C - A political Hen, an apolitical Man

It's Concrete's fortnightly day of publication, and as I passed the
Student Union House this morning, I took up a copy from the bound
bundles that towered there. Reaching the letters page, I found to my
amazement that Manley had won himself a footnote in publishing
history.

"The recent pro-yank and anti-yank letters to Concrete, while a
necessary aspect of the healthy social debate the West occupies its
time with, both revealed an irrational emotional reaction on the part
of the writers, such that their arguments were unhelpful and neither
one is likely to convince the other (or anyone else, for that matter)
of the validity of their point of view. Problems in any part of the
world will only be solved when we dispense with using our national
borders as dividing lines in people's ideologies, integrity and
intelligence. Regarding the Afghan conflict, the argument is simply
whether you believe a continuation of violence, aggression and
"justice"-seeking will defeat the terrorist threat, or that there are
other methods to be explored that do not carry such a great cost in
human life. The continuing deaths of thousands should not be used as an
excuse to get one up on people who happen to have been born in a
different country to you. We're all human, and it is our very nature,
tragically flawed as it is, that must be overcome."

Seb Manley (ARTS1)

Feeling pleased as pedicles for my ally, I dashed off to give him a
congratulatory throttle - only to find that he denied his involvement.
This wasn't surprising, as I had written the letter myself under his
name, but still I felt Manley should take the greater part of the
credit. Instead, he demanded to know why I hadn't written the soapbox
mooch in my own name. Simplicity incarnate, I said - I had already
written to Concrete under my name, protesting at the lack of
entertainment their 'sex issue' had provided, and the preposterous
results of their 'sex survey' (which no one I know was invited to take
part in.) When the time came to henfight again, I needed a different
name, lest their prejudices over my initial complaints carry through.
What better name than Seb Manley, I asked.

Manley was relatively impressed, and nailed the article to his notice
board. The harpies, naturally enough, were not so thoroughly taken in,
and secreted themselves away to discuss, very briefly, my
unconventional behaviour. Politics is not a matter for anyone who
wishes to be taken seriously, after all.

Later, in Mary's room, we learned that Besse had objected to the
evident hypocrisy in the letter.

"She thought it was funny that you told people to stop moaning and
then moaned yourself," explained Mary.

"What th-!" I said, hitting myself in the eye. "She manifestly has not
read it."

"Well," said Mary. "Oo! Never mind."

"What matters is the truth, Jon," Manley put in. "And you speak the
truth."

"Why, thank you, Manley," I replied.