# workaday rhythms in come home baby by the charlatans you were still sickly this morning when your girlfriend demanded ir mobile work phone that you'd apparently 'hidden'. still sweating from yesterday's flu like symptoms you crawl out of bed to help ir find it (again) angry you tell ir ey's ok as herself - but when ey's in the false role of 'ir job' they often suddenly becomes slightly cruel officious short tempered and snappy - a kind of pushy bottle nosed middle manager instantly demanding all immediate subordinates around them 'pull ir weight' in the service of whatever greater good's circled on the office whiteboard today they says there can't be anything wrong with you today if you've got time to argue; you reply that they couldn't possibly know or care either way considering ir missing bloody mobile phone is ir only real priority http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldgcp60rjdo twelve seconds later they finds the horrible object inside ir fleece - where they put it yesterday - and leaves the house for work thought to self: the whole minor notion of "mobile phone user" has become increasingly associated with "brainless arsehole"; that one turns cold and machine-like displays the exact same efficient automatic dimness of the machines - systems - one uses / is embedded in you're all alone in the house again. just then "come home baby" by the charlatans arrives neatly packaged on the national radio - and you're suddenly struck by the connection between ir leaving for work - the image of millions of miserable people leaving for work - and the 'workaday rhythms' of this song - by 'workaday' you mean 'suitable for enabling and ideologically encouraging (someone else's bad idea that is) work' (caption id="attachment_34507" align="aligncenter" width="540") pointless jobs(/caption) how the cultural institutional phenomenon of "the radio" / 'listening to the radio' is some kind of official state-sponsored panacea for the awful soul-crushing demand and grind of inherently boring work - how it's entire unstated job is to send off all the proles on ir merry way to another round of cheerless useless toil under the officious middling middle managers of the world with a gentle aggressively condescending push out the door every morning with exactly the same kind of steady skeletal hand heard in the beige rhythms of a pop song and when you're stuck in that ten mile traffic jam heading into the bland grey darkness of the terminal dystopian megacity once again in the ceaseless pissing rain and you find yourself turning on that awful radio (w/ its awful smug cult-o'-personality superstar djs - "just shut up and play the goddamm record already") to take your mind of all possible thoughts of social revolution / another way of living entirely / your own real miseries and unspoken 'brazil' like dreaming - and suddenly "come home baby" by the charlatans casually spews out of those tinny speakers like some vapid sentimental capitalistic fog of family friendly nothing-lite consider radio's part in your ongoing suppression as a human being to do anything other than what seems normal necessary nihilistically fated natural and everyday that is shut up and listen to the nice man on the nice radio sing ir effortlessly polite little tune for your culturally enforced mind deadening entertrainment // republic of bob