Egg on your face

How disappointing to see the violent behaviour of those students who trashed the Tory headquarters today in protest against top-up fees. One of the placards held aloft in the crowd outside Millbank was a huge fist with the demanding slogan ‘Fund Our Futur’ (sic) scrawled on it in marker pen. This seems to be symbolic of the aggressive assumption that if the government won’t cough up the funding for universities the students will have every right to don their Leavers 2010 hoodies, cover their faces with Topshop bandanas and kick some windows in. They will also throw eggs and sticks off the roof, which according to Manchester student Emily Parks “shows how angry people are.”

Well, Emily, I am angry about politicians reneging on their election pledges too but if it’s all the same to you I’m going to save my eggs for a higher purpose (banana bread, perhaps) and protest in a manner more befitting a graduate of one of the UK’s hallowed universities.

Take a leaf out of Wilfred Owen’s tattered notebook and write a poem or something that actually demonstrates some level of intellectual thought has been achieved whilst at university. His poetic protests against WW1 echo through the ages and have the power to egg on even the most jaded of fourth year literature classes.

To keep with the Tory theme of today, here’s David Cameron’s favourite Owen oeuvre, Dulce et Decorum est.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... 

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If, in some smothering dreams, you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: Dulce et Decorum est 

Pro patria mori.

That last stanza kicks more political ass than some kid in skinny jeans ever could. And there’s literally not an egg in sight.