What is a society supposed to do with the unruly? Those who, before reaching the age of peak maturity, are already down a dark road of constant rebellion? To the point where the society is healthier if they were quarantined. Indeed, is this not the precept of penitentiary?

And yet, how unfortunate for a soul to be this inconsiderate. Of himself? Of others.

Made in Britain glorious demonstrates the inglorious combatance of a more than disenfranchised, more than disaffected, but downright willfully negligent and wantonly rebellious youth who, in the words of the Book of Job, seems justified in harming the wankers of the land, from “pakis” to “nignogs”:

        Wilt thou even make void My judgment? Wilt thou condemn Me, that thou mayest be justified?

–Book of Job, 40:8

But why? Is all the word just a bunch of phonies? Or, as angrily capitalized on the blackboard: WANKERS.

The 16 year old has figured it all out after all. That the scheduling of the commonplace society – go to school, get a job, raise a family, and purchase a television set for 400 quid in 1982 denominations (when bread was 15 pence!) – is a load of bullocks. He does not want to participate. He does not want to “buy-in”.

Does he not know honor?

Does he now know service?

Does he not know duty?

His countrymen clearly do. At least they try to appear to. Yet what is the cause for such a rancid vituperative appearance of soul?

Is there any relationship with his satisfaction in a mortal delinquency with those across the pond in the US of A? Does the fault lie in themselves, or in the loads of personnel men and women who are this patently impersonal with each of them? No doubt there is care; no doubt there is heart; but after a while, the passions for calling deflate like a balloon, with the rubbery bitter-taste plastered onto the faces of those who are just as much of the “system” as the youth.

They can huff and puff all they want, but it appears as though fatherly council, seen ultimately in the billyclub, is what finally shocks sense into the stranger. Perhaps, so surreptiously mentioned in a brief dialogue, of mother’s rights of possession to children causes a caustic upheavel of disagreement, of unmistakably lack of impulse control when staring into the mechanized abyss of the mundane reality of commercial expectations. Of the peace.

It lacks heart. It lacks prayer. It lacks salvation.

Piety is completely absent the domiciling of such disaffected young who cannot accept what is being instructed. Who cannot tolerate authority – or subordination of their will.

The keen and perspicacious advice of “we all do it” counseled by the justice, but ultimately welfare personnel of the Crown, falls on deaf ears. It is a prison sentence itself to the mind which is already made up – who has found a style of living which revels in disagreement and outright rebellion towards all things harmonious with the whole.

Why not find vocation?

Because the spirit remains unquenched in a time, in an epoch, this distant from Queen Elizabeth I. Where churchgoing was mandated. The helpless chap knows of no fatal consequences of punishment should he be this stirred into meaningless tirades and contented resignation towards a life behind bars, only to exit, only to return, only to exit, because he did screw up. Yet he lacks the hindsight at 16 to understand.

How can a society channel this fuel, this spark, towards the benefit of all, when the person is this incapacitated at caring about anything?

Is love the answer? If one is not happy with oneself, how can one begin to raise the question?

Hence the magnificence of worldly religion – specifically his Christian heritage, in instructing an idea of his nature. Which is more than flesh; and therefore more than the placidity of a templated life of true happiness. Such individuality, with such violent anarchy, ought to be served with a narrative of potential, of promise, of calling to be self-less with one’s doing. Not to be so wickedly rampant under such compassionate reliance of society’s resources. After all, other kingdoms on earth would have this soul brutalized with swift vengeance for the “childish” tirades depicted splendidly in the film by Alan Clarke (written by David Leland). Indeed, Tim Roth, the protagonist, is masterful in his dead-eyed certainty of finding a path in life. It is unfortunate that it is the unrepentant one, the unenviable road to Hell in life.