I’m coming to pick you up,’ and I think no you’re not, no you’re not coming near me, rogue sirens passing me on Mile End Rd, men in military uniforms, pigtails and tramp stamps fighting them off, ie. someone’s just declared something BIG, we’re scared, so no you’re not coming to pick me up, I don’t want you to risk your life, it isn’t worth it, then text it to you, don’t come babe, don’t, you’re too pretty, no twink should be here, you don’t understand the situation over here, you text me back a GIF of Kim Petras, I say of course this slays but there are men here in FULL TACTICAL GEAR, this is not the time, do NOT come here, and you can’t afford the Uber, and you think traffic is bad usually, there are TANKS BLOCKING EVERY. SINGLE. ROAD. I’m sat in the chicken shop practically frothing and foaming waiting for my Number 3 cos it’s been hell of a long day and I need to eat something, it’s what my mother told me when she was alive, she’d tell me you need to eat something, you’re wasting away, etc, etc. If only she were here now, I think, like when that Killer Clown thing was going on, she came to pick me up with stones in her pockets, we all laughed but it was business, and now the military is descending from helicopters, I could do with some semi-sharp projectiles, something to protect myself, me, no idea why this is going on of course, I have no idea, none of us do, we’re just presuming it has something to do with 1) gay wedding, 2) porn at Dalston Superstore, 3) I didn’t return all my library books on time, and, fuck, I don’t want to be responsible, I’m only a few days late, fuck, I have to go home soon, please, I need to eat, I’m wasting away, etc, etc. I go up to one of the military men who’s eating a number 4 at the table next to me and I say ‘God, there’s a real issue nowadays, no respect, people not returning library books, etc, etc,’ I say it’s the backbone of society, etc, he looks me up and down, launches some slogans at me, stands, taps his heels together, I make way for him to get some salt and pink sauce, what the FUCK, this doesn’t help, is it me?! ‘omw,’ no you’re not! tell me you’re not! You can’t come here, at least I pass as a man’s man, at least I’m a bloke, I have respect around here, they think I’m a metrosexual, you can’t come strutting in, they’ll behead you, idk if it was me, I don’t want to be the reason you fucking die. Military man leaves the empty box on the table, doesn’t even clean up after himself, walks back out onto the street and unsheaths his sword—he has a sword! What fucking century is this?! ‘What’s your name?’ I text back, who are you? do you really know me? etc, etc. M, M, You’re J, I know you, we love each other, fuck! you do know me! this is the 21st Century AD, this is the Kingdom Come! Okay, fuck, I need to write a list of people who I know died of AIDS, do some research, collate this stuff, see what they could have to do with this situation, usually AIDS has something to do with a situation. I set my notebook on the table, it’s absorbing Pepsi and salt, I pull out my pen (semi-sharp projectile, maybe), start working. Paul Shenar, of course, drug lord in Scarface, Shakespeare fan, faggot, fucking Jeremy Brett at one point, a BRIT, died of quote unquote heart problems. Okay, where is your ghost Jeremy? Which one of these backrooms are you waiting in? I close the notebook around my thumb, look around, check for doors moving, someone comes out of the toilet, fuck, no way he’s a faggot, too much class, keep looking around, check the kitchen, check my receipt for a clue, nothing. ‘25 mins away x,’ absolutely not, this can’t be happening, I need to figure this out before you’re here, I can’t even bother with replying rn, I can only write so fast, I’ve been wasting time, I have my food too but can’t even eat it cos I’m thinking of AIDS—you’re telling me this ISN’T the 20th Century AD at LEAST?! Dallas Adams, boring, also a Shakespeare head, playwright and painter—this is an overtly literary list! should I be worried?! could I write myself into an AIDS diagnosis?! Adams, largest gay palimony winner says Wikipedia, okay, is the law involved, is this a legal issue, should I be worried about losing my (absence of) assets? could I have less than nothing after this? Fuck, I can’t even think, what if this doesn’t have anything to do with AIDS, what if it’s the fucking library books? It’s a 10 minute walk to the library, I can make it, but what if it isn’t? and M is coming here, right here, not to the library, and, fuck, my phone is losing signal, the 5G is awful, couldn’t respond if I wanted to, need to make a decision. Okay, pack up my notebook, leave the food there, not going to the library, intervening, but the one military man I built a rapport with is throwing his sword up and down between two parked cars, is acting as a traffic warden on Mile End Rd. He has pink sauce ALL OVER his uniform, it’s ALL OVER, his sword means business, means serious—is this how it is?! I can run over, I can run up to him, there’ll be a rich man to bail me (voice of Mark E Smith), there’ll be a reprieve, he’s saying it now in earphones, but he’s straight, one thing worse than a communist is a faggot you presume is a communist. I can’t even hear what’s going on, just see the mouths moving, seeing their slogans and their mantras, definitely dystopian, I quickly run over past the parked cars who are performatively beeping to the backdrop of essential post-punk, tap the military man on the shoulder when the blade is securely in his hand, he twists, fuck, he twists, fuck, he’s pointing the sword right at me, he’s commanding me, I can’t hear because of the earphones, but what if I raise my hands to my ears and he thinks I’m storing a knife in there, or worse, an EARPIECE???!! I shout at him, ‘I HAVE MY EARPHONES IN, SIR, I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SIR, FUCK, NO EARPIECE,’ he lowers the sword, understanding, he’s reciting band trivia, he mentions someone who died of AIDS, he’s MONOLOGUING, he’s SOLILOQUISING, maybe THIS can crack the code. ‘Sorry, sir, sorry, sir, can you, sir, can you repeat that, sir? Who died of AIDS, sir?’ He knows I’m onto him! He starts monologuing about the Beatles, says never mind that—I know you don’t care for the Beatles! they’d never contract/die of HIV/AIDS! ‘Okay, sir, sorry, I’ll, sir, I’ll leave you be, I’ll return my library books.’ He starts to look away, I start walking off, I turn slightly, raise my eyebrow to him, as if to ask ‘it’s the library books, RIGHT?’ Nothing. No response. This day is NOT going well, I was just getting food, I was just gonna fuck my partner, I was just reading through indecent exposure cases, I was just questioning ONE specific clause, just ONE thing I questioned, ONE Conservative politician I question, one attempted Twitter maiming—all of a sudden THIS. I DON’T HAVE POWER, DON’T CONFUSE YOURSELVES, I’M NOT WORTH ALL THIS. ‘15 mins x’ FUCK! they can’t be serious! they need to turn away! can they not see what’s going on?! is it a purely local thing?! I open my phone to call mum, say BRING ROCKS, MILE END RD, ASAP, but, fuck, fuck, fuck, she died, fuck, I’m losing it, the wheels are falling off of the cars, they’re being dismembered by the military men, the tramp stamp’d dykes are laying down in front of them, they’re forming a blockade, this is a traffic STANDSTILL, nothing is moving, the Uber Eats drivers are using the bike lane, fuck, I can’t even cross back over, there’s a parade of minor traffic crimes, there’s a parade of war crimes and a staunchly lesbian resistance! How is this happening?!?! I’m stuck in a dream, have been now for a long time, definitively unwell and acting the part, now it’s coming back to bite me like I knew it would. The clock is ticking! M is in danger! Hey Siri, set a timer for, fuck, god, 12 and a half minutes, timer set for 12 and a half minutes, ‘he’s kind of speeding so i’ll probs be there in like 11 mins D:’ FUCK, FUCK, D: IS RIGHT, I’m working on borrowed time! the timer is useless! but now I know it’s not the library books, it has something to do with AIDS, some musician who died of AIDS! Google, Google, come on 5G! COME ON! Freddie Mercury (TOO OBVIOUS), Eazy-E (AMERICAN), Peter Allen (AUSTRALIAN, PREDICTABLY FLAMBOYANT), Klaus Nomi (GERMAN, EAST VILLAGE, COUNTERTENOR), fuck, Derek Jarman (WAIT), fuck, WAIT, THAT FILM, JUBILEE, HE FUCKED WITH THE MONARCHY—Jubilee, 1978, dir. Derek Jarman, Elizabeth I transported forward to 20th Century AD, Bod, sex-hating anarchist, has strangled Elizabeth II to death, MUSIC PERFORMED IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE—FUCK, this is the same FUCKING timeline, it’s happening NOW, I can hear the music! it’s deafening! it’s travelling West-to-East! they know how she died! FUCK! this IS the Kingdom Come! But wait, as I look down Mile End Rd I can see, fuck, I can see the traffic leads to Whitechapel AT LEAST, FUCK, IT ISN’T M WHO’S MESSAGING ME, IT’S SOMEONE ELSE, IT’S THE LAW, IT’S THE KINGDOM COME, IT’S THE MONARCHY, THE SECRET SERVICE. I run back to the military man, dodging Uber Eats bikes, I shout, ‘I KNOW YOUR GAME…SIR. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE UP TO, BUT I ONLY PLAYED IN ONE PUNK BAND, I SWEAR…SIR…IT WAS ONE BAND, ONLY A FEW GIGS, ONE BROKEN GUITAR, ONE PARTY CELEBRATING HER DEATH, I DIDN’T DO IT!’ My pocket is vibrating, apparently I’m spending money on various Great British souvenirs, my student loan is disappearing, I’m getting the mobile banking notifications, fuck, this isn’t just a legal issue, this is TREASON, this is all PERFORMANCE, they think I’m PART of this, well now they do, because military man is chasing me down Mile End Rd and I’m omw to Bow, I’m trying to hide in the flat we’re renting, I’m trying to GET AWAY, he DIDN’T know beforehand, I’m wearing JEANS, BLACK T SHIRT, DOC MARTENS, LEATHER JACKET, he thought I was a REGULAR METROSEXUAL, NOT A PUNK-LOVING FAGGOT! FUCK! he was talking too much! I can see now he missed some sort of message! he was ranting! talking about AIDS! he thought I agreed! and now, looking back as I run past Starbucks where a queue of thirsty lesbians has formed, I can see he got pink sauce ALL. OVER. HIS. WALKIE. TALKIE. I should NOT have said anything! M isn’t in danger, I am! Now a tank is inching behind me, speaker shouting slogans, mantras, conservative rhetoric, FUCK! ‘5 mins away :)))’ NOT :))), DEFINITIVELY :((((, DEFINITIVELY :OOOOO, FUCK! I’m trying to shout back, DO YOU THINK I’D PARTAKE IN THIS? BRIAN ENO SCORED THE FILM FFS, THIS IS NOT MY DOING, HE PEAKED WITH NO NEW YORK, FUCK, THIS IS NO NEW YORK ERA, FUCK, THERE ARE RATS EVERYWHERE, MORE THAN USUAL, I’M ALMOST AT OUR FLAT IN BOW, I CAN SMELL THE BINS, I CAN SMELL THE FLOWERS, FUCK. The tank is turning down onto Bow Road, I run towards my building and try to get the key in, hopefully the tree is covering me, fuck, I can hear the sirens, I can hear the music getting louder and louder, I can see scenes from Jubilee in my head, that artsy twink in full black, face painted white, dead Queen on the ground, fuck, is it because we’re faggots or because we’re punks? is it because we’re still here now, or because our history is haunting us? is it because we did it or because they think we did? fuck, we think we’re heroes, the world is no longer interested in heroes, fuck, I’m in the building, the tank is parking at the end of the street behind the neighbour’s camper, I’m running up the stairs, I’m crying, both the military and our history are chasing me, a history they think is ours, I’m scared, I’m scared to be what we’ve been, I’m scared of HIV, I’m scared of the military, I’m scared of myself. ‘i’m in mile end, where r u,’ no, no you’re not, you wouldn’t be able to say that, you wouldn’t be thinking that, who are you? where do you think I am? is M safe? I’m kicking the door down to the flat, I’m kicking and kicking and KICKING, I can hear the music still, the door gives, the flat looks clean, nothing is out of place, everything is okay, records still on the shelf, maybe barring a few, there’s a noise in the bedroom, there’s a shuffling, a yawn, I’m slowly pushing the door ajar, I’m trying to peek in, I hear a scream, a SCREAM, YOU’RE NOT MEANT TO BE HERE, ‘YOU’RE NOT MEANT TO BE HERE,’ ‘THIS IS MY FLAT, THIS IS MY FLAT, GET OUT,’ IT’S M, THEY’RE SAFE, THEY WERE ASLEEP, ‘WHERE’S YOUR PHONE? DO YOU KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING?’ ‘WHAT’S WRONG??? MY PHONE’S RIGHT HERE,’ they look terrified, naked, beautiful, ‘SHOW ME!!! NOW!!! I’VE BEEN GETTING MESSAGES FROM YOUR PHONE,’ ‘I’VE BEEN SLEEPING,’ ‘IT’S 2 IN THE AFTERNOON, THE WORLD THINKS WE’RE ALL AWAKE, THE WORLD THINKS WE’RE CRIMINALS,’ they pass me the phone, it’s not turned on, I turn it on, I’m shaking, panting, M is shaking, panting, putting on clothes, the phone turns on, WHAT? WHAT? THIS PHONE AND ITS FUNCTIONS HAVE BEEN SEIZED BY THE FIRM, WHAT? ‘WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE,’ but, FUCK, THERE’S A TANK OUTSIDE, JUST PARKED THERE WAITING, ‘GRAB SUPPLIES,’ ‘WHAT SUPPLIES?’ ‘KNIVES, BAT, ANYTHING,’ we run out into the living room, the window is slightly cracked, there’s a crown on the coffee table, a CROWN, ‘IS THAT YOURS?’ ‘NO IT’S NOT FUCKING MINE, WHAT THE FUCK?’ It’s happening, it’s Jarman, it’s HIV, it’s punk, it’s queer, they’re after us. ‘LOOK OUT THE WINDOW, M, SEE IF THERE’S A TANK PARKED AT THE END OF THE STREET…BY THE CAMPER,’ ‘THERE’S NOT A FUCKING TANK, J, ARE YOU OKAY?’ what the FUCK? where did it GO? are we in MORE danger now? is it like it was before? when we didn’t know they wanted us dead? ‘WAIT THERE’S A GROUP OF PEOPLE COMING DOWN THE STREET, MARCHING DOWN THE STREET,’ IT’S THE MILITARY??? ‘THEY ALL HAVE SILLY HAIRCUTS, RUDIMENTARY PENI T SHIRTS, SEX PISTOLS T SHIRTS, RAMONES T SHIRTS, STARBUCKS CUPS, MEN, WOMEN, OTHERS, ALL PUNKS, BAD EYELINER, LEATHER TROUSERS, BOOTS, BOOTS, BOOTS!’ DID THEY WIN?! We crouch next to the window, wait to see what they do, I’m trying to unlock M’s phone, I’m still getting messages from it, ‘where r u?’, but the military are gone, the sirens are gone, the music is still playing, reductive teenage boy punk, just a new parade, a new motto, as long as the music’s loud enough, we won’t hear the world falling apart, they’re shouting it as they march, the men, women, others, the punks, but fuck, I’ve seen the film, fuck, they have money, they want money, they live for money, the world falls apart and they’re watching, they’re not the punks we think they are, this has been a battle of two evils, this has been a misunderstanding, they want our identity but not our struggles, they want us to kill ourselves for profit, they want me to hold this crown, to raise it high, they want it on my head, they want me to sacrifice myself for the image, they want to take a photograph of me, they want to be us, they want to be us from a distance. They’re marching up to the door, marching in single file, organised, militaristic, royal, they’re not just wearing eyeliner, they’re wearing heavy military backpacks, their boots are polished, they all have the same voice, they’re all speaking the same royal language, they’re wearing their respective boarding school badges, they’re wearing wigs, they’re covering combovers, they’re covering curtains, they’re covering slickbacks, they’re coming up to the front door, they’re rapping at the door, I make my decision. I grab M, run to the coffee table, try not to get spotted, leave my list so they know I figured it out, take the crown, put it on my head, run down the stairs, unlock the back door, run into the garden, keep running, keep running, M running behind me, phone vibrating with mobile banking notifications, overdraft exceeded, army of champagne punks bashing down my door, birds chirping, security deposit gone, I run, I run, I run, don’t look back, take the bait, take what was dangled in front of me, and run.

Jak Merriman (he/him) is a working-class queer and a faggot. He’s Welsh but currently studies at Queen Mary University of London. He writes on queer cultures/starting your stupid band/digital-age faggotry/queers of history/grief. Music in the background. Instagram: @jakmerriman