BARBICAN BLUES

I was working at the Barbican
on and quite often off.
Temporary staff affair,
bottom-of-the-rung stuff,
standing at rope barriers
at conferences and exhibitions
in my white shirt
black tie and trousers

Sometimes the nature of the event
required an extremely early start
an ungodly early start;
I am not at my best
anytime in the morning
but 6/6.30 am
I do not exist

We were in the briefing
session Pete and I,
it was in the cinema
or one of the cinemas,
the downstairs one.
There were quite a few of us
must have been a big corporate happening.
The Barbican proper lady boss
addressed us, filling us in on our
duties and obligations.
We were silent obedient sheep
unthinking reverential automatons

Then she said something about
no-one ever having to stay in
one location for more than an hour
without being moved to another.
I think Pete too must have been suffering
from the strains of the dawn,
despite the overwhelming
hierarchical framework
he interrupted her,
pointed out that the day before
he'd been left stranded at the Level C doors
for three hours

Now it might seem an inconsequential act
compared to what goes on at
a rough bullet-proof projects high school
or a South London reformatory for wayward boys
but in its context,
a revolution had taken place.
Somebody,
no, no, not somebody,
a nobody, an utter nobody,
a dole-signing low-life,
had questioned the wisdom
of the authorities,
and we're talking big brother style
authorities here.
Unheard of!

Naturally, she did
what any person in her
position would do.
After a brief uncomfortable instant
she completely ignored
Pete's query
and carried on,
as if nothing had ever happened

As I was saying before
I am not a morning person,
the nature of my idle existence,
my disposition,
my tightly regulated social life
all contribute
to a disafinity with the pre-noon period.
I was not in the mood for it,
I was not in the mood
for someone not answering the question!

From the perspective
of the ruling classes,
the absolutely
unfuckingthinkable occurred,
"No, no just a minute,
You didn't answer his question"
I piped up.
When you're in this kind of environment
especially when you're being paid,
rebellion is sort of filtered
out of the possibilities.
I swear to god in the history
of the Barbican very few have shown
such total disregard for the edifice of power.
I had hurled a giant mallet
into the cogworks of the institution,
admittedly my mallet had been hurled
accidentally,
I wasn't actually intending to be rebellious
just factual, but there you go.

Yes, my interjection
shook the very foundations
of the City of London!
Well,
perhaps I exaggerate.
Her reaction?
Old what's-her-face
either avoided the question
or dismissed it with a peremptory comment,
OK, I don't remember which, but
she obviously wasn't going to get into
any kind of debate
with a reprobate

Later that day,
she made Pete apologise
for his insubordination.
But nothing ever happened to me.
No-one said anything,
I went on working there, undisturbed.
Funny that.
I reckon
my interruption was so
inconceivable they didn't conceive it,
it was so beyond any imagined
eventuality
they erased it from their memory.

It's like some private smacking
Lord Wellington in the gob,
like some bloke who puts
the balls in cannons
pouring
a freezing cold pail of water
over Lord Nelson,
it's like
Churchill's valet chucking
a potty of piss in the old man's face.

These things do not happen.
even when they do happen
they don't happen,
get my drift?