A blog, eh? That'll kill some time.
I'm not really one for self-righteous rants or conspiracy theories, my gut feeling on standing on a soapbox is that the longer you talk for, the more of a fool and a hypocrite you will make yourself look. Perhaps the self-delusion begins the moment you convince yourself of what you're saying and, as far as the audience is concerned, this is where the boredom ends and the comedy begins. How can anyone be certain or sure of anything? The concept is ludicrous to me.
My current favourite soap-box story was told to me at the last school I worked at by a PE teacher who was sick of having to give kids KS3 levels for badmington and the like; I also got the impression that he maybe missed kicking them up the arse on occasion, but for all the dark thoughts of violence that seemed to shadow his bespectacled eyes, I liked him and I enjoyed his soap-boxing and his rants: they proved to be an interesting distraction from marking exercise books in the staff room.
So, what was his story? Well, he was previously a shipyard worker in South Shields, prior to the decline and fall of the industry in the 1980s (On a side note, I have met any amount of ex-miners, shipyard workers and would-be rock stars who ended up in teaching - it seems to be a purgatory for society's lost souls and wayward spirits). One day, my future PE teacher friend was at a union meeting in the Town Hall. The union rep was in a state of great agitation as he paced about onstage in front of the hundreds of assembled workers; he did this for a few minutes, thus communicating non-verbally that something was up. A hushed silence fell. He acknowledged this and knew his time was coming to speak.
"My friends," he began, cleverly reminding them of their unity. "There have been several allegations about my role in The Yards that have been brought to my attention." Bang! Straight in! Someone had been spreading shit about him. No wonder he was pissed off. Excited whispers broke out in the hall. Some of the whispers knew all about it. Some pretended they did. Some wanted to know before the man onstage played out his drama.
"There can be no place for this maliciousness at work. You all know me. You know how proud I am to represent you and that I take it seriously." You could, as they often say, have heard a pin drop in that room. They all feared him right then and they all had over-active guilty consciences. They imagined it was themselves spreading the gossip over their bait at dinnertime. Probably, it was.
The Union Rep pushed on, confidently sensing that he could get them to do anything he liked now: specifically, he wanted them to grass on each other to catch the rats that had besmudged his good name. "My friends, we must not allow these allegations to ruin our unity at work!" He was teetering on the edge of his sanity now. Soon, he'd fall off the end completely: "We must root out these allegators in the shipyards!"
Incedulity hung in the air for a beautiful second. The Rep continued. "I need your help to root them out, my friends. If you know of any of the allegators, you must inform me at once." Titters began slowly to ring out in the old town hall. The Rep percieved that his perch was becoming unstable and his face began to redden.
"My friends! This is a serious matter!" He reminded them, lacing his voice with all the severity he could muster. Jeers were begining to ring out and still he did not see the unfortunate choice of words he'd made. He was about to put the final nail in his coffin:
"I happen to know that the allegators are presently amongst us!" He yelled, not quite understanding what he was implying. People began to slide off their seats. Workers were on the floor, clutching at their sides. Many of them shared the picture of alligators subverting the workforce. Alligators in the town hall, right now. It was all too ridiculous. Eventually, The Rep walked offstage in disgust, his dignity, his respect and his ego all crunched up in the powerful jaws of a homophone.
