“How long does the battle last?” I asked. “It starts at 12.30 and ends at 3.30, but there’s an interval for lunch at 1.30,” replied the woman with the Coal Not Dole badge. We all laughed nervously.’ (Guardian, 21/6/01.)

A pathetic parody of th[e] repressed desire [to finally live history and no longer merely consume it] was recently played out on the 15th anniversary of perhaps the bloodiest picket line conflict of the Miners Strike; the Battle of Orgreave was re-enacted near to the original site. Filmed for Channel 4 TV by a Hollywood director, and with ex-pickets and cops from the original battle as extras (but ‘real’ actors playing the ‘heroes’ of the event such as Arthur Scargill – typically bourgeois history as the history of leaders), the event was painstakingly reconstructed from media footage of the time. As always, once the event is safely far enough in the past, the media that acted in its own class interests by lying and distorting the truth in the real time of the class struggle, feels confident enough to now reveal a somewhat more truthful version of events; now that it no longer has any consequences. This is a sure sign of the ruling class’s confidence that these are dead issues, definitively resolved in their favour. They want us to believe that class struggle is a thing of the past. Again, the colonisation process at work; get the defeated to dramatise their defeat as entertainment for the victors. Despite a bit of temporary flattering attention and extra pocket money for the locals, who really gains from this farce? No one but the ruling class and their media. The claims that the event was therapeutic (or “healing”) for some are predictable – but what does it help them come to terms with? Only the acceptance of their defeat and all its consequences since.

To walk abroad is, not with Eys,

But Thoughts, the Fields to see and prize;

Els may the silent Feet,

Like Logs of Wood,

Move up and down, and see no Good,

Nor Joy nor Glory meet.

Ev’n Carts and Wheels their place do change,

But cannot see, though very strange

The Glory that is by;

Dead Puppets may

Move in the bright and glorious Day,

Yet not behold the Sky.

And are not Men than they more blind,

Who having Eys yet never find

The bliss in which they mov;

Like Statues dead

They up and down are carried

Yet never see nor love.

To walk is by a Thought to go;

To move in Spirit to and fro;

To mind the Good we see;

To taste the Sweet;

Observing all the things we meet

How choice and rich they be.

To note the Beauty of the Day,

And golden Fields of Corn survey;

Admire each pretty Flow’rs

With their sweet smell;

To prais their Maker, and to tell

The Marks of His Great Pow’rs.

To fly abroad like active Bees,

Among the Hedges and the Trees,

To cull the Dew that lies

On ev’ry Blade,

From ev’ry Blossom; till we lade

Our Minds, as they their Thighs.

Observe those rich and glorious things,

The Rivers, Meadows, Woods, and Springs,

The fructifying Sun;

To note from far

The Rising of each Twinkling Star

For us his Race to run.

A little Child these well perceives,

Who, tumbling among Grass and Leaves,

May Rich as Kings be thought,

But there’s a Sight

Which perfect Manhood may delight,

To which we shall be brought.

While in those pleasant Paths we talk,

’Tis that tow’rds which at last we walk;

For we may by degrees

Wisely proceed

Pleasures of Lov and Prais to heed,

From viewing Herbs and Trees.

Letterman: Now you have an interesting name yourself. Can you tell us a little of the origin of Captain Beefheart?

Van Vliet: Captain Beefheart - a beef in my heart against this society.

Letterman: Mmm-huh.

Van Vliet: They're cutting the beaks off of penguins down at the marina in LA, you know that, the water.

Letterman: No I didn't ....

Van Vliet: They're cutting the beaks off of penguins. Off of, uh not uh (waves hands in impersonation of penguin), off of pelicans. Cutting the beaks off of pelicans. The top beak, y'know... (mimes action of cutting top beaks off of pelicans)

Letterman: I know, I know, but why are they doing that?

Van Vliet: I don't know but I'd sure like to find who's doing that because...

Letterman: Yeah, that's...

Van Vliet: ...they need a spankin'.

Letterman: It's cruel, if er, if er, if in fact that's the case, that seems like it might be cruel.

Van Vliet: Not right.

Letterman: No.

Van Vliet: No.

RP: It's interesting, the idea that you're regarded as the Poet Laureate for the city. They are looking for a new Poet Laureate. Your name hasn't appeared, and I saw a letter in the paper recently saying, 'Why isn't Roger McGough being considered as a potential Poet Laureate?'

RMcG: Yes, I'm glad they published my letter.

It's funny that, I did see the letter, someone pointed it out to me. There's great letter on the same page which said, 'I see they're changing the bard at Buckingham Palace', which was rather nice. But I noticed that the Guardian and the Telegraph printed lists of suggestions of people who they think might be the next laureate... My name's never mentioned, and it's ok, but you think, well hang on, I have been around a bit. So I always think it's that Liverpool paranoia comes up. 'Why not me? It's because I'm an Evertonian, a Catholic, cause I'm going bald', you know, all these things...

‘Being looked down on’ was their description of a process to which they were continually subject, a visual assessment by others that repeatedly positioned them as lacking value. For instance, when they entered ‘posh shops’ they were acutely aware of the way they were being read and judged by others: 

We’d all gone up to Manchester the other Saturday, you know for a day out, the three of us …We were in Kendals during the day, you know where the really posh food is, and we were laughing about all the chocolates and how many we could eat - if we could afford them and this woman she just looked at us. If looks could kill. Like we were only standing there. We weren’t doing anything wrong. We weren’t scruffy or anything. She just looked. It was like it was her place and we didn’t belong there. And you know what? We just all walked away. We should have punched her in the face. We didn’t say anything until about half an hour later. Can you imagine? Well and truly put in our place ... It’s things like that that put you off going. You feel better staying around here. (Wendy, 1986)