Posts Tagged ‘Social Realist’

A poem about one of those Shane Meadows films

April 5, 2011

 

The cast of This is England

Here’s a poem about one of those Shane Meadows films. I forget which:

Urchins at play

1.

The 80s aren’t like they were in the 80s,

But, nevertheless,

Boggzy, Danno, “Grandma”, Milkmouth,

Kneesy, Weggso, Darren, etc.

Went down to the canal,

Booted, skinned and trim,

Whereupon a ruffian got lairy

And shook an old love

By the duffel coats.

I’ve caught a Thatcher he said

And his mates went wurrrrgh.

2.

One of the skins chucked a muffin

On to the train tracks.

What else are you going to do?

3.

With a hey nonny alright mate,

Watch out mumble mumble.

You can come round to mine for tea

Mam’s making proletarian crumble.

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My Name is Joe

January 28, 2011

If it weren’t for Ken Loach none of us would know what reality looks like. That’s a fact, fact-fans. Here is the opening voiceover to his (presumably) realistic social-realist film, ‘My Name is Joe’:

Follow me, gentle viewers, through the fizzing membrane of your teleportal to a twilit realm that I have named Proleworld. Make sure you pack woollen-wear and health-restoring flapjacks, for this is an untamed and inhospitable landscape, from which many never return.

And now as we secrete ourselves by the greasy windows of a sub-Tweedian cavern in the heart of Proleworld, known to natives as ‘The Glasgow Unemployment Office’, let us gaze in and marvel at the anthropological wonders now taking place…

See the tense crisp-fed jaw of the mother-prole honk out a cacophony of indignant vernacular noises. See the appointed elder, steadfast behind a gleaming Perspex shield, parry her prating with a Government incantation. The warrior, whose charge it is to maintain the dignity and solemnity of the Glasgow Unemployment Office, turns the awful oleaginous splendour of his white tumescent gut towards her as if to say ‘Fishwife: desist’. The bones of his former foes are stuffed in his capacious navel. His piglet eyeballs squeal curly-tailed murder.  Mother-prole effects a retreat. This is just another hard-luck tale from the Mean Streets of Proleworld.