Progress

We were sold progress wrapped in glossy slogans, womens rights stamped on leaflets, wages promised to rise. But the only thing that rose was rent, was food, was the quiet panic at the supermarket till. More hours. Less life. Same pockets being lined, just with cleaner language and better PR. The middle men feast. The brokers skim. The suits toast growth while the workers count coins and stretch milk one more day. And when people break they are told to look sideways. Blame the migrant. Blame the neighbour. Blame anything with an accent or a different face. Never blame the government. Never blame the system. So they flock to the loudest liar, the pint holding patriot, the man who tells it like it is from behind offshore accounts and inherited comfort. A working mans hero with donors hiding wealth in tax havens. Tell me how that's patriotic. They call it love of country while dodging the bill. They call it honesty while selling rage. They sail past us on yachts moored in the Cayman sun, champagne cold, engines warm, while we work double shifts and worry about the price of milk. If there is an enemy it is not the desperate. It is not the poor. It is not the different. It is the hoarders. The avoiders. The ones who take everything and give back slogans. Their boats are the ones blocking the future. In a time of austerity there is nothing less patriotic than refusing to pay your share. We do not need more hate. We do not need more lies. We need fairness. We need equality. We need a country that asks the most of those who take the most. Not racism. Not scapegoats. Not another promise sold to the tired and the angry while the rich sail on.