Last night, I was sat in the pub at Highbury Corner drinking some especially strong cider when I received a very glancing blow to the side of my head. Confused - as much due to the aforementioned strong cider than anything else - I looked left, right, up and down to detect what it was that had ricocheted off my bonce, and there on the floor was a white Make Poverty History wristband.
For a moment I strove to find a way of interpreting this moment as somehow being metaphorical or analogous of our recent life and times: here was someone who had clearly felt betrayed by the ultimately disappointing conclusion to the whole campaign and thus, revolted, had felt the urge to realise their dissatisfaction by casting their wristband - once such an iconic accessory but now merely a reminder of failure - asunder, sending it flying across the pub, where it struck me, one of the cynics and naysayers who mocked the movement and yet was far too lazy to actually get off their arse and take any action to try and improve things themselves. I also pondered on the thought that perhaps someone didn't like the look of me, and had felt compelled to take any action available to release the feeling of distaste swelling within them.
But all these thoughts proved a bit above me, and I knelt down with a whoop of triumph to collect the errant wristband. How much are these babies fetching on ebay again?
4 weeks ago