The Lambeth Country Show & Cityguilt

The Lambeth Country Fair  has been deemed a triumph. Locals loved it. Lots of people came, including many from over the Thamesborder. My associates over at the Revolutionary South London Tourist Board were ready to declare it a success.

But I urged caution.

I made the unusual decision to attend the Country Show in cognito. Normally I will be seen at such events in full revolutionary uniform, meeting, greeting, pressing the flesh & recruiting youngsters to our guerilla training programs. But I was very cautious of giving any indirect support to the event.

You see, my suspicions – subsequently confirmed in Brockwell Park – were that there was something retrogressive, and indeed  counterrevolutionary, about the aims of the Country Show organisers.

I am, surely, not the only one to have noted that the South London Borough of Lambeth doesn’t have any countryside. Indeed, it is a glorious slab of granite citydom.

It is therefore highly bizarre that we should see such a celebration of the country pitching up in the heart of revolutionary South London…

The Famous Lambeth Countryside (stolen photograph)

The story of human civilisation is a tale of the process of urbanification. Those who live in cities are simply more highly evolved then their country bumpkin cousins. Sad. But true.

It is the role of the enlightened South Londoner to recognise and glorificate their urbanhood. The South Londoner wryly smiles as he breathes in the smog, views the grey, smells the grime and hears whatever the onomatopœia of urban noise is.

(Or she.)

What I have now realised – all to late to stop it via extraparliamentary methods – is that the Lambeth Country Show is a big stinking cowpat of propaganda against the very citydom of South London.

And to what purpose does such propaganda serve? To repress the revolutionary urges of our half-city. To foster a false city consciousness that South London is merely a peripheral entity, existing for the benefit of Imperialist Central London and the Hegemonically Powerful North. To cultivate the misapprehension that South London is not able to go alone, to break free from its shackles. To foment the poisoned ideology that, like the dairy farmer is to Tesco, we brave transpontinists are little more than slaves to the Central Hub. And, indeed, to make the South Londoners an even more backwards race by the promoting of a romantic anachronistic idyll (which never really existed).

It is the creation of both a transpontine and generally city shame, embarrassment, self-loathing. This is a phenomenon I will call cityguilt – the latest weapon of control.

Comrades, you must avoid the artificial shames of this multifaceted guiltfare.

Do not hate the city and consequently yourself for being a maggot within it. Embrace the city. It is the result of thousands of years of human progress. Roll around the filth with an openmouth, begging, “More! More! More!” Celebrate traffic jams with euphoric dancing. Bask in the shadows of high rise estate blocks.

Pro-actively reject the idyllic countryside lie and fight back against other encroachments they make into citylife. Avoid farmers’ markets. Boycott ITV’s Emmerdale. Make nuisance calls to the Countryside Alliance.

And, most importantly of all, stay vigilant for further hegemonic attacks from our northern enemies. As the revolutionary will surges higher, deeper and harder throughout our future-republic, their attempts to keep control will become increasingly tenuous and desperate and baffling. We left ourselves open to attack this weekend. Our fledgling national identity went out in a miniskirt and the (British) judge will say we were asking for it… Trust no-one. Except me.

Nationalistic Love,

Big Wolfie – sleeping with one eye open so you don’t have to.

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2 Responses to “The Lambeth Country Show & Cityguilt”

  1. Indeed. The presence of West Country cider was blatant. Take it on good authority, as I witnessed the consumption of this cider (witnessed only – I stuck to my true S.L. roots, and imbibed only White Ace in a blue carrier bag).

    But for those who decided to get all scrumpy, what was the predictable result? Sad, wistful talk about how much better it would be…. in Devon! If only we, friends and family forged here in the furnace of Brixtonian urbanity, were all dispersed across the soft-edged hills of the West Country, drunk on apple juice all hours of the day and night, and forgetful of the struggle for ultimate righteoushood that once rolled in South London, like thunder.

    This cider was a clear plot – not by the Devonese, I suspect, but by the N.L. fear factory – to create in our hearts an unsatisfiable longing for some “other” home, some mythical bucolic nonhome in which revolutionary struggle was not only a distant memory, but a concept our addled and idle minds could no longer even comprehend.

    Nice try, that’s what I said to the rosy-cheeked bastard serving the stuff. Nice effing try.

  2. Righteous words, comrade. Not least because you agree with me. A united revolutionary urban front.

    When I die, bury me not in the soil & grass of earth but the concrete and pipes of Elephant & Castle.

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