smokebelch

Wednesday’s Guardian seems pretty confident about an election announcement. Given that [or even regardless of that] I really don’t know what to make of the news that we’re pulling more British troops out of Iraq. I went on two anti-war marches in London, and that position still feels right. We were lied to and people are dying for Bush and oil.

But I’m not convinced by arguments anything’s going to be different between now and Christmas, when the lucky ones get to come home. And I’m really not going to pay much attention to the Tories whining on about electioneering given they were banging the invasion drum right from the beginning and have never had a clear consistent policy on Iraq. I’m far more prepared to give time to the Liberal Democrat position. If we’re happy British troops are no longer needed, let’s get them all back. And at least Ming and his party have taken a consistent position.

It’s *yet another* of those positions where I hold my hands up and admit “I don’t know.” We, and the people of Iraq, shouldn’t be in this mess, but the evidence right now in both the “stay” and “go” camps is compelling. I’m quite often swayed by Julie Burchill’s line from a while back that if you are confident about a position, it generally means you haven’t thought about it enough.

Anyway, one thing’s for certain. There’s going to be relief for at least some families. [Though it's debatable how many]. Here’s some Jake Thackray lyrics.

Young foreign soldier, evening approaches.
The prisoner will come from his dark cell and kill you.
Prisoners go dangerous if chained in their homeland;
His knife will sink into you, poor bastard soldier.

Do you ever remember home? Do the tears ever flow?
Do you sing sentimental songs of your countryside?
Is the grass forever green – flowers grow there freely?
Can you hear singing birds? Young soldier, the prisoner once heard them.

Young foreign soldier – the path by the barley field,
The gate to the garden, the girl in the pinafore.
The big bed at daybreak, where children crept in to you;
The path by the barley field, poor bastard soldier.

Remember what you did at night time, the happy kisses in the darkness;
Are there some good words for love in your language?
Did you promise to be true to her? Swear everlastingly
To never ever love another one, young soldier, the prisoner has sworn so.

Young foreign soldier, have you seen dead children -
The fragile legs open, the bright bird escaping;
Mouths pale with questions, the wide eyes still fearful?
Yes you have seen children, poor bastard soldier.

If the gasping mouths were yours, if you recognised the shaking lips
As those you had shaped with your lifetime’s caresses,
Would you not gouge eyes, curse every Jesus Christ?
Would you not scream? Young soldier, the prisoner has done so.

The path by the barley field, the gate to the garden,
The girl in the pinafore, the big bed at daybreak.
Evening approaches, the knife will sink into you.
Poor bastard soldier. Poor bastard prisoner.