer in its purest form, for others a reality enough to scare the barely living to death, the problem now being the mourners of these monotonous funeral proceedings are consciously aware of the latter, and just how aligned such an understanding treads countless rites of passage.
Looking at the parallels the drama title implied, searching for some sense amidst the chaos of knife crime, looking for root causes and fixes to this often sadistic catastrophe, whilst flirting with the titles correspondence, splitting the reality of disproportionate incarceration, and aspirations that are well aware of hopes, encouraged and discouraged by school to prison running on a veritable pipeline, and gang violence by some means replacing the harmony of the old skool' family camaraderie, when the hunger of a poverty cares not for the luxury of taste anymore, it is because of truth’s intent the generational stalwarts of the latter have every right to be scared, and knife crime ferociously emphasising the point, making it horribly obvious, and shockingly oblivious at the same time. And the ‘48’ hour phrase not a subjective expression, but an objective description, a narrative with gangster proclivities the best option to finding space in the crowded function the problem; the death of a likewise humanity the palpable, intensely profound challenge, whilst do what makes ones soul sing a self-same afterthought.
Any intent behind blog’s, whether it’s 2: am on Sunday night’s Monday morning, with a beckoning 9-5 wondering how irrational drive will do it all again, or a rant, or a need to express perceptions and realities, such an out-pour of expression is founded on realities making their presence felt, thus felt the modern day ego invested in having, and not seeking, we; the inhabitants quickly running alongside the risk of ever remaining firm to any progressive, collective standpoint the most urgent problem, and God help those who believe when we; the inhabitants surpass what the pace is running with.