Keir Starmer will finish what Thatcher started, and turn society into a corporate state.

It's cooler now at night because summer is dying. The last Bank Holiday weekend in August also portends to end of vacation thinking and the serious grind of September is about to begin. It comes earlier this year because on Tuesday Keir Starmer will announce everything- that was old is new again.

The news media leaked on Sunday that Starmer will then announce to Britain that things are going to get worse before they get better for the country.

It stings that the worst to come by the Labour government will be for ordinary workers and the vulnerable. The top 10% of income earners, which is where 99% of the influencers who conned you that a vote for anything but Labour was a vote for fascism- won't be touched by the new austerity coming Britain's way. But how many times can people be conned by neoliberalism before you must question their commitment to democracy, society or empathy for others?

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The first 40k words of Harry Leslie Smith's Green and Pleasant Land- a book he was working on just before his death is available here on my sub stack. It has no paywall.

Below is a small section of it, which I am presenting today because it is about Harry Leslie Smith's Bank Holiday to Southport in 1927 when the world was sailing into the Great Depression. The Past has become our present nightmare because we allowed the wealthiest in our society to convince the rest of us that a Welfare State was a needless taxpayer expense, whilst wars and low taxes to the 1% were a civilisation builder.

The Harry’s Last Stand project used his life story as a template to effect change and remake a Welfare State fit for the 21st century. Harry Leslie Smith’s unpublished history- The Green & Pleasant Land is a part of that project. I have been working on it, refining it, and editing it to meet my dad’s wishes.

It should be ready for a publisher sometime in the autumn.

Your support in keeping my dad’s legacy going- and me alive is greatly appreciated. I depend on your subscriptions to keep the lights on and me housed. So if you can, please subscribe, and if you can’t -it is all good because we are fellow travellers in penury. But always remember to share these posts far and wide. I have also added a Tip Jar for those so inclined and able- which is the link before the chapter excerpt.

It was like the fourth day of creation when my family went to Southport in 1928 for a day’s adventure. The world looked like it was in firmament- waiting to be formed into a perfect summer’s day. Above me, fat, grey clouds floated like barrage balloons, in the sky, whilst seagulls darted between them as deftly as barnstorming pilots. They screeched in pleasure over their acrobatics and command of the world above the land.

However, once they spotted my mum, dad, sister and me resting by the sea wall, they spiralled down from the heavens with menace in their thoughts. When they were just above our heads, a draft of wind thwarted their attempt at harassment and blew them back towards the horizon.

My mother raised a fist at the birds and promised them hellfire if they dared to shit on her, which caused me to laugh. Mum shooed me away, but as I was just- a lad of five, I ignored her ill temper.

Instead, I ran in circles around her and pretended I was one of those majestic birds bestowed with the gift and freedom of flight.

My mother urged me to pack it in, and my dad told her to steady on and scooped me up into his giant arms that had gotten big from years of hewing coal in the pits below Barnsley.

I scanned the deserted beach, wet from the rain and rested on my father’s shoulders. In the distance, I heard the tide wash against the shore- but the sand seemed to stretch to what I thought was forever. Far away on the promenade, the noise from a merry-go-round whispered a delightful tune in my ear.

Excitedly, my dad exclaimed.

"The air tastes as fresh as morning."

"Can't you smell it, lad?" It smells of adventure and freedom."

To my dad, it  smelt like that because his wages as a miner only afforded us slum living near the mine where he was employed.

Just as a heavy gust of wind blew grit into our eyes; my sister cried out.

“Where is it then, this sea you promised?”

My mother concurred.

"If we’d gone to Blackpool, there’d be more to do than a march towards the sea. Blackpool has more amusements than Aladdin’s Cave.”

But I held fast to my father’s dogged trek through the cold August sand.

“It’s all right Da; you’ll show them, won’t ya.”

“That’s right lad,” said my father optimistically, “it’s not much further. Don’t fret; we will be knee-deep in the sea. Just like I promised you.”

With me riding like a young prince on top of my Dad's shoulders and my mother and sister in pessimistic tow, we followed a strong scent of salt and fish in hopes of finding open water.

Suddenly, my sister cried out to our dad in a voice that knew she was loved but still demanded to be loved more than anyone else.

“What about me,” she pleaded “why can’t I ride up high.”

“Because you are older lass and your brother’s legs are not as strong as yours,” he said to console her.

“Why can’t you carry us both,” she responded defiantly.

“Would that I could, but I just don’t have the strength to lug both of you about."

There was melancholy in his cadence. Maybe he knew that his health was starting to fail him. Or perhaps his dreams warned him that injury at the coal face would soon make him an invalid and incapable of providing for his family.

I don't know. But in less than a year- he was out of work, along with millions of other men, after the stock markets crashed. A whole generation became redundant, impoverished, homeless and destitute because capitalism swindled civilisation to enrich the few.

Yet, on that day at Southport, the Great Suffering and sadness of the Great Depression was only a storm gathering strength far out from land. My dad might have heard the sound of thunder in the distance, but he chose to ignore it to grab onto a few granules of happiness for himself and his family.

When we reached the shoreline, he took me down, from his shoulders and said.

“Remember it well, for there is nothing like a day at the beach.”

When my mother and sister joined us, we stood on the edge to watch the white caps rage on top of an angry sea.

It was the first and last holiday; I had together with my family. The Great Depression drowned most of my kind. I was the only one lucky enough to swim to a shore where I found love and security following the Second World War because my generation demanded and got a Welfare State.

For me, rent day approaches like the headlights from a truck with an unsteady load on its trailer. It leaves me stuck in the middle of the road, transfixed by it, or perhaps I am too tired to react this time and jump out of its way.

A yearly subscriptions will cover much of next month’s rent because all I need is 6 to make September’s payment. But with 5 days to go, it is getting tight.
Your subscriptions are so important to my personal survival because like so many others who struggle to keep afloat, my survival is a precarious daily undertaking. The fight to keep going was made worse- thanks to getting cancer along with lung disease and other co- morbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in these cost of living crisis times. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. But if you can’t it all good too because I appreciate we are in the same boat. Take Care, John