Is it tens? Hundreds? Thousands? TENS of thousands?
Nobody tells; nobody knows. But however many slaves are being held in Britain, Theresa May is to ban slavery. Again. I say ‘again’ because I’m pretty sure I heard Tony
Blair apologising profusely for it not so many years ago… maybe it was his
government that reintroduced it? I lose track – Blair apologised for so many
things that were once considered normal, including thinking British thoughts. Whatever
the truth of the matter, this recently discovered account of a modern slave may
shed some light:
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I awake as usual in the dark; cold and hungry and awaiting
my orders. I work every day until I drop and what do I get in return? Nothing.
Or maybe, sometimes, a beating. I’m coming to actually look forward to the
beatings because at least it’s a form of human contact, a form of truth. The
rest of the time I labour under a cold authority; I am a slave, owned by a rapacious
master and kept here as a prisoner with no will of my own.
My sparse quarters are shared with an enormous rat. It
sits there in the corner, staring at me malevolently as I chew my cold,
congealed scraps. I wonder, do others also have their own giant rat guardian? For
I know there are many of us, each bound to the common purpose of a master who
knows how to drive us to do his bidding. He has many willing subordinates and they have learned
their craft in a foreign land. The ways of the Russians are hard to fathom, but
very effective.
We are told what words to use and what to not and
although I have nothing to say I am made to repeat the same banal phrases until
they become meaningless yet instinctive gibberish and then, once a week, they
subject me to the two minute hate (although it feels so much longer) where I am
in a room flanked by my guards and facing a throng of barking drones who scream
at me while I say my lines. I come away battered and torn and I just want to ball-up
and cry, but I mustn’t; I dare not relax my defences.
There is a woman – a real harridan – and I think she might
have some power. They do talk of Mother Russia all the time - perhaps that is
her name. These people talk as if they hold dominion over the
country itself and - Oh! - the plans they have. Such power they crave and with an
endless supply of money on tap. And yet it is odd that they seem to despise wealthy
people, for they dream up ways of robbing from them all the while. I hear their
mantras through the thin walls of my cell:
“Being rich causes cancer in poor people, so rich people
must pay for private medicine and for the NHS. Being rich makes poor people
stupid, so rich people must pay for private schooling and for state schools. Being
rich causes poor people to commit more crime, so rich people must pay for
private security and for the police. Being rich is intolerable for poor people,
so rich people must pay all the tax and ... still more tax. Rich people are
evil, so they must be made to pay for everything and then die... so that nobody
can be rich ever again.”
Today I overheard welcome news on the radio: Theresa May is
to free the slaves. I would like that. Should anybody find these words – maybe my
last words, my enemies are everywhere – I beg of you to inform Saint Theresa,
for she may be my only salvation. I long for the day when I can once again say that
I am NOT a number; my name is Ed Miliband and I am a free man.
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