But, he never says it, ‘cos he’s too nice, and they’re too nice; and most of all, more than anyone, Tommy knows, no one will ever need a Plater again. Ever.
On bad days, he blames himself. He blames himself because he, and his union mates, didn’t support the miners, while Maggie Bastard Thatcher sat on top and fucked the black guys. And then, after she’d well and truly screwed them, the union bosses jumped into bed with her. He’s been a Labour man all his life, but he hates poncey Tony Blair more than he hates Maggie. Maggie was the enemy, but Tony is a bloody traitor to the working class.
On good days he reads. He reads to pass the time between completing job applications. He reads to pass the time between the endless courses supposedly designed to re-train him, but which, in truth, are there to keep the unemployment figures down, and the trainers in a job. Some days he feels sorry for the trainers. Christ, they’re worse off than he is. He’s had the chop, the pain, and the doing without. Those poor bastards don’t know when it’s coming. He can see it in their eyes, dead eyes. Should I jump, before I’m pushed? Tommy saw the same expression in Swans, just before the big order went to Glasgow. Tommy enjoys pulp fiction. His favourites are crime stories. Not the ones where half the bloody story dwells on the Inspector’s wife who’s at home dying of cancer. No, he searches out the novel where the hero is a criminal. Hail Mario Puzo and Al Pacino. One of Tommy’s favourite sayings used to be ‘Come the revolution, and I’ll be the first one to pick up a rifle.’ He gave up hope for a while, and then he met Geordie Armstrong, his old yard manager, in Jesmond Dene.
They danced around the obvious for a while, smiling and being pleasant. Tommy was upbeat, Geordie was glad for him. Then Geordie offered Tommy a cigarette, and Tommy took it, and he drew too long and too deep on it, savouring it, like a longed for drink of water in a desert; and Geordie knew.
‘Howay, Tommy. Have a seat; let’s have a bit crack, eh?’
So they sat; and, craftily, Geordie brought the conversation around to politics. And they agreed on the obvious. Councillors were useless, and Politicians were shite; just people filling primed positions. They both agreed, nothing had changed, and it was time something was done. Tommy offered to take up a rifle, anytime, ‘And I’ll shoot fucken Tony Blair, if you want.’
Geordie reached out and gripped Tommy’s shoulder. ‘No need for that son. Ever heard of Ghandi?’
‘Aye, black gadgy, lived in India. Wore a bed sheet.’
Geordie grinned. ‘Aye, that’s him in a nutshell. But, you know what he did, Tommy? He brought down the British Empire by doing nowt. Passive resistance it was called. The downfall of the British Empire started in India, and it was all down to Ghandi doing bugger all. And that’s what I want to do here, Tommy. Start a movement. Get people motivated. Let the politicians know we’ve had enough. It has to start somewhere, Tommy. Democracy isn’t working for the majority. So, why vote eh? That’s me idea, son. Get people to stop voting. Just once. Just to get our message across. You with me, bonny lad?’
And Tommy smiled, and became big again. His eyes opened wide again, and shone again. And his chest expanded again. And he stood tall again. He had a purpose. Spread the word.
And that’s how Geordie Armstrong stopped Tommy the Plater shooting Tony Blair. Honest.
(c) Revell Cornell 2010