Punks

I walk on to the stage and they are baying like animals. I pull the microphone from the stand and that just goes to incense them. I can barely tell their faces apart. They could be the same as last night, or identical to the ones tomorrow. I start to talk and you can’t hear a word I’m saying. My words drown like puppies as they tumble from my mouth. The ones near the front are bellowing, brawling, bawling abuse from spitting distance; I should know, I'm measuring it. The crowd surrounding are so loud I'm the only one who can hear my abusers. I try to retaliate. We can’t hear you, they jeer. So I just take it. I can feel my lips moving, my chest pushing the air out of my lungs. Speak up, we can't hear you, they leer. I’m on a microphone, I say, that’s pretty much all I can do. A woman clambers on stage and begins to scream in my face. When are you going to do something for the women? she screams. I look at her unblinking. She pushes me in the chest, loses her footing and tumbles down. When I get off, my mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. My throat is swelling up. I’m gasping for air. Fucking idiot, I think. What a fucking idiot. There is nothing I could do about it, and all I can think is that I’m a fucking idiot.