HEADLINES HARRY
Harry came out of the HEADLINE FACTORY and headed down to the hairdressers for a shave, tie replacement and quick brainwash. He was feeling fine after they injected him with headline spells Austerity, terrylisms, and nuclear hair-fallouts . They had pulled out his imagination and sold it to a scrum on Fleet street. " We believe in individualism " shouted the editor " but our journalists are clones ". A spokeswoman for the Ministry of Freedom to Breastfeed in Public came on to the podium wearing only a tie. Something was happening and the cameras averted their eyes. Harry's instinct was to look for his imagination but it had gone. He could only think as to act as he was pre-programmed to do.
Everything he had known had been turned upside down, inside out. Journalism was growing thin and the fat headlines were shedding weight. " Our newspapers aren't comics " screamed the editor, looking menacing like Dennis. " Get out on Bash Street Row and dig up some dirt! " Harry was confused, men in suits feared for their piggy banks hidden in Tax haven sinkholes on Fourth Street and now men in taxies were reporting the news! Some of them even had long hair and looked like Jesus! Harry stopped and dropped his notepad. A man, alone, beneath the neon headlines of Piccadilly Circus, struck a chord on grand piano. Something indeed was happening but he didn't know a thing...
Text by Trev Teasdel
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