by Mat Capper
The large metal door buzzes open. I am inside.
“Here he is, it’s Jesus Christ, come to save lives.”
“Living the dream. There’s only so much these hands can do,” I say.
I should point out that I don’t think I’m the messiah, nor do others.
Some police sergeants refer to me as Jesus because I am employed in custody by a drugs agency to find treatment for people who are arrested with drug habits that crave feeding. I do encourage their comments, as humour gives me greater access to people locked up. Traditionally the police hated ‘do gooders’ like me, especially in their world, but times have changed, and I’m almost accepted. I get to take people out of their cells and give them hot chocolate and speak to them if they need some sort of help or treatment. I’ve gotten used to calming people down; some people even think I have some sort of magical ability. But this is absolutely not true. The truth is:
1. I speak to everyone in exactly the same way, politely and like they are human beings; it isn’t rocket science.
2. I’m not physically frightened or intimidated by anyone.
3. I don’t judge people and I see both sides of almost every argument. *
*(This often leaves me with a racing and confused brain. At the moment I’m becoming slightly obsessed with Roman Polanski. I’m angered at the likes of Harvey Weinstein and Debra Winger, who are calling for every filmmaker to sign a petition. I’m also aware that Polanski was mistreated in trial by a corrupt judge who was more interested in his own prestige. On the one hand Polanski has suffered enough tragedy for ten lives and on the other he drugged and sodomised a 13 year old girl. The fact it was 30 years ago, or that he has won Oscars cannot deter from the act. I wonder if it had been a 13 year old boy whether he would enjoy the same level of support. I’m not comfortable with the idea that what he did was okay because she either consented, or looked much older than 13. It stinks of the same old mentality that “she was asking for it, because she wore a short skirt.”)
Anyway fuck Polanski and back to my little story.
On this particular night in work I had made a fatal error.
Before going in, I was struggling to find a top to wear. All my shirts had somehow found themselves on the back lawn with large muddy paw prints. My plain shirts were all in the wash, and it was too late to purchase a new anonymous work top, given that I didn’t start until 10pm.
The only top available was a black one with twelve pictures of Ernesto “Che” Guevara in various poses. This top was bought for me by my son who, at six years old, knew I liked to read books about this strange bearded man. It was bought from Primark, so no doubt Che would be turning in his grave at the thought of shirts made by children in India being sold with his face on them. However, all principles I held were thrown out of the window when being presented with this top by my gorgeous son.
As I ironed Che’s face, I worried a little at the idea of going into police stations with a revolutionary leader’s mug on my chest.
Would the police think I was some sort of revolutionary?
If they made me remove it they would see I have Che tattooed on my arm and the Irish flag on my chest, with the words Erin Go Brach (Ireland forever). This could lead to torture, MI5 interrogation and a life sentence.
Mind you, then there would be the obvious freedom campaign, autobiography, and Chumbawumba protest song released to thousands of adoring supporters. I could appear on television in something like Celebrity Death Watch and do the chat show circuit in America—Oprah here I come.
I grabbed a pen and wrote some lyrics for my protest song, just in case.
Mattie was a good man, he did all he could,
He helped his comrades from being hurt,
And the police locked him up,
When all he did, was wear a Che t-shirt.
No, leave the lyrics to Boff and the professionals.
I decided to wear the t-shirt and risk the incarceration; after all this is Liverpool, the heart of socialism. Surely even the police are secret communists… Maybe I would be applauded for introducing some variety into a world of white shirts and black ties. Maybe the police would stand arm in arm with me and my comrades, and we could protest the injustices caused by the plutocrats in power. This could be the start of the revolution… although somehow I doubted it.
Two hours into work I was called in to see one of the inspectors.
“Hi, sit down, sorry to call you in like this.”
“That’s okay, what’s up?”
(All kinds of things were running through my head. Had I been filmed at that demo? Had they filmed me screaming at players of the opposite team during an Everton match? Have they read some of my articles on Exterminating Angel and discovered that I used to quite like smoking weed? Had they discovered that I read some Irish papers? Or that I stole a church organ pipe that played the note A, to make a bong?)
“We can’t allow you to wear that T Shirt.”
“What?”
I knew I should have worn the one that said “who dares wins.” Maybe then I’d have got a promotion.
“We can’t be seen to condone terrorism.”
“Eh?”
A bit harsh calling Che a terrorist, I thought. Mind you one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and all that.
“You do realise you could be arrested under the public order act 2005 for wearing it?”
“What?”
“Any act that could be deemed as causing offence is arrestable under the public order act.”
I knew this because I’d seen an old man arrested for wearing a Tony Blair t-shirt with the slogan “wanted for war crimes.”
“I don’t mean to cause offence.”
“That’s not the point; in these troubled times people like him are a threat to our way of life.”
“But he’s dead.”
“There’s no evidence to say for sure he’s dead.”
“He was shot by the CIA in Bolivia.”
“The CIA? I didn’t think you were into all those conspiracy theories.”
“But there are pictures of his corpse.”
“Really? I haven’t seen them.”
By this time I was waiting for the door to burst open and MI5 to tie me up. Get ready with the lyrics Boff, I thought.
“He was killed in 1967 I think.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Eh?”
“That’s impossible, unless you’re implying he had impersonators.”
“Eh, how is that impossible?”
“He bombed the twin towers.”
“What?”
I was tempted to say that I though the American government had played a part in it, but I thought better of it.
“He is a terrorist and a threat to the UK.”
“He’s dead.”
“We’ll see about that. The point is you cannot wear a t-shirt with Osama Bin Laden on it.”
“What?”
“If a Chief came onto the bridge, he may have no alternative but to order your arrest.”
“But it’s Che.”
“Eh?”
“It’s Ernesto “Che” Guevara, the revolutionary leader.”
“Eh?”
A long uncomfortable pause.
“You know, Cuba, Fidel Castro…?”
A longer uncomfortable pause.
“Well, it could still cause offence.”
“Who to?”
His mouth went dry.
“People.”
I felt a little sorry for him.
“Do you want me to go and change?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay. Should I go home on my break?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
I exited the office. I think there was an unwritten and unspoken contract between us to never mention what took place in that office. I went back to work.
The moral of the story is that is okay to invade another country and be responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands of innocent people, but don’t for gods sake wear a t-shirt with the word “fuck” on it.
For my friend and drummer Andy Parle who died on the 1st August 2009. I told him this story a week before he died and he laughed. He lived too fast for too long and I couldn’t help him no matter how hard I tried.