Read Online The Dreams of Max & Ronnie by Niall Griffiths - Free Book Online
Authors: Niall Griffiths
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they think they are. Me, I reckon theyâre just a bunch of whinging bastards.
â Not the bravest men? asks Ronnie.
â I wouldnât call them that, no. But they belong to an island race that once hated to suffer any loss but which now hates the thought that somebody else might possibly have more than them.
â An island race?
â Well, a group of races, I suppose. Something like that. But all bound up into one by living on the same scab of land. Look where they come.
And the Beast sweeps a big and meaty arm to indicate the valley down which a multitude proceeds, a mass millions-strong, steadily walking, almost marching, towards the place where Ronnie stands and stares. They fill the valley floor, between the huge green rock-topped walls, beneath the flat blue sky, and the ground trembles with the steady tramping of their many feet.
â Donât be fooled by them, the Beast says. â They appear united, and calm in their unity, but they are attached to each other mainly by wires of mutual loathing. Few of them visibly declare their allegiances or their hatreds but I know who they are and I know of the abhorrences that burn within their breasts. Those with money hate those without, and vice versa. The Red Rose hates the White Rose. Both Roses hate the Dragons and the Thistles. The Blue-birds hate the Swans. The Magpies hate the Black Cats. The Liver Birds hate the Red Devils and the Toffees hate the Liver Birds. The Canaries hate the Tractor Boys. The Gunners hate the Spurs. I could go on. In some instances âhateâ might be too strong a word but âdistrustâ or âdislikeâ would do. None of these people really like each other; each one believes that his or her neighbour is stealing their air, or is crowding in on the patch of land they have to live on. Each one believes that their neighbour has unjustly robbed something from them. Each one believes that their failures are the fault of someone else. Each one believes that their lives would be improved if their neighbours were to be removed. And these are your people, soldier boy, fighter-for-freedom, scourge of the tyrant; it is for this crowd that you will kill and lie broken and legless and screaming with your guts prominent on your chest in a desert land thousands of miles away. These are the children of this ancient democracy. These are the children of a brave warrior race. Of people who strapped rebels across the barrels of cannons at Lucknow and who fought like lions to free Europe. Of despots and rebels. Of sadists and altruists. Of imperialists and liberators. An odd, mixed people, now chipped away at down to this, this crowd. Only the objects of their hatred differentiates them. Look where they come.
And it passes, this crowd, passes Ronnie in its individual components, and Ronnieâs dream-self is quickly aware of the inaptitude of the word individual. Under the flat blue sky the men of the crowd wear, mostly, shorts and training shoes, some shorts too tight and white and others hemming at mid-calf. The bared torsos are, many of them, the shapes of apples with limbs, some pillowing down over the shorts so that, from the front, some of the men appear, dismayingly, naked. Other torsos bulge with muscle, ripped by âroids and weights. And there are tattoos, everywhere there are tattoos, although Ronnie soon realises that there are only a few designs shared amongst the crowd; many thousands of arms bear tiger stripes with pointed ends; many shoulders bear figures that look vaguely Celtic or Maori in origin; many people have big crucifixes on their backs because they once saw David Beckham bearing that mark and thought it looked cool and original and individual; many upper arms bear smaller crucifixes too because their owners saw Wayne Rooney wearing one and thought it looked cool and original and individual; the insides of many forearms bear Sanskrit lettering because their owners saw Craig Bellamy
â Not the bravest men? asks Ronnie.
â I wouldnât call them that, no. But they belong to an island race that once hated to suffer any loss but which now hates the thought that somebody else might possibly have more than them.
â An island race?
â Well, a group of races, I suppose. Something like that. But all bound up into one by living on the same scab of land. Look where they come.
And the Beast sweeps a big and meaty arm to indicate the valley down which a multitude proceeds, a mass millions-strong, steadily walking, almost marching, towards the place where Ronnie stands and stares. They fill the valley floor, between the huge green rock-topped walls, beneath the flat blue sky, and the ground trembles with the steady tramping of their many feet.
â Donât be fooled by them, the Beast says. â They appear united, and calm in their unity, but they are attached to each other mainly by wires of mutual loathing. Few of them visibly declare their allegiances or their hatreds but I know who they are and I know of the abhorrences that burn within their breasts. Those with money hate those without, and vice versa. The Red Rose hates the White Rose. Both Roses hate the Dragons and the Thistles. The Blue-birds hate the Swans. The Magpies hate the Black Cats. The Liver Birds hate the Red Devils and the Toffees hate the Liver Birds. The Canaries hate the Tractor Boys. The Gunners hate the Spurs. I could go on. In some instances âhateâ might be too strong a word but âdistrustâ or âdislikeâ would do. None of these people really like each other; each one believes that his or her neighbour is stealing their air, or is crowding in on the patch of land they have to live on. Each one believes that their neighbour has unjustly robbed something from them. Each one believes that their failures are the fault of someone else. Each one believes that their lives would be improved if their neighbours were to be removed. And these are your people, soldier boy, fighter-for-freedom, scourge of the tyrant; it is for this crowd that you will kill and lie broken and legless and screaming with your guts prominent on your chest in a desert land thousands of miles away. These are the children of this ancient democracy. These are the children of a brave warrior race. Of people who strapped rebels across the barrels of cannons at Lucknow and who fought like lions to free Europe. Of despots and rebels. Of sadists and altruists. Of imperialists and liberators. An odd, mixed people, now chipped away at down to this, this crowd. Only the objects of their hatred differentiates them. Look where they come.
And it passes, this crowd, passes Ronnie in its individual components, and Ronnieâs dream-self is quickly aware of the inaptitude of the word individual. Under the flat blue sky the men of the crowd wear, mostly, shorts and training shoes, some shorts too tight and white and others hemming at mid-calf. The bared torsos are, many of them, the shapes of apples with limbs, some pillowing down over the shorts so that, from the front, some of the men appear, dismayingly, naked. Other torsos bulge with muscle, ripped by âroids and weights. And there are tattoos, everywhere there are tattoos, although Ronnie soon realises that there are only a few designs shared amongst the crowd; many thousands of arms bear tiger stripes with pointed ends; many shoulders bear figures that look vaguely Celtic or Maori in origin; many people have big crucifixes on their backs because they once saw David Beckham bearing that mark and thought it looked cool and original and individual; many upper arms bear smaller crucifixes too because their owners saw Wayne Rooney wearing one and thought it looked cool and original and individual; the insides of many forearms bear Sanskrit lettering because their owners saw Craig Bellamy
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