Frontline Beestonia, a post from the FUTURE

Beeston, October the First 2014, 2am.

Its been a long, long day. I was posted on the front  line, down by Beeston Weir, to shoot at the waves of invaders desperate to punch a hole through the heavily defended line that runs the length of the Trent. I pick off a few, their bodies splaying, convulsing, then falling to be  washed towards the city, and a few more meet more explosive ends as they wade into the path of floating mines.  It’s a mess; the sandy bays where once fishermen lazily cast lines into the twinkling flat waters now wash up with body parts and ordnance. Dispassionately, I fire off my last few rounds loosely at another straggler coming over the fields of Clifton, feel mildly surprised to see a direct hit, and  hand over the gun to my relief. The Victoria Hotel, long converted into a beery mess hall for tired troops, is where I sit now, a pint of Hemlock Ale, a thick roll up and awaiting a plate of their famous veggie burritos to loosen the edges off the day. Oh how I loathe this war.

It all happened so quickly.  The precise day I can even pinpoint, and today was the anniversary of when the shit really started to kick off. It felt really not that important at the time, but its effects…its effects are why I’m sitting here now, in dirty fatigues, protecting one half of England with little more than some artillery stolen from Chetwyn Barracks.  Ah, my burritos. Will write more later.

That was lovely, but due to rationing the guacamole has ran out and the mushy pea substitute was somewhat lacking. But this is wartime, so austerity has to be embraced. Thank god the hops, malt and barley are all grown above the North South divide we fight from, and the beer still flows with abandon. We hear that the South has run out of all but lager hops, so are forced into just drinking fizzy beer, and due to the rampant inflation they are suffering, most cannot afford the prices. I almost feel sorry for them, then remember the crime that they perpetuated on the nation a few short years ago, and stiffen with a wave of rage, clutching my cutlery till my knuckles bleach. The anger passes, my fatigue giving it no fuel, and earnestly start rolling my second fag.

I read the only newspaper we get now, The Borealist, and survey the past days events. The civil war- within- a civil war in Hampshire has  the Southern Counties even more unstable with themselves; since our propaganda radio message was broadcast  to the coast informing that everyone but Portsmouth and Southampton  thinks kiddy fiddling is a  simply wonderful idea, they have been forming into frothing mobs and burning down any house they see. A low, underhand tactic I confess, but how effective!

It’s not the only good news I read, for the residents of Bristol and the South West Counties, from Dorset to Cornwall have agreed to join us in this savage battle, after realising they would have twice the amount of housing should they declare against the London generals and join the North, thus  liberating the second housing for their own residents. It’s a coup that gives me hope. I celebrate with another pint of Castle Rock. My lips, earlier chapped by the cold air blowing across the Beeston Rylands, moisten and fill, in line with my sense of hope that we will win this struggle. Such a wonderful taste, wetting my toasts.

How good that tastes! How reminiscent of the  days before we came to our senses and decided that  the situation could not be sustained any longer, how we had to rise up. Years of watching the terrible  excesses of of the City of London as they sucked wealth from the North and other vulnerable areas with  a carnivorous hunger, a  lack of grace and ethic, sucking all juice out of everything as they selfishly pursued their own agendas to the detriment of  everyone else, the ultimate Anti-Socialists.. Years of patronising  metropolitan media hubris, which described anything above Watford as uncultured Neanderthals, eventually began to grate…the realisation that whilst all resources lay up here, the coal, the gas, the oil, the musical talent, we were still being left to sink.

There is a loud explosion, shaking the pub to the extent my pint sloshes , some escaping to be greedily drank by the cheap fibre of the newspaper. Once upon a time, that would have been a cue to run, to shelter, to fear a bombardment, but now its so routine I barely flinch. Around this time every day, the marauding southern armies will wheel in  their catapults and fire Oliverbombs, big balls of compressed copies of the Cheeky Cockney Chefs Cookbook doused in Balsamic, Olive Oil and Napalm. This is normally followed up by a barrage of Rocket Grenades, which sound worse than the reality, as the peppery salad leaves rarely have much damaging effect as they rain down on the Rylands. I consider another pint, and decide yes. Somethings are beyond rationing.

When will victory come? Well, soon I expect. Most of the North is secure, and most of the South is under attack. Wales has pledged its tacit support, and sent a battalion just to find and capture John Redwood, Anne Robinson (the traitor!) and Prime Minister Clarkson. France has launched an offensive on the Kentish ports, in revenge for the Londonisation of Provence by Mayle-inspired, Mail-reading Aga-nauts. Cornwall  and Devon have declared neutrality and sovereignty, and built the now famous Exeter Wall, annexing their counties behind a six foot high, three feet thick barrier of chewy, glutinous pastry. Yes soon there will be peace.

I check my watch, and decide this pint best be my last. Its been a terrible few years, but I suppose it had to happen. After that crime, that heinous, heinous crime, how could it not? How could they bring together two of the most despicable individuals, two of the most despicable  institutions together so sickening, so brazenly, an image that still disgusts and fires up my determination to fight on….child of the past, you will, as you read this, have seen the image. I know you too will have recoiled in horror. There is a lot to come now for you, let that be a warning for the future. And when the first waves of Cliftonians come paddling across the Trent, followed by the Home County Armies, the Essex Death Squads, the Surrey Slightly Annoyed Will be Writing a Letter to the Editor You See If I Dont Battalions, stand resolute. And remember, remember that image, an image so foul i cannot put it down here close to the text, it must stay shunned…scroll, and let the queasiness inspire you

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Rise people, rise.