Fait accompli

I close my eyes and wait.

The fait accompli of shame, neglect and fear washes over me.

Like a practiced ritual of acceptance.

The pain numbs. The numbing is welcome. Like plumbing for a leaky spirit.

Devoid of conscience and character.

Now, devoid of hope.

This hope, perhaps overdone in the context of gluttinous despair.

Feed the beast, eat the loved ones to bare bones.

Shriveled lives, shrinking from the light.

Dig deep. Not deep enough yet for a grave.

Dig deep for a man. Find belief. Find nothing?

It’s Christmas time there’s no need to be afraid…

Death of a hero

The death of a hero gives the blog life again.
Socrates would have liked that.
The 1982 World Cup, me aged 9, live games on Doordarshan like water in the desert… the concoction was right for a boy to choose his hero.
From my father I inherited Ali and Elvis. But this one was mine.
I’m not sure if it was his hair, his beard, his languid style, his one-step penalties, or no-look back-heels.
I am sure that it was his ability to smoke 40 cigarettes a day and still be one of the best footballers of all time.