Scabs Make Me Fucking Itch!

Well, we're coming up to another strike. Bigger than June 30th, the Public Sector strike due on 30th November will be bigger and better, leaner and meaner, stronger and... well you get the point.

With just over a week to go the predictable onslaught from the media has started. I didn't quite win the sweepstake as to when the 'Look! Yeah, you! See, union bosses get paid properly for what they do!' stories would hit the tabloids, but I was only out by a day.

And the infighting has started too. Like Harry Enfield's builders only in Che Guevara t shirts, we witness the 'I am considerably more socialist than you.' arguments. We define terms and divide ourselves. Seriously, it bores and angers me in equal measure. We don't win anything by fighting amongst ourselves, we win by organising. (With apologies to anarchists. See, can't bloody win.)

Then the excuses as to why some won't stand up in solidarity with those of us actually prepared to fight for our pensions start pouring forth. Like a fetid stream full of the rotting corpses of unity we hear them all.

Then we have the fight about terminology (Scab is my preferred word for those who cross a picket line, though cunt will suffice) and the bullying of the poor loves. We should just let them get on with it apparently. They have their 'reasons' by all accounts. And to pull them up on them is wrong. And it makes us bullies.

Let me make it very clear, I do not in any way condone actual physical violence towards scabs though I totally understand the compulsion.

(See previous blog 'A Scab By Any Other Name Still Stinks)

But for fuck's sake, give me a fucking break! These are not poor little delicate flowers. These are scabs who undermine everything we are fighting for and yet will reap rewards when we win victories.

They seem to have no problem with violence towards us on picket lines as they drive at us, squeeze their water bottles at us and spit at us. So excuse me if I don't want to afford them any niceties.

Fuck them. If they are going to cross picket lines they should have the balls to stand on their blacklegs, admit they're scabs and take the fucking derision due them from proper trade unionists who understand the word solidarity.

And The Laughter Returns

Went out for a meal and a chat with estranged hubby tonight. For him this meant getting dressed and turning up, for me it threw up all sorts of questions.

Do I wear make up? Do I get dressed up? Do my hair? What do I want my outfit to say? Do I want it to say 'look at what you're missing' or more 'we can do this, we can be civil with each other again'?

In the end I went for smart top, skinny black jeans, pirate boots, make up and hair looking gooood. I had decided I wanted my outfit to say 'fuck it, it has been an age since I went out anywhere really nice, I want to feel lovely for a change.'

So, met up with estranged hubby and things were a little strained to say the least. Those of you who know me personally know that things have been horrendous and that I have been quite ill with the stress of it all. Those of you who don't know me personally still know that it hasn't been easy lately with me and him.

So, his plan was to take me to a nice Indian restaurant and we could just spend some time together on neutral ground. So far so good. The one flaw in this plan is that he let me choose the restaurant.

I should never be allowed to choose the restaurant.

He was going to take me to a really nice one called 'Chillicha'. I thought it looked a 'bit poncey' so plumped for 'Curryland'. I should have known really.

First thing I had to do was take my glasses off as the place was so badly ventilated that they steamed up. Then we sat down. Waitress comes over and her first question wasn't 'can I get you any drinks?' but 'How was your day?' I have to say I was somewhat thrown by this and felt under pressure to say it was great. I felt I would have let her down if I had said I had spent most of it in bed with a hangover. She seemed really nice so I didn't want to disappoint her.

I went for the buffet and a large coke. Waitress said she would tell me when the buffet was ready. She went over and stirred stuff. Then came over and said it was ready. I started to giggle.

My meal then consisted of:

The stalest poppadum I have ever had. They are not supposed to be bendy! This was served with the smallest onion salad ever made and the most watered down mango chutney I have ever seen. You are not supposed to be able to drink mango chutney Curryland. You're just not!

The reddest curry ever. Not sure what it was. It tasted of nothing. Not even of red.

Korma that seemed to not have any almond in.

Madras that wasn't too bad actually if you ignored the fact that I crunched down on something that I refused to investigate for the fear it would be something dreadful. I just swallowed. This has always stood me in good stead before and it worked this time.

All this time me and estranged hubby were smiling and laughing. Giggling like idiots at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. We then noticed the 'decor'. It looked as if a disinterested child had done it.

So now I really started to lose it laughing. And watching the rough and ready of Worthing stagger in clutching their own booze and saying things like 'I might go for something different tonight' before going for the buffet just made me laugh even more.

And then hubby went to the toilet. This was his face when he came back.

He doesn't always look that red by the way. It was just that hot and humid in there. Anyhoo, apparently if he had been to the loo first he wouldn't have let us eat there. When even the handwash is grubby, there is a problem.

But none of that was the point. We had a laugh. Something we hadn't done together for a good couple of years. Doubled over laughing. It felt good. You never know, there might be light at the end of the tunnel after all.

Today Of All Days

Today I woke up to the news that the government were about to make an enhanced offer on public sector pensions.

On the day before the biggest union (Unison) are due to announce their ballot result.

Coincidence? I think not.

But this blog isn't about how they're running scared and are starting the divide and rule propaganda war between the unions. It isn't that at all. It is about why I will be striking.

I was musing about what I was going to write when I came across this.

It is simple and stunning and needs to be shared with all union members and used to recruit those that aren't.

If I ever meet the author I will give him a big kiss for being so beautifully moving and so simply eloquent.

Steven North hits the nail on the head: "I could argue that the reason I'm prepared to strike on the 30th is because my pension fund is a sustainable one that requires no increase in contributions, except to return more money to a Treasury that is already taxing me to death every time I fill my car up but refuses to allocate me a pay rise. I could say that it's because its unfair to ask me to work until I'm 68 when I live in an area where male life expectancy is still only 70. I could say that we went through discussions around accrual rates a few years ago and were told that changes had been made to make our pension fund sustainable for a generation. In reality though I'm striking because I don't want to die in a freezing cold flat 2 years after I retire after a lifetime in work. If any other working man or woman wants to be equally as selfish and pay no regard to the difficult decisions our Government has to make, I'll happily stand next to you."

Here's to you Steven North. You put it better than I could have.