Too Much Of Nothin’
If the floundering attempts of your country at winkling out just one single, solitary honest man to be Vice-President are making you seriously ill with laughter, and you’d been idly turning over in what’s left of your mind the vague thought of emigrating to the U.K. for a little restful exile-on-side-street — allow me gently to dissuade you.
Too Much Of Nothin’
LETTER FROM BRITAIN
Ion Mac Donald
If the floundering attempts of your country at winkling out just one single, solitary honest man to be Vice-President are making you seriously ill with laughter, and you’d been idly turning over in what’s left of your mind the vague thought of emigrating to the U.K. for a little restful exile-on-side-street — allow me gently to dissuade you.
Living in Britain is beginning to turn distinctly nasty.
An atmosphere of unreal psychic dislocation prevails everywhere one goes — born equally of apprehension concerning the future of Limey democracy,
the viability of our teetering economic system (a brutal scrimmage in which capitalist opportunism constantly dodges the beefy blows of dogmatic trade unionism, whilst everyone else gets trampled underfoot), the collapse of our heritage of values, the onset of mass fragmentary nihilism, and the bewildering variety of rock ‘n’ roll bands crisscrossing the country in a myriad of pre-winter tours.
There are probably about thirty major, twenty secondary venues in this island and — roaring up and down motorways, passing each other about every ten minutes — the equipment trucks and limos of sixty or so assorted acts and soloists.