John Major, lone wolf in a pagan helmet

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The Independent Online
Celebrities endorse the passion, the charisma and the vibrant psychic colours that swirl around the Prime Minister.

D H Lawrence: You have come one way and I another, John. Through the thick of this beastly grey mist that has come over men, the blotting out of all wild singleness, and the eclipse of the lone wolf soul. O democracy] Nothing is left but the herd-proletariat and the herd-equality mongrelism, and the wistful, cultured soul. How detestable]

What should I care about politics, with its cant of fiscal supply and the disgusting boastfulness of its herd-mongrel barkers who have lost all sense of their dark, still, inner selves?

But you who are neither humble nor conceited, a relief] Yes, a relief] Quiet and kind and sensitive to the flow of life and quite without airs. You have none of the hateful homage of the adulating male, the odious politeness that is so revolting in well- brought-up people. Yes, you might say as none other could: 'See here, the line of my haunches as I spread the male cloth of my flannel by the basin.'

And yet the man from Trumper's comes every Monday to cut your hair in Downing Street. You call him and he comes, with his scissors and his decent shirt and well-made jacket, to cut your hair just so. And in this you show the sign of a soul that stands alone in itself. The scorn of the herd-mongrelism in this hair that is cut without any show, not even the show of simplicity. And yet it costs more than a month in the country] More than a month in the wild blue hillsides, more than a month in the angry red and yellow dawns where the seas take strange colours below the lemon groves.

So there we might meet, yes, andiamo, meet in the indescribable secret of the lemon groves, and dance in the triumph of being together, John, you and I as men, as untameable lone wolf souls meeting unsheathed and naked and narrow and white]

Friedrich Nietzsche: I am talking, John Major, of a nation which has deliberately made itself stupid. Confounded instinct of mediocrity] How much dreary heaviness, dampness, sloppiness, how much beer there is in the national intellect. You think I am referring to Britain, but your country - pagan, ungovernable - is far from the mark. No] It is Germany I mean, Germany, crippled by the pieties and eaten away by moralic acids of communautaire vampirism.

The community I refer to - they are my enemies, I confess it. I despise in them every kind of uncleanliness of concept and value, of cowardice in the face of every honest yes and no. It is the fount of the underworld of barbarians, bishops, anarchists and socialists - decadents, all incapable of producing anything but dissolution, poisoning, degeneration, bloodsuckers with the instinct of deadly hatred towards anything that stands erect, that towers grandly up, that promises duration, waging their deadly war against anything noble on earth]

This community, John Major, that you have stepped back from, the commonalty, has left nothing untouched by its depravity, it has made of every value a disvalue, of every truth a lie, of every kind of integrity a vileness of soul, this subterranean conspiracy against health, beauty, well-constitutedness, bravery, intellect, benevolence of soul, against life itself . . .

In this the revaluation of all values includes - indeed depends on - the value of Majority, a loftiness of soul and exquisitely cut, perfectly cut, precisely cut hair (is it true that Trumper's comes to cut your hair every Monday in Downing Street?)

Arthur Rimbaud: Here, lie down, Major, John Major, I see your hair as a pagan helmet, a coiffure like flowers of fire, humide d'amour, grey like a flock of doves, like dawn on the endless headland, grey as dolphins. Damnation] Let us leave, the three of us, you and I and your haircut (our buttocks are not theirs) and leave this shore for skies splitting with lightnings, and waterspouts, and the breakers and currents]

We shall return with limbs of iron, dark skin, a furious eye from our mask. We shall be judged as belonging to a mighty race. We shall have gold. We shall be idle and brutal, and women will minister to all our ferocious needs. Except for the needs of our hair, our dove-grey, dawn-grey haircuts, and those we shall leave to Trumper's, the barber who has sucked the gaudy poisons, who will come to us from Trumper's. Come John]

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