Читать книгу The World According to Vice - Vice Magazine - Страница 34

After a week of drinking cider and sleeping on floors, I decided it was time to get back to nature. I’d heard that West Coast power-violence veterans Capitalist Casualties were playing at crust hangout the Grosvenor in Stockwell, so I decided to spend some time in a park close to the venue before catching the show.

I felt inexplicably uncomfortable and decided a couple cans of Special Brew would make everything a little better. As I sank my second I realised that in the same way Rastafarianism legitimises smoking weed everywhere you go, being a crusty punk is just a big excuse to be a functioning (or at least semifunctioning) alcoholic.

Capitalist Casualties missed their plane. Very punk. Concertgoers were pretty sad, but there was a real sense of community and beery commiseration all round. I left feeling good about anarchy in general.

I might not have slept very well this week, and I never really ate, but drinking my body weight in cider and palling around with a few slightly smelly instigators is still preferred to mingling with the odious suited hordes that come spilling out of All Bar One every night.

In conclusion: being a champagne-swilling millionaire who shits on the weak and downtrodden while raking in profits culled from the genocidal rape of the earth causes heartburn and makes you miserable as sin.

By contrast, people who lie in the gutter begging for change while drinking a rusty old can of Special Brew as a dog dribbles on their filth-encrusted combat trousers are happy, morally praiseworthy humans. We cannot recommend becoming one highly enough!