Middle England

A town like Billericay, in Essex. A March Saturday night. A little bistro that serves pasta dishes to Gladys and Brian. She is twin set nostalgia; he is slacks and Argyle fantasies. There is talk of the credit crunch and muddling through, keeping calm and carrying on. There is always the rugby, their pals at the Ship. A pint in a tankard, just a small sherry for control.

There’s the up and coming production of Oklahoma at the Civic Theatre for Gladys. She’s been in the local operatic society for twenty years, started out in the chorus and now promoted to playing the lead. Brian makes the props and pushes the scenery around, helps the dancers a little too much as they change in the backstage corridor.

Meanwhile, at the all night garage on the edge of town. Hardeep takes a punch in the ribs for running out of bread and Rizla’s. Kebab fuelled boys piss on the newspapers, vomit on the forecourt.

Outside a lighted house, in a road, in a town she should never be in. A Bacardi breezed girl with Winehouse hair lifts her skirt for a line of coke.

Inside that house, the net curtains twitch, England’s permanent itch, forever sore. Revealed in sepia, a framed portrait of Margaret Thatcher smiling, almost pouting. This is still her little wincing country, called England.