Richard
Serf
Serf
Nothing left to believe in except cynicism.
Nothing left to cling to except scepticism.
Nothing left to fight for except apathy.
Nothing left to inspire except a sense of lottery longing and the TV soap cliffhanger.
No need for apartheid and ghettos today; their consensus is one of shared identity.
You can tell from collective uniforms, shared symbols of belonging, shared music, shared style, shared culture, shared tastes, shared opinions, shared view, all collectively and cheerfully bland so as not to cause offence or make anyone feel in any way deviant.
Highly convenient uniform, a bit like drive-thru Macdonalds.
Or microwaves.
Or the second family car.
You can leave your individuality hanging in a wardrobe with your Sunday best to be brought out on special occasions.
Like funerals.
Not slave;
Not with your union representation and generous stakeholder pension.
Not slave;
You have the right to choose not to exercise your freedom of expression.
Not slave;
What slave cheerily claps on his chains after the 9 to 5 for an evening out?
Not slave, but serf.
Ploughing the same furrow day after day because There Is No Alternative, thankful for your blinkers which stop you being confused by other furrows.
No job for life today.
But at least you have the security of a role for life.
Serf.
Labelled, compartmentalised, instructed, assigned, consigned, satisfied, dead.
Serf.
Lord Irvine