Village People

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 6 October 2020

The Global village is too damn big.

None of us know what we should be doing in this massive overgrown village of ours.

I don't think there should be systematic killing or genocide or enforced sterilisation I just think we have to start thinking small.

Not so small that a mouses squeak is a roar.

But small as in the village that raises all of its children. A village where everybody plays their part.

The gossip.

The cobbler.

The dentist.

The teacher.

The drummer.

The healer.

The postman.

The mechanic.

The singer.

The cabinet maker.

The horse whisperer.

The baker.

The farmer.

The dancer.

The artist.

The gardener.

The writer.

The vet.

The surgeon.

The midwife.

The storyteller.

And so it goes on, people finding their talent and giving it back to the village.

It gives space to the creativity of each individual.

And then singing together, and dancing together, and playing cards. Sharing dinner, and juicing apples, caring and co-operating and helping each other.

A village that would laugh at Potus for his big fat lies. A village that would gently take our prime minister and escort him to the door. A village that would sit Priti down and remind her that all human beings have souls and that p'raps she might need some help in finding hers. A village that takes smart phones, lap tops, computers and smart watches away from the young and gives them plasticine and putty, pottery teachers and shepherds, chickens to raise and scientific geniuses to show them how to make apple explosions with baking powder. A village that keeps its land clean so that everybody can see the sky. A village that is a community, because when a village gets so damn big nobody cares about anybody else, nobody remembers anybody else. And when there are lots of villages all bumbling along pleasantly they can talk to other villages and exchange views and melons.

When a man with a virus lands on a lawn and steps out of a helicopter wearing a mask and tells 328.2 million people that he is a walking miracle and that his country will be the greatest in the world if they listen to his fables and homespun rhetoric there has to be something skewed about his truth. I dislike this man and feel responsible that I'm not doing enough to trip him up so the world is a safer place. How weary I am of liars peddling their self serving bollox.

I would have been the cleaner in my village. Spitting on my cloth to clean the stains. Polishing the windows to let the light in. Sweeping the floors and clearing the ground so that children could lie flat on their backs staring at the stars. And I would be honoured for my work, and respected for my labour and I would sing with the rest of the village and dance round the tables filled with homegrown food, and I would honour the shit shovelers and they would feel just as valued as the fire fighters and doctors.

When a village gets too big it doesn't know itself any more and all sorts of mischief happens when the wrong people take the keys to the big house. That's when all the villagers need to rise up and say no 'We're mad as Hell and we're not taking anymore." And they wrestle back the keys so that the seers and judges the orators and wise ones ALONG WITH THE VILLAGERS decide what to do with the vile, greedy fuckers who are turning their village into a fetid cesspit, and everybody would go to bed with a smile on their face and hope in their heart knowing that the village was in safe hands not in the greasy, grubby paws of a dying elite.

Jeni Barnett tells of her scrumptious time at Good Food Live in her first audiobook! Download NOW from iTunes

Post your comments

(If you haven't left a comment here before, there may be a delay before your comment is shown. Thanks for waiting.)

Note: Your email address is required, but will not be published.






Copyright 2007, Jeni Barnett. Website produced by Chopstix.