Independence.

I know this is a little late but who cares.

Independence Day don’t mean jack to me. I see the same circus every year. Only the clown changes once in a while. The worst part is I don’t even know how or what to feel. Were we really oppressed by the British? If so, what have to show after independence? And how does public masturbation of political egos, in front of Galle Face fit in to all this? On the other hand I had a colleague tell me how impressive the tanks were. Maybe Independence Day is for the likes of them. But then, wouldn’t a peep show have been cheaper?

My Independence Day started off with being asked to fuck off by two members of two political convoys who cut into the path of my humble three-wheeler guy. If entire roads’ being blocked is not bad enough, you have political man-whores asking you to bugger off. Guess it’s better than getting shot by them I suppose. I just don’t get it.

I come home to see the president bellowing his guts out on TV. If one didn’t understand the language, one would honestly think that he was mighty annoyed with the audience. After that the so-called Army band took over. I don’t get the patriotism signified by some really bad songs sung by wanna-be commercial band rejects. Even the uniforms were (I think) worn wrong. I’m quite there is no black t-shirt underneath the green jacket! If this was a PR stunt, somebody should loose his job.

Last Friday was the OBA AGM. Like many times before, I ended up at the OTSC (Old Thomians Swimming Club). Just that this time was a little different. I met a friend of mine I haven’t met since leaving college. He was two years my senior and we played football together. He played left wing for Boarding House and I played full-back for Stone House. I had no chance in hell against his speed and ability. He had joined the STF after college. Last month he had lost his left leg in a search operation in the east. I didn’t know what to say or do. My father was in the Navy for thirty odd years and the war finally hit home last Friday. What the fuck do you say to a guy whom you knew as an excellent footballer who had his leg amputated from shin down? It actually took a while for me to let it sink in and go up to him and talk. I dragged a chair next to him and started talking. We talked about the good old days, the matches we played, the chicks we stalked, and he told me about his one-year-old kid for almost one hour. I never asked him about his leg. I still want him to play football on the Mt. Lavinia beach on an early Saturday morning before running off hearing the breakfast bell. Fuck this war. Just fuck it.