List of the Lost by Morrissey Read Free Book Online Page A

laughed about him, and from this he felt certain he was alive, catching the biggest fish. Now, coaching allowed him the gaps that he needed in order to slow down and no longer be the principal performer, even though he knew very well that he had aged into a typical case study of a typical type, living suddenly as the shapeless failure whose tired repartee was more than he could adequately explain – to himself, far less than to others. The menace of late middle-age really does, after all, bully its way through, and is not a spoof, and how very little time it took to slip over to the dark side.
    He urged the boys to avoid alcohol and excess of physical pleasure, advice that had already aged him, yet which they accepted – largely. Now weary of time, Rims had worn himself out on the very two jewelled pleasures that his finger-wagging drilled through the boys with personal guilt, because, after all, it was for their own good (even if it had not ever been for his). But something for the boys had now changed. A trigger-switch had been clicked and there were too many hot-sweating nightmares of death under shrubbery, and all four had experienced similar dreams of single-track roads with yellow flag irises on either side. Relief would be sought and found. In his own dreams, Rims felt certain he could have very easily forged a manly world in Berlin or Leipzig – wild with passion for women of melancholic eyes and oh so slow, slow movements. Foreign affairs were of no interest to the American military soldier, yet there strode Rims in repaired breeches, loving the male joy of being no different to the rest of the squad marching forth to save the fattened neck of Churchill, whose home country was in an unhealthy and dangerous condition. Thus the U.S. government tore boys from their mother’s arms and posted them off to lands empty of experience, where the boys’ heads could be split onto spikes. Meanwhile, whilst yelping for help, the British established elite remained cosy and calm in rolling estates behind saxon gates. Churchill himself would experience World War 2 safely and in a suite of rooms at Claridge’s most luxurious Mayfair hotel, with not a complicated twitch or pang to trouble his elaborate evening meal, often just he and Ivor Novello, like dons in senior common rooms, loaded on cognac and crashing into each other with doubled-up laughter, cigar-smoke being as close as they’d ever be to physical danger. Thankfully, the poor will die for us, yet the historic honor will belong only to Churchill, whilst the names of the dead shall never be said, and those who insist upon being known as ‘the royals’ shall neatly and tartly cocoon themselves away in the preserved luxury of various country seats (as paid for by the dying poor), utilizing any rules within or without the game to avoid getting their hands dirty. This, after all, is what the poor are for, and although the young men of England will die (unasked) to spare the self-elected ‘royals’ from Nazi Germany, the favor shall never be returned. The welfare of the party above the welfare of the nation is there in the eyes of Churchill, who would be booted out of office as soon as the war ended, so trusted was he at war’s end. Although the war against Germany was won, not by Churchill, but by Alan Turing, history would scrub Turing out of existence due to his very private struggle with his own homosexuality, and once the war had been settled (thanks to Turing breaking German secret codes), instead of British authorities lauding Turing as a supernatural agent who unplucked questions too deep for science in a successful effort to save all of England, they instead persecuted Turing’s nature towards his convenient act of self-destruction. Nicely out of the way, Turing would only ever be recalled for his suicide, and the UK elite were spared the humiliation of needing to praise a homosexual for saving Britain from Hitler.