Hydragenic

I coined the phrase “Dysunited Kingdom” (or at least, gave it that particular spelling) around this time last year. It was an almost throwaway concept at the time, purely to add a bit of spice to a press release that I was writing. It went down well and has been re-used occasionally in that context ever since. It alluded to something more than merely “disunited”, with a hint of “dysfunctional” thrown in.

The “dis-” prefix has Latin roots and literally means “apart” or “asunder”. In English, its usage before an adjective or noun implies reversal, the opposite of the word that follows. “Dys-” (Greek in origin) indicates something much more emotive: “lacking” in its most objective form, but more frequently veering towards “bad”, “ill” or “unlucky”… a sinister, malign force of misfortune and sickness.

I’ve repeated the trick numerous times, in writing both published and currently in draft. Dyscontented, dysconnected, dysillusioned… no opportunity has been spared. But I keep coming back to the incarnation that sparked it off. For obvious reasons during This Current Period Of Parliamentary Uncertainty, the initially mythical Dysunited Kingdom seems more substantial than ever.

I’m both fascinated and repulsed by politics. My views are instinctive, half-formed and utterly contradictory. I can move in the blink of an eye from expounding my firm belief in the need for government regulation as a force for collective(-ist) good, to being staunchly against any form of state intervention that impacts the individual’s basic rights to freedom and privacy. Dogmatic, I’m not.

I think that what I most distrust about politics, in its British form anyway, is its tribal nature. Left versus right, red versus blue… it’s like a football match. Or maybe, given the nature of our “first past the post” parliamentary system, a horse race. One winner, multiple losers. No wonder many people become apathetic and ultimately feel disenfranchised. Whoever they vote for, the Government gets in.

And then there’s this constant back and forth, the need for “strong government” that manifests itself in fifteen years of This followed by fifteen years of That. A pendulum that inevitably ends up right back where it began, only to do it all over again in an apparently endless cycle. It’s enough coping with my own mood swings, without having to suffer the effects of Westminster’s bipolar dysorder.

The Dysunited Kingdom was a wry comment that became an inadvertent prophecy. Fuck “strong” government. We need the politics of compromise and negotiation, because that’s how life works. We need people who have absolutely nothing in common to be forced to talk to each other and to make things happen. Better a Con-Dem Nation than this recurring ideological condemnation.

Party politics are boring, but politics as a whole becomes interesting as a manifestation of basic human relationships. When people start to accept that we will never all agree on major issues – that bullying and bloodletting solve nothing, that dialogue is everything – the Dysunited Kingdom might fade again from view and return to being a cute line at the top of a punk-rock press release.

Obviously this is a half-baked, half-crazed jumble of ideas; a playful diatribe, rather than a considered and well-reasoned philosophy. Take it in the spirit it’s meant… a first attempt at exploring a (ma)lingering oddment of capricious wordplay that suddenly seems to have a topical relevance. Ultimately, I think (/hope) it goes way beyond politics

“The students who look like creative types – floaty scarves, dangly earrings – often produce terribly banal work. They express all their artiness through their clothes; there’s nothing left for their writing. Civil servants are usually the best writers. Perhaps it’s because they spend their lives in the most soul-sapping of environments, so everything gets channelled into their fiction.”

There are many reasons why I write less than I used to. Some are significant, some are banal. This piece in the Guardian last weekend struck a chord. While I was never a civil servant, I was definitely a pin-striped corporate drone, stuck in a job that I came to hate with an increasing passion as the years passed. Writing was self-expression and escapism.

Nowadays, I flounce around the arse-end of our Dysunited Kingdom in a green velvet jacket and battered sneakers, like some demented spawn of the Third and Tenth Doctors. Writing seems less important. I’ve put this down to creative collaboration, the urgencies of freelancing and a more relaxed frame of mind less anxious to articulate every passing thought.

However, it seems that it’s nothing to do either with the Lying or the Which. It’s all due to the Wardrobe.

“Classic mistake,” she said. “You’ve become emotionally attached. I mean, I can see why I’d be attached to my Mercedes, but not that old thing.” “I happen to like ‘that old thing’”, I replied. (“And fuck your Mercedes,” I nearly added, before managing to hold my tongue in the interest of family harmony.) She warmed to her theme. “You’d be better off replacing it now. It’ll let you down eventually.” I considered my response. “So what?”, I replied.

Everything lets you down eventually. Entropy wears away the invisible fabric of the universal blanket, comfort slowly turning to decay. Things fail. Life lets you down, hearts stop beating, lungs fail to reflate. Maybe I am emotionally attached, but I’d feel like some kind of eugenics-inspired fascist monster if I traded my car for a newer model simply because of a few quirks. The quirks are what bind us together. They’re an affirmation of life.

My car is, inevitably, symbolic of broader themes in my life. I bought it when I took a career break four years ago. It was going to be a little runaround for six months until I got another job, company car obligatory. It was a small taste of slumming it. At the time I’d been driving a top of the range Audi A3, which cost considerably more money than I now earn in a good year. Buying a second-hand car for £900 was a conscious act of rebellion against my former life.

The new job never materialised. I realised that my life needed to be quite different. Sometimes I wonder whether the car taught me that lesson. I loved it from the moment I saw it. It’s black, like its predecessor. Its body shape is understated, mirroring the solid, pragmatic workmanship of its dashboard. It’s fifteen years old – and leaving the confines of full-time work, I too suddenly felt fifteen years old again – unencumbered, free, potential stretching before me.

I know nothing about cars… when I was buying it, my only two criteria were that it must have a CD player and must not sound like a rusty nail. However, those who appreciate these things tell me how well it has worn for its age, how sweetly the engine purrs, despite the fact that it’s approaching 150,000 miles on the clock. Its bodywork is past its prime, new battle scars emerging by the year, but then its owner has always had a thing about scars.

I’ve always named my cars. Or rather, I’ve articulated the name that they came with. It’s right there in front of you on the registration plate, you just have to squint a little sometimes. Or drive around for a while, get to know it better. I’ve never referred to a car as “he” or “she” – it’s always an “it” – but that doesn’t mean they don’t have personalities. My car is The Joker, a fun-loving prankster that hates routine and delights in upsetting the natural order of things.

The Joker and I have a long history of escape. We got to know each other on lazy drives to the beach during the summer of 2006, both of us returning home with sand in our boots. We cemented our relationship while driving around the north of England the following year, following the mad Irishman’s incongruous tour with the Royal Shakespeare Company. We flee the capital on a regular basis, heading down the M20 in search of fun, family and collaboration.

The honeymoon period is over. The Joker now treats me with the same careless disdain with which we both approached the world when our relationship was new. It is cranky and unpredictable. One day in the not too distant future I will drive it to a scrapyard and a man will give me £20 for its rotten carcass. We both know it. A new car will be purchased, a new personality will enter my world. Until then, we speed forward… as driven and restless as each other.

He’s full of fear and now she’s taken flight
The fear’s got so full that it’s claiming the night
So he twists and he turns and he frets and he burns
It’s always like this when they fight
If looks can deceive then his eyes are alright
For his eyes know the chance of the truth is so slight
It’s the same as the lies from the mouths of the flies
Telling him darkness beats light

I’m a chain male, forging links. A quicksilver smith, flowing and ebbing. My word is my bondage, though you’ll never tie me down. A dribbling riddler, the trade of all jacks. Black heart and red diamond; suite, booted and frequently flushed. Bone shackler, cagey jailer, dwarf star juggler, sinister and dextrous. Sleight of hand and slight of figure, I’ll run rings for red roses, ring the bells when you’re blue. Green irises are the windows I gaze through, paned daily by hydrargyric tears.

I stole this laughter from around my eyes and laid it on a page for you. Bathed crows’ feet in ink and let them walk over your body. Traced contours with a finger, mapping out your terrain. Kissed the purple stain where I pulled too tightly, the figures of eight where metal skated over skin. I described you in arcs, connected in circles. I ran like a river and never looked back… banking on precious metals, trading in goods and bads, monks and beasts, flippantly coined phrases.