A lot of people in the Anglophone world are all of a sudden so
appreciative of health care workers—doctors, nurses, first responders; even
janitors. They are literally tweeting and flapping their hands in appreciation.
I mean, they’re going outside at specific, SoMe-organized times
and applauding for the UK’s National Health Service, and for NYC’s hospitals.
Well, that’s swell, but…no, no—it’s not. It totally burns my bacon.
Guys—if you really appreciated these people, you’d force your elected
officials to adequately fund the NHS, hospitals, public health agencies, the
WHO. You’d haul out pitchforks and talk about guillotines until the pols
fucking did something. You’d fucking vote them out of office. Clapping is the
cheapest possible way you can assuage your lame-ass conscience for letting your
fellow humans bear this unbearable burden on your behalf.
And, BTW, you’d keep forcing those useless besuited scumbags or
their replacements to fund these organizations even after this pandemic is over.
QfuckingED. Jesus.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
But this clap-of-belated-support reminded me of Rudyard Kipling’s
poem, “Tommy”. The old white-man’s-burden imperialist was talking about exactly
this kind of self-serving appreciation, in this case of the ordinary British soldier.
Dunno exactly when the term Tommy Atkins became code for the enlisted
guys (“other ranks”) in the army. In Nineteenth Century training manuals, “Thomas
Atkins” was the designator for soldiers, so maybe that’s it. But at least in
the two world wars of the last century, they were known as Tommies, the way US
soldiers were doughboys (I don't even knnow) in the first war and GIs (for “government issue”) in
the second.
At any rate, Kipling here clearly demonstrates the hate-love that
the British public felt for the army that we’re seeing now: when there’s no perceived
need for their services, get the hell out of here; when there is, as Kipling
says, “trouble in the wind”, well—can’t applaud too much, can we?
Burns
My
Bacon
“Tommy”
I
WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The
publican 'e up an' sez, ``We serve no red-coats here.''
The
girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I
outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, go away'';
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins
to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to
play.
I
went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They
gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They
sent me to the gallery or round the music 'alls,
But
when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, wait
outside'';
But it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on
the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the
tide,
O it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on
the tide.
Yes,
makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is
cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An'
hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is
five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy how's yer
soul?''
But it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to
roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to
roll.
We
aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But
single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An'
if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why,
single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an ``Tommy, fall
be'ind,''
But it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's
trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the
wind,
O it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's
trouble in the wind.
You
talk o' better food for us, an'schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll
wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't
mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The
Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Chuck him out,
the brute!''
But it's ``Saviour of 'is country,'' when the guns begin to
shoot;
Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you
please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!
Fund them, you soulless, self-serving bastards. Pay them salaries
commensurate with their value. Kit them out with PPE. Provide the equipment they
need. Fuck your applause—fork over the dosh.
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