In-between-ity

THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY

LAST FRIDAY of the year and Y’Boy sitting by he one, looking out the window of the front room of he chirren digs in Twickenham, which part it have the rugby, and wondering what the new year will bring.

And Y’Boy hoping the next one will be better than this one – but knowing that is usually go the other way.

And is not the despair does kill you, eh.

One setta English people like ants on the street below, Christmas shopping and swan and swan, and Y’Boy wondering how mucha them he seeing vote against Jeremy Corbyn and for a Brexit that nobody cyar define yet. And Y’Boy understand Brexit will be whatever Dominic Cummings, the ventriloquist with his hand up the backside of the Boris Johnson PM doll, say it will be.

And Y’Boy did read the play, ever-since, that all them lie whereby Johnson tell to reach where he reach would pay off, and not just in spades, but in clubs, hearts and di-mates, all the suit, and suit-and-tie, too besides.

In a next week, it will be next year, a special one, no matter how you look at it: 2020, the vision of hindsight; the most dominant form of cricket today; and, for the Trinidadian, the year the old Patos, as PM of TT, set for Trinidad to reach “developed nation” status.

Some of the smartest people Y’Boy know serve on Mr Manning Vision 2020 committees; if them fellas couldn’ta figure it out, well then, whatever it was it had to be insoluble; and, by definition, it wasn’t a problem, but a condition, and you had was to learn to live with it.

So not knowing if, or when, your life might be taken from you, with violence, for no reason at all, is a condition of living in Trinidad.

If is runaway murder and bogged-down traffic you want, well then we fully developed. Vision 2020, like it could be Mirage2020, or even Waking Nightmare 2020.

But is not the despair does kill you, eh.

And Y’Boy sitting in Twickenham, which part the rugby does play, watching out at the high street for three hours and he can’t see a black person yet.

But it have a homeless fella right downstairs, in the chirren own car park.

A half-hour easy walk away, in Richmond, sixth-richest borough of London, every little covered piece of pavement have it own homeless person begging, sitting, staring, living and dying in full view of the busy Christmas shoppers.

Y’Boy sitting by he one but the one thing he know for sharity is that we all connected; it have a link between Boris Johnson in 10 Downing Street and the homeless fella hiding behind the bins in the chirren’ car park.

Long before it unfold, Y’Boy did read the Brexit play: Johnson know he woulda lose a next referendum and was pretty sure he woulda win a general election.

But Y’Boy couldn’ta call Labour being dotish enough to give Johnson the election he couldn’t get on his own, through the Fixed Term Parliament Act – the fust one Dominic Cummings going and repeal. Already, Johnson using his “stonking” majority to make changes people won’t even notice until is too late. And is five years before the British voter could do anything to stop him.

Five years to find out that Brexit is as much an illusion for Britain as Vision 2020 was for TT.

And the US presidential election to come in November, and the Republicans done sell their souls, like their principles, to back their evil horse.

And, again, Y’Boy did read the Hitler play early, long before Fat Nixon call American Nazis very fine people.

And, in this between sleep-and-wake limbo between the end of the old year and the start of the new one, Y’Boy want to cuss for the curse of clarity that does come to him, out of the blue, sometimes, like on this bright, cold winter day in Twickenham.

Once you open the Pandora’s Box of racism and hatred, you doesn’t can close it back; you cyar light fuse and ’fraid explosion.

And Y’Boy understand why them boys with their hidden agendas and all them mind-benders does do their do.

Y’Boy lost he illusions long time.

And he seeing what coming like Brian Lara uses to see the ball, big-big-big in the bowler hand.

And is never the despair that does kill you, eh.

Is the hope.

BC Pires is an optimist ’til he dead