When I worked on the railway, with my orange boiler-suit, fly-bedevilled in the middle of rape-seed fields (we called the little millions of beetles dynamite bugs, because they swarmed round us, attracted to the orange livery, and got in our mouths, and went off like crunchy bangs of poison), I was a red. In fact I was very much at that end of the spectrum in all things - red in politics, orange in uniform, yellow in craven-A smoking, and kind of pink in complexion.
I went to a Revolutionary Communist Party whinge-fest in central London in the embers of the eighties, and got disillusioned (as everything faded like corduroy slacks) because the main thrust of discourse seemed to be how these asses could excuse driving sporty VW Golfs, whilst still espousing the bloodless coup.
The retinue of pseudo-communists there was mainly well-groomed cultural studies graduates, feminist men (never trust these smelly goateed twats) and pre-goth pachouli-drenched twenty somethings, slacking around with more money than tense.
And there's me, stone digging from 8 to 5, completely patronised by the sanctimonious middle class socialists thereabouts.
I'm still a socialist at heart (because I believe people are fundamentally decent), but I can't subscribe to the doctrinaire pettifogging of these whiny faux-Marxists: there's no substance there, no meat, no blood; it's all arguments about punctuation, not grammar, syntax not semantics, ways of saying, not things to say.
So I got out, and did that Clint no-name, don't say anything, if you haven't got anything good to say, thing.
And, guess what? I don't say anything now.
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