Words cannot begin to describe the sense of awe I feel when confronted with the words and deeds of Rupert Read, the newly elected Green councillor in Norwich.

Not only is he a man of coruscating political cleverness, and a man ready to stand out from his Green colleagues in defending the reputation of the IDF; he is also blessed with the ability to construct some of the most extraordinary prose ever written.

I can but stand in profound silence when confronted with the inspiration that is ANTI--BEECHING, an "erotic-political 'short story' on trains":

he still

as if’s yesterday today now.

it was in the countryside, far from almost anywhere. straight roads. road besides open fields. roads meeting mostly at right angles, if they met at all.

she had said, “i feel ... fine. want me to ... drive?”

yes.

so they drove. driving home. half an hour, to their home, their ‘country idyll’. their bungalow, their West Country hideaway, where the little dog waited so eagerly, and their lovely sleek cat awaited its food and...

so, they were driving home. this was the last part of the journey. the final left right-angle turn. night driving -- it must have been about ten o’clock, maybe later. after. dark.

so

straight. one more mile, straight. just one bridge to cross it would be, then fast down the other side, then turn left into the driveway, to home.

the bridge was a little exciting. for the ground sloped up to it on either side, and the road narrowed, narrowed. the bridge was only wide enough for one car.

what she did when she approached the ever-narrowing bridge was this she started flashing the main beam of the headlights, on, off, on, off, faster and faster. they always did. so that anyone coming up the other side would see them approaching, would see their headlights against the sky would see the greater and greater speed of the change in them,

would know that they were coming,

would know that they were approaching the top of the bridge.

then suddenly the road flattened as you hit the actual bridge, and you were going level before you came down, down came down the other side real fast

it was exciting, you seemed to be going at an incredible pace, as the main beams went on and off faster and faster til they were almost just a blur and now the car was going very fast -- it wasn’t really but it seemed like it was it really did -- and you seemed to shoot over the bridge and almost fly off -- down, I guess -- the other side.

so there they were

shooting up to the top of the bridge

suddenly emerging onto its flatness with ourhead-lightsgoinglikewe’reunderneaththestrobelight--

and then--

forgotten what it was a bridge over.

there was, in fact, a railway line underneath. it only had trains going on it about twice a day. huge long (slow?) freight trains, usually, blasting with an enormous whistle, sometimes in the middle of the night.

Do read the rest. You will experience it.

To steal a line from Dame Edna: is there no beginning to this man's talents?