Here's what we do to those inscruitable bastards on the Bragg List. 

First, we acquire ourselves a "time machine." Now, don't laugh - I know exactly how this can be done. First, we need to steal one of Robyn's shirts - after seeing him several times, I have come to the conclusion that he is *not* lying about slipping in and out of the sixties - where else would he get such a stash of shirts like that? So, this shirt, so impregnated with back-time molecules, is then soaked in a vat of prawns. (What else?) The resulting elixir is then boiled to a bright red color (The Bragg fans will like that), and finely tuned to the sixties by subjecting it to occasional blasts of Hendrix, Joplin, and (God forgive the need for honesty) Donovan. This elixir will be our secret weapon. We then - in the spirit of reconciliation - invite the whole Billy Bragg list over for tea, cookies, and a lively discussion of Labor Unions. (To sweeten the deal, I suggest we supply them with vintage late eighties clothing and we agree that we will all sit through a screening of the movie "Reds." I know this will be most painful to use, but we will survive - perhaps we'll catch a quick screening of "Eraserhead" or "Stop Making Sense" beforehand to fortify our nerves!) 

Now - right as the high point in "Reds" comes along (whatever that may be - we shall have to scruitinize their faces carefully), we serve the red tea - dosed, of course, with our Fegmania prawn extract - and after starting a chant of "John Reed is a God" we suddenly RELEASE THE HENS! 

The excitation caused by a thousand madly clucking barnyard fowl running amok the Bragg fans will charge their pineal glands, activating the elixir, and we will watch with glee as we are all shot back to 1917 for the Glorious Revolution! 

Just think about it! Socialism, Communism, Unionism, Revolution - Trotsky, Reed, Lenin, Marx, Engels, what the hell, why not throw in Kropotkin - they will be in social bliss! "Bread and Freedom! All Power to the Soviets!" But then, as the elixir wears off, suddenly they are flung to the Point of Shirtic Origin - the sixties. Ah . . . imagine their faces as they witness the ultimate demise of socialism! Relish their looks when they see the bright palaces of post-Stalinst architecture dotting their Worker's Paradise like squatting toads of brutalist concrete! Enjoy the sound of their teeth gnashing as they realize that the most creative name for something the communists could come up with is the "National Slovak Uprising Aluminum Factory!" And picture their expressions as they watch us Fegs wallow about in the psychedelic acid kaleidoscope of the sixties, a dada paradise that may only be marred by a slightly noticeable absence of deoderant and the complete lack of reason. And best of all is when they find out that a weird and decadent band like the Velvet Underground was causing more influence in Czechoslovakia than Joan Baez! Oh, the joy . . . hee hee hee! 

Then we all buy our proper Robyn shirts, hold hands, click the prawns three times together, and wallah! we are back in 1996. Just imagine the lack of commentary - the profound silence - the deep dark well of solitude accessible only through the bucket of self-examinating introversion - of the Bragg List when they realize that the best description of history is not a steady progression towards a socialism of the heart, but rather an endlessly repeating cycle of smirkingly wry cynicism and existentialy detatched curiosity laced with a mild dose of crustaceans! Hee hee hee. . . . 

Oh, by the way - if we decide to do this, we have got to make sure no Bragg fan ever gets a hold of "Legalized Murder". . . . . 

The Great Quail