It's Going Badly Over Here
Created | Updated Apr 8, 2023
It's Going Badly Over Here
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Night is Light and Dark is Day. If I disagree they'll say I'm insane, and the treatment will begin.
– Barclay James Harvest, 'May Day', 1976.
Sixty-three years later….
I longed to close my eyes, block out the constant images, but this had been impossible since my treatment had begun days (weeks) ago.
The first few hours, I had to admit, I spent screaming into my breathing mask. Then I cursed my life, my luck, the rebellion (what a sad joke they were!) and my total lack of skills when it came to fleeing the country.
Europe had closed the border with Alba years before. Scotland was apparently full. No more English migrants or asylum seekers. The Wall holding strong against any poor soul that tried to ignore the warnings (and the mine fields).
Cymru was a similar story, the Welsh revelling in newfound power over who entered.
And 150 grand for the chance of a small boat across the sea, smuggled into a United Ireland, was beyond most wishing to escape the regime here. No chance of ever finding that much cash for the likes of me.
The Channel, heavily patrolled by EU gunships, migrant boats went down in a hail of bullets whenever they were sighted. No warning, no chance, no entry.
So I stayed, found others who would resist, fight for the chance of freedom. What a laugh!
Second meeting. Second! A shabby pub in dockland Liverpool.
'What the Leader is feeding us is lies, pure and simple, there's no English….'
Flash. Bang. Black uniforms coming through the doors, windows, Christ, even the roof!
Hooded and drugged, I woke up here. My treatment beginning, as the chemicals burnt through my veins.
The headset showed a looping video montage, initially just annoying, but now these images consumed my thoughts burnt into my cortex, glorious torture in my hyper-sensitive state.
My ears fared little better, couldn't even feel the headphones against my skin, but those glorious sounds competed with the images to stir my soul, correct my infantile doubts, fill me with pride and love for my homeland, the true land of heroes.
There was nothing but sight and sound in the tank.
Blood-warm water surrounded me, the motherland womb. Cocooned in nothingness, enveloped, in the love and kindness of our glorious leaders.
They sought not to punish, though God knows I deserved punishment.
Instead, I was given understanding and tender re-education.
Tears flowed from my wired-open eyes as a squadron of Spitfires flew over immaculate white cliffs, blond-haired children waving flags and cheering.
My ears, accustomed now to the six choral renditions simultaneously playing in my 'phones, picked out lyrics, joyful words of bluebirds flying, and people (my people) meeting again some sunny day.
Jerusalem, There'll Always Be an England, Land of Hope and Glory, A Long Way to Tipperary, Rule Britannia, providing a simultaneous cacophony of bliss.
Red and white, (but no blue, not any more) the script rolled across my vision.
Your Country loves you.
Your Leaders love you.
You are Blessed.
You are English.
You are forgiven!
Love and pride flooded my emotions. How could I have ever voiced concern? How could I ever let doubt creep into my thoughts? How stupid of me to criticise this glorious land, my leaders and their policies.
Childish, petulant objections! Who was I to question my betters, those born and bred to lead, to defend our home?
If I lived to be a hundred, I knew I would never, ever, allow such unpatriotic thoughts to enter my thoughts, let alone voice them publicly.
I was wrong. Very wrong. And so very sorry.
I would gladly give my life for the Party, give them the names of others who had doubted. Heck, I'd put them all against a wall and pull the trigger myself!
But that was not their way. I'm sure the Party would treat them with the same love and understanding they'd shown me.
I knew it was my patriotic duty to give them up, make my homeland safe, expose their lies and unfounded fears to the Party. Cut out the cancer of dissent before it could spread and threaten our glorious leaders.
I felt the liquid around me subsiding, felt my own weight for the first time in days. A moment of vertigo, falling into blackness and silence as the head-set went black, the glorious choir silent in my ringing ears.
Then I was laying against the hard floor of the immersion tank, gentle hands of those in black uniforms removing the leads, tenderly picking at the stitches, allowing me to close my eyes against the blinding night.
Legs like jelly, unaccustomed to standing, as those brave and patriotic Agents helped me to my feet.
Guiding me to the debriefing room, eager for me to help them eradicate dissent and make my country a green and pleasant land.
