Suggestions
1. Be more offensive
2. Smoke more
3. Go on more demonstrations
4. Say 'No' more often, especially to your boss.
5. Spend less time at work and if you've been laid off ....
6. ...stop worrying about the economy and agitate for a totally different one.
7. Downsize, socialise and politicise
8. Smoke less (at least you'll keep one resolution).
9. Say "Hello" to a, hitherto unknown, neighbour - socialism starts from below.
10. Disconnect from the MSM and alternativise.
New Year is shit - hope you get through it all relatively ok and that things gradually improve from now on in. Try not drinking! For the first time ever, I intend to start the new year off hangoverless a small step to folowing resolution 7.......
oh yeh 11. Listen to more 'Burial'.
mercredi 31 décembre 2008
Remain calm
The response from the western powers to the murder of Palestinian civilians in Gaza has been chilling. They appeal for calm, assert Israel's right to defend itself and blame Hamas for starting it all with their pinprick rockets, that every now and then hit something and sometimes even kill people, and expect everyone to fall in line and accept the meat grinding of Gazan civilians as if it were normal and proportionate. But we know Israel broke the truce on November 4th.
Israel plays a strategic role for western powers in the middle East and faces terrible internal economic and social problems. War is a way of releasing some of the tension that has built up, galvanising party support and unity and testing weaponry. This rancid action is no exception. It is nothing to do with anything as immaterial as religion so there is nothing anti-semitic about criticising what is happening. It is just any old state under pressure and lashing out at a prone target in the name of some far fetched idea of self protection. I read somewhere on Harry's Place (a putrid site) that the left has no right to protest against these actions because it failed to demonstrate when the Algerian government was conducting brutal operations in its civil war - some 180 000 people were killed in that conflict. It's a pathetically weak argument on so many fronts.
First, many on the left did protest, but where were the likes of Harry's Place viscious moles? Doubtless all out protesting in favour of the Algerian working class - no chance. They were openly laughing at the idea of muslims killing themselves in all probability. Secondly, even if it were the case that people didn't protest in any great earth changing ways, that in no way means that somehow, everyone has to stop demonstrating when anyone else, in this case Israel, starts inflicting this amount of carnage on women and children. And finally, this conflict is of a piece with the continuing war for domination that the US and its slave state are waging in the region. This conflict is the key conflict of the century. In an ideal world, we could and should be protesting about all sorts of other things in the world, things a lot smaller and less significant. However, thanks in no small part to the goons in America, their military off-shoots and their ideological warriors all over the media, we have to focus on the actions of a few Israelian politicians and their brutal IDF butcher hound. The most politically depressing thing about this is the evident pleasure the Israelis powers are getting out of this. The Israeli cabinet was charged with feeling yesterday on reports of the murderous raids.
Meanwhile, the rest of us - average and above average intelligent readers and interpreters bloggers and scribblers have to search further afeild for news about the slaughter. We filter out the gunge that comes through the MSM (like a report just on French news just now showing a hole in a school roof in Bethsada, the victim of a Hamas rocket) and treat the fodder they give us as further reason not to believe the whole official narrative.
And hope for a jolt in the whole smooth running of the killing operation. Something unexpected something from the streets something like a fightback. Soon - next year - we are gathering.
Remain calm - fuck that.
Israel plays a strategic role for western powers in the middle East and faces terrible internal economic and social problems. War is a way of releasing some of the tension that has built up, galvanising party support and unity and testing weaponry. This rancid action is no exception. It is nothing to do with anything as immaterial as religion so there is nothing anti-semitic about criticising what is happening. It is just any old state under pressure and lashing out at a prone target in the name of some far fetched idea of self protection. I read somewhere on Harry's Place (a putrid site) that the left has no right to protest against these actions because it failed to demonstrate when the Algerian government was conducting brutal operations in its civil war - some 180 000 people were killed in that conflict. It's a pathetically weak argument on so many fronts.
First, many on the left did protest, but where were the likes of Harry's Place viscious moles? Doubtless all out protesting in favour of the Algerian working class - no chance. They were openly laughing at the idea of muslims killing themselves in all probability. Secondly, even if it were the case that people didn't protest in any great earth changing ways, that in no way means that somehow, everyone has to stop demonstrating when anyone else, in this case Israel, starts inflicting this amount of carnage on women and children. And finally, this conflict is of a piece with the continuing war for domination that the US and its slave state are waging in the region. This conflict is the key conflict of the century. In an ideal world, we could and should be protesting about all sorts of other things in the world, things a lot smaller and less significant. However, thanks in no small part to the goons in America, their military off-shoots and their ideological warriors all over the media, we have to focus on the actions of a few Israelian politicians and their brutal IDF butcher hound. The most politically depressing thing about this is the evident pleasure the Israelis powers are getting out of this. The Israeli cabinet was charged with feeling yesterday on reports of the murderous raids.
Meanwhile, the rest of us - average and above average intelligent readers and interpreters bloggers and scribblers have to search further afeild for news about the slaughter. We filter out the gunge that comes through the MSM (like a report just on French news just now showing a hole in a school roof in Bethsada, the victim of a Hamas rocket) and treat the fodder they give us as further reason not to believe the whole official narrative.
And hope for a jolt in the whole smooth running of the killing operation. Something unexpected something from the streets something like a fightback. Soon - next year - we are gathering.
Remain calm - fuck that.
lundi 22 décembre 2008
Shoe thrower torture apology
Here at REL, we didn't even bother to 'predict' that the so called apology from the shoe thrower Muntazer al-Zaidi would be exposed as yet another American fraud. It was that obvious. You can only write so many 'I told you so's' before you start to get bored of showing that the MSM churns out lie after lie. I'm sure you knew that and also, along with us, wish the famed shoe thrower a hearty return to health and slightly better timed throwing next occasion a NATO leader is in town......
Israel attacks
It's conceivable that Israel, after its appalling blockade and starvation of Gaza, is going to launch a full scale military offensive. Here's hoping not - but if they do all decent minded people should hope for another humiliating Israeli defeat. Rot in hell you IDF dogs.
Iraq
The real reason for the Iraq war may never be known. Perhaps there wasn't one. Sure, the oil must have had something to do with it. But perhaps a clearer reason is that the elites in America knew where the economic trends were going and thought that they'd better give their troops some training in urban warfare against pissed off civilians. The way things are going, the GI's are going to need all the experience they have gleaned in dealing with irate Iraqis in quelling the coming insurrections in the US. Have you seen Athens recently?
dimanche 21 décembre 2008
samedi 20 décembre 2008
Be afraid?
"All the trends described above are already at work. Their combination and the public becoming aware of the consequences they could entail, will result in the great collective psychological trauma of Spring 2009, when everyone will realize that we are all trapped into a crisis worse than in the 1930s and that there is no possible way out in the short-term. The impact on the world’s collective mentalities of people and policy-makers will be decisive and modify significantly the course of the crisis in its next stage. Based on greater disillusion and fewer beliefs, social and political instability will settle down worldwide."
These GEAB people were 80% correct in their predictions of the current crisis. In fact, let' start just calling it the crisis. The 'current' hints at the idea of a certain temporality. Read this report and forget that type of optimism (even if it were a slight frail type of optimism). The report says the slump will only start to disapte sometime round the end of 2010, but by then, the world will have been racked by social and political turmoil. Breathe in and feel good, then, while you can - and get organising your local revolutionary cells!
These GEAB people were 80% correct in their predictions of the current crisis. In fact, let' start just calling it the crisis. The 'current' hints at the idea of a certain temporality. Read this report and forget that type of optimism (even if it were a slight frail type of optimism). The report says the slump will only start to disapte sometime round the end of 2010, but by then, the world will have been racked by social and political turmoil. Breathe in and feel good, then, while you can - and get organising your local revolutionary cells!
Please help
"People are horrified. They are frightened of being exposed. They don't know how to go on," said a Boston-area psychologist, cited in an interesting story by Svea Herbst of Reuters: “Many duped investors have been left with a sense of betrayal so strong that it will cause severe psychological scars, said Dr. James Grubman, a psychologist who counsels wealthy families in the Boston area struggling with the emotional issues of having money."
with the emotional issues of having money. What would that be, feeling smug all the time and a tendency to gloat at the 'lesser mortals' as they crawl about like ants as one glances down at them through the windwo of one's private jet. Ho!
with the emotional issues of having money. What would that be, feeling smug all the time and a tendency to gloat at the 'lesser mortals' as they crawl about like ants as one glances down at them through the windwo of one's private jet. Ho!
jeudi 18 décembre 2008
Spread
All the media nozzles are drumming up the prospect of a 'Greek contagion' - the idea, one has to deduce this, that the social discontent in Greece will spread to other parts of Europe like some kind of illness. The language used is, of course, wretchedly ideological. The demonstrations, rioting and destruction of financial targets are not symptoms of a disease, but part of the cure.
What's in a name
The Madoff scandal is hilarious of course. All those investors? Hear that - that's the smallest violin in the world playing for those gullible idiots who've lost dealing with this fraudster. But then again, the whole last eight years has been a scam. In France, all the news outlets were pronopuncing the buffoon's name as "Made-off". Too good to be true of a name - a week or so later, and the directive from on high has enforced the less revealing MAdoff [sic] in their attempts to normalise the robbery.
Poor List fragment 'The start of Kev's part in the whole thing.'
Inside a tiny, smoky pub there were seven or eight tables arranged haphazardly about a small raised corner that acted as a stage. On it, Kevin O’Hara, slight and stooped, was testing the public announcement system. There was a series of high pitched wails and screams from the speakers, followed by a stream of curses. Someone in the audience laughed over the crackle. O’Hara turned to face them too quickly. Beer from his pint pot slopped over the side and onto the cast on his left arm making him drop the microphone. There was a final crescendo of feedback before the pub’s landlord walked onto the stage, adjusted some controls and shook his head.- Fucking wankers, O’Hara said and grinned. People jeered.
- Give me that Kev, for fuck’s sake.- Ok Ok, shouted Terry shouted into the microphone. Let’s have some quite you bunch of fucking chimneys and let’s get this fucking thing started. Like always, barring any fucking power cuts, forty questions to stretch your general knowledge cell as far as it’ll go. Which isn’t that fucking far judging by last week’s fiasco. And if you want to smoke go out side. Jesus.
Someone in the front row shouted something.
- I know this is a cigarette, but I'm the fucking landlord. Is there any rozzer in? No? [sighs] Well, then, I spose you can all fucking smoke for old time’ sake eh? But use the bastard ashtrays you're not in your own fucking fleapits now.
The crowd traded abuse for a while with Terry O’Loughlin, licensed to sell beer and intoxicating liquor at The Junction Public House, Gledd Hill and authorised to vend food for public consumption therein, whilst Kevin O’Hara, unemployed of this parish, shittabed and ex-rugby star, leant on a mike stand and licked a dribble of Spark's Best from the greying scribbled on plaster about his hairy arm. There was more shouting and a drink smashed on the floor. There was a scuffle near the pinball machine. More people entered the pub from the noise of a cool May evening outside.- . . .and you’ll be down the fucking road. Yes. And as always ‘Answers with Kev’.[loud cheers].
Kevin O’Hara shuffled to the front and took an unsteady bow.
- No fucking cheating. Mobiles have been disabled, you bunch of reach rounds.
- Thank you Mister O'Loughlin for that kind introduction. Of course...
- Right, interrupted the landlord, Let us begin.
Familiar to anyone who has frequented edge of town pubs midweek, the forty questions were standard fare; show business, TV, politics and a picture and sound round. These events took time to organise, time which the landlord of The Junction resented but to which he acquiesced to doing in order to help out with Kevin's predicament and vaulting ambition, that may well have come off. That, and the guilt. It was Kev they'd all come to hear. That and the band. He brought in the punters and the way things were, The Junction needed all the trade it could get. Terry heaved a sigh and began.
Kevin O'Hara wandered round the bar and weaved in and around the tables offered advice and abuse to the teams. Three-quarters through and the Carbold Sheep Shaggers were in the lead followed by 'Summer Wine’ who were just in front of the 'Linsfield Synchronised wanking team.' Terry droned on “...played in the film Wild Strawberries? Which politician resigned from the government...into battle?..., and on, What country did the UK invade in 2010? It isn't Margaret Thatcher for fuck's sake. and on, No no fucking changing answers. Just leave it…” and out of the windows the rolling green of god’s own country basking in a petrol fuelled sunset that could have heralded the end of the world…and people drank the warm almost flat bitter and pale almost tasting beers and shouted and fell and pissed… “Can't fucking read that anyway, no fucking mark. Go away. Turn that fucking music down Lindsey I can't hear fuck all over here. And answers came there none. Right over to Kev. Where the fuck...?Kevin appeared, stage left grabbed the mic and shouted,
- Hey hey hey! Third prize free curry! Thank you Mr. Dameer of Top Taste...There was a ragged chorus from the crowd just discernible over the swelling hubbub.
- I can't fucking hear you?
Top Taste...[general shouting]
- Louder you dogs!
- Bottom Waste!
- That's right. Oh...the power.
Kevin slowly leant forward and pointed the head of the microphone to his bony derrière. There was a load prolonged rasping noise from the tilting speakers and Kevin stood straight and bowed amid general uproar.
- Chicken’s revenge. All right. All right. Second prize, [some obscenity is belched back at the crowd], four pints of Goat Fist and first prize this here bottle of whisky, only slightly used, and a full English breakfast. Hey cunts, some fucking quiet. Shite. I think I've followed through here.
Terry, shaking his head, made his way through the throng back to the bar.
Four pints Jim...So who's this then?...'like a duck to water.' I said...No five, make it five love...From round here ten a penny...Ha ha ha...No leave it...What's fifteen again?...Lost already fuck it...I had to chin him like...Ooof…Hey fuck off...Airhostess they’re called…..peanuts I said bastard peanuts...usual fucking chaos can't hear the...Terry! You better then?... ChKunk Chkunk Chkunk...more than usual fucking hell...Watch it...That's the ten quid I put into the fucker...god I'm pissed...Some fucking quiet in here...the fucking music down, down the other fucking way...You see, yer Arab well, different kettle of chips...Ha ha ha hooooow...watch it you I said...lost it she said good and proper.
- So I'm off down the social again all organised this time I’d got me little list all sorted out: “one vets” two: “sign on consultation” three: “funeral” . Day before I gets this letter from the so-shh. Got booted off the sick, haven’t I? . How can they do this to me? I mean, look at me? [cries of ‘Get off!’] Ged ‘em off? You sure? I say, this new doctor, keen as fuck, he was, said there was fuck all wrong with me. I said you must be fucking joking, have you seen me? I am as sick as a three legged dog. He tells me that I’ve the heart of an ox and hands me some photos of me on a roof with some tiles an’ that, and says if I don’t cart me sorry arse back off down Market Street Work Station that he’d have to fill in this here form and that would mean all monies suspended for the next two year, investigations inconvenience and so on and so forth blah de fucking blah like I’m sure you’re all aware. Fucking roofin’ - this bastard arm is all I’ve fucking well got to show for it. Gerry said it’s easy work. Drive around looking for loose looking stuff on rooves all over the area, bit o’ winder cleanin an’ that cash in hand for old rope. It’s goin dog’s bollocks for month or so, then me luck returns to form. There I am one minute scootin about fixing some old dear’s tiles, next thing I’m sliding down roof as fast as a greased fart. A sees the ladder speeding towards me, and I grabs fucking old of it, thinking I’m saved. Ah clings onto it as it falls back with me on first rung shouting to Jesus Allah and all the fucking gods in creation. Ends up straight onto the bastard van. Fucking ladder’s one of these flexible carbon fibre fuckers an’ it bends back like an’ catapults me over the old dear’s fence and straight through her fucking greenhouse. Mind you, you can’t argue with cunts like that. Way things are, social’s are getting a bit nowty with your more hardened dole wallah. Like me. And Baz over here. [inaudible] What’s that? I say fuck off. It's not as if any of you bastards are unfamiliar with the ways of the Palace of Plenty, [laughter] I know for a fact that there’s a fair number of yer that haven’t worked so far this fucking century, so you can stop the sarky fucking jeering. And the doctor, well he had it coming. Oh aye. Am forgetting here. Number one “Harold Pinter” Funny fucking name.
Where wor I? That was it - this particular day, the wife'd given me ‘undred quid to have done with the dog. She couldn't face tekkin to vets and have it looking at her like it were all her fault. Which it was in a way, running over the fucker like that. Fucking right performance. Number Two – Julius Caesar. He had a Roman nose like mine roamin all over his fucking face. No, Ceasar not the fucking dog he had no nose….I say how did the fucker smell….? [hoots of derision. Comedian stares out of the window, over the moors and fading light for a second. His face is caught in a shank of red sunlight. The lights come on] Fuck off then. I mean what were she thinkin’? So I’m drifting into town not looking forward to encountering the Gutterenstilefuhers down at the compound, but what can you do, when I bumps into Syrupy John half-limping and falling out the bookies on Peel Street. You know the place, Spearman’s, next to The Flying Ashtray, it’s the only betting shop you come out worse off even when you win, actually, especially when you win, and we gets talking. He says he’s been investin’ some of the compo he got for falling arse over down the factory stairs in slow horses and fast women. He asks me why I’m dressed up like a old mod so a tells him about auld fella and that, but he starts pippin on about how his life wor all fucked up, like people tend to do when you tell em bad news, and that he needs to submerge some of his troubles in some booze, so we end up poking our snouts into the ‘Drug and Bottle’ on the corner there. I had a few hours to spare and what harm could a pint or two do? Number three Brookside. Fucking what? Yeh Terry, soz, number four - Scott Joplin, of course. I once made a wish for a twelve inch penis but the magic fairy misheard me and granted me a twelve inch pianist instead. Budum. Ok – a word of explafuckingnation for the uninitiated - like the beer in here, my jokes are old and weak. [jeers] Like all o’ you’ll be one day so shut yer fucking ‘oles. Five Henry the third. Now Syrupy John is an old acquaintance of mine, what o? O yeh, soz, the fifth, we used to get expelled from school together regular and I ant seen him for yonks. Usually he were a right miserable get, but he were near suicidal this doleday. Tellin’ me ‘ow his girlfriend’d dumped im, how some cunt’d nicked ‘is car, the court cases n’all usual chat. What wi’ funeral later on, I wont that sympathetic like, so after a pint or two he gets up to buy some gunge off the brothers who kind of live in the corner of the pub and soon we’re all smoking and having a bit of a time of it. [‘comedian’ downs and finishes half pint during otherwise continual drinking] Mind you imagine Charles or whoever it’ll fucking be riding into battle. Are there any monarchists in? Fucking hell. Six because on that side you can hit someone with a sword better. What’s that you say? Is that really true? Well, that’s the fucking answer I have written here in front of me. Terrence is the font of all knowledge and he swears that’s the case so anyway as for driving, I couldn’t drive a fucking dodgem. In fact, I say, I’ve got meself banned from most of the driving schools round here. One of the reasons wife binned me [more jeers] – well that an’ shagging her sister. Later later… I say, it were just after ad necked me fifth pint of Pils that John asks us what I wor doing in town. [Get off] Silence Danny you cheeky streak o’ piss. Have you not seen the sign behind my arse here that says ‘Hecklers will be taken outside and treated roughshod’. [turns] Oh, wait a minute. No it fucking doesn’t – it says ‘Drugs will not be tolerated on these premises’ [genuine laughter]. First I’ve heard. Did you know that Baz? Fuck’s sake. How’s an honest to goodness drug dealer ‘spose to earn his keep these days with talk like that?. Last I heard, drugs were the only reason people tolerated these fucking premises. But don’t tell Terry, he does ‘is fucking best, even if his best is shit, like. Next ‘Bat droppings’. Nah nah that’s the fucking answer. No fucking stewards enquiry or nothing. What you say Janice? Well fuck me, language now language. What’s that Terry? “Stop fucking swearing for fuck’s sake?” Now usually I don’t pick fights wi’ people uglier than me but tonight I might mek an exception. You’re only joking, Janice, ok. I know. I’m trying too here, honest to fuck. Ten – four hundred and fifty nine. Can’t remember what the fucking question was. Terry gerrim a pint will yer, you’ve enough fucking enemies as it is [Audience member: “Joke Kev tell us a joke you useless cunt.”] Alright alfuckingright. Horse walks into a bar and sits down. Fella next to him says ‘No she went of ‘er own accord?’ Now fuck off. I’ll tell you a joke at the end. Mind you last job interview I had this fella asks us “So it says here you write your own jokes?” an’ I says to him “Well you must ‘ave had a laugh at me CV?” Oops watch out Barry comin’ through. Mind ‘ow you go – oh too late [laughter]. So Syrupy John is telling me all about the compo he’d got for his little accident at work. Now bear with me cos this might explain a few things that’s been happenin round here. Syrupy John works in the pop industry. Knows all the big names, flash clothes, big shiny car the women round ‘im like he’s God’s gift [puts on deep voice] ‘I’m int pop industry luv an’ you look as if you’ve got woddit teks.” That’s right he works at Boyd’s and Harrap’s fuckin’ fizzy drink factory.
I’m not sure I believed the cunt but, like, he’s fallen down the stairs after sliding on some stuff that should of got cleaned up or summat and proper fucked his leg up. No more burglaries for a week or two, he tells me. The judge at the tribunal believes all the stuff and grants him twenty grand or so. Not much but it’ll do he says. I believe you John I says after he’s told me whole tale – thousands wouldn’t like. Thing was he were still furious with the gaffer he worked for. Some rancour with this manager and he’s telling me his plans for revenge like. His leg is glowin with pain and he swears that only six pints of strong Czech lager can possibly provide the necessary pain relief. [sings] “Then I go an spoil it all by drinkin sixteen pints of strong Czech lager…la la lalala” [belches cavernously] I promise I’ll sing at end [cheers]. So his argumentation you might say is a little on the vague side. My intellectual capacities have been reduced by the poison pils they sell in there an all the fumes an that. But what he tells me of his devilish plan an what I remember about it had a kind of daring do about it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but praps I’ll tell you later. All right here are some more fucking answers….ninety ninety seven. Fuck me, that long ago? Fifteen, ‘The Penis Pills’, o’ course. Fucking top band. I seh, there I am like, I’m in the middle of town middler day with a load of flutter in me pocket . It felt like my life had ‘turned round’ like it says on posters. But it all fell to shite somewhere after me sixth pint. Consulfuckingtation. Question seventeen, Sadamm Hussein – yeah remember him? I say, My memory’s going. Iraq, yeh that were it remember? An’ I’ll tell you another thing, my memory’s going. [terms of abuse from crowd] Have said that ‘ave a? So, anyway before I know where I am, am ‘aving to leg it as fast as I could to get to fucking Work Stop or Hand Out or whatever they call themselves these days on time. I stumble into the gaff propped up pissed, and number seventeen ‘S’. ‘S’ for shitfer like you Scoddy. O T T F F the next one is S. How obvious, some fucker explain it to him will you. Any top up, I gets to the desk in this place an some from behind a thick plazzie screen gives me a ticket an tells me to tek a seat. Now I don’t know if you’re familiar with Queens House’s interior décor but I doubt whether Regina herself ever parked her airy arse on one of these plastic jobs. Thing is, they’re all nailed to the ground so they don’t get flung about an that and they’re all worn smooth from all the layabout arse from round here that’s got to sit on them waiting for a pickmeup. It’s dark and there’s cameras everywhere making me feel all paranoid an that. Well they do when you’re all mashed up like I was. Plus there’s all these heavy duty posters dotted about informing you of the dangers of been a scrammer an’ that. Most horribly of all, this day, I couldn’t find the shithouse. Eight. What can you do when you can’t and can’t when you can? [disorderly shouting and haranguement of performer] All right all right. I say what kind of fucking questions that, Terry? Answer, drivin’ of course [shouts of outrage]. Don’t blame me Errol. I say, driving. Things the way they are, it’s not easy keeping yer motor on the road, such as they are, these days. A lot of you get about with no licenses, insurance, stolen cars an’ all [indignant cries] that. Me? Never even passed. Like a seh. Tried a load of times. Pearson’s driving school went bust after I finished with them. Last test instructor, Greg I think he were called, passes me this list as am getting in , “WCO. What the fuck does that mean?” I said “Wrote Car Off.”, he says. “But it’s already been ticked?” “Well it saves time at the end don’t it you useless cunt.” Nineteen , From the German 'frichen'. Twenty Charles Dickens . Christ. So I gets up an asks one of the security guards where the bogs were but he just looks at me like am shit on his shoe. Turns out, bogs are all out of fucking order. Picture round – twenty is the latest Foreign Secretary, Graham Woodcock. I say, when he lies does his cock gets bigger – missus must be an happy woman…Me number’s up so it’s too fucking late anyway. The people at Queen’s House are an impatient bunch so I weaves off to the cubicle down the corridor. It’s a fucking depressing place like down the cop shop – tiny little fuck off rooms, carpet the colour of shite, walls the colour of piss an’ with posters all over them. Plus some orrible eighties fucking music. I was bug eyed pissed and fucking bustin’ but this nonce sets me up for a truth test and probe and all the fucking works. Fucking hair net thing and some crocodile clips on me fingers. For a moment I thought they were going to do for me [fucking should of done - voice in crowd.] . . . Was that a shaft of wit or was it a whaft of shit! [whaft of shit shaft of wit - inaudible] anyfuckingway, the two main gaffers stroll in from a door behind the plastic screen with these fuck off files and starts with the questions and that. Twenty one, Bernie Sumner or someone, though I 'ope he has seen better days judging from that photo. So, where wor I? [inaudible] Watch it you! I say, kiss, I say kiss I say kiss the back of me bollocks! [raucous cheers]. Twenty six Lady Diana – remember her? Queen did for her you know? Did for the brakes of the car an' that. Honest to fuck. So, these two types start grilling me good and proper name address, marital status, size o’ me cock an all the time looking at this little screen for to see if I’m telling porkies. I am most of the time, but like Syrupy John said, if you think about sex hard enough, the machine gets all fucked up. Speaking of which twenty eight – The Prime Minister himself. [boos, cheers]. I say, he’s doing a fine job considering the pressure he’s under. [laughter]. Must be a woman somewhere he hasn't shagged and country somewhere he don’t want to invade. I nearly joined the army once, meet interesting people and kill them and all that, but I failed the eye test through been a wanker all me life they said. Well fuck ‘em. Any army in tonight? O fuck. No fence. Any root, the woman starts giving me a real hard time an starts droning on about job hunting, responsibilities and stuff, but it’s the cocky little fella who’s pissing me off. He’s sat there all serious and smug and keeps pouring out water from a bottle into his glass an' drinkin' it real slow like and it starts to remind me of the seven pints of pils or so I’ve just supped. Bear with me here because it explainas a lot of things – Thirty, Cilla Black? Who? Like, I’m just nodding away trying to think of Stella Ambrose and not pissing myself. Not that she were a barrel of laughs or out. Because, by the looks am getting what am saying’s not making for a convincing job finder’s profile. Thirty one, the rocket’s gold plated! Not the send off me old fella got last month that’s for sure. Police are still referring to it all as the ‘Cemetry Road Incident’ apparently – yeh it made the papers. Partly my fault, family tensions and that, all boiled over in the church, things got out of 'and you know how it is. Well it’s what he would a wanted. Stupid twat. So I’m telling them about the fall, the lay-offs and misunderstandings and being sick and all that but these officers are having none of it and the woman, a right bitter looking thing, takes her glasses off and starts some loud spiel about stark incentives, new programs and measures to be taken and a load of other stuff I’m in no fit state to hear. ‘Cos all I can think about is leaning against a piss stone somewhere quite and perhaps blowing my chunks. Thirty Two – Chicago, of course. So I waits for a pause in the conversation, which were quite a fucking while, and asks if there’s a bog in the joint. Fella laughs, but the woman takes exception to this and nearly starts hyperventilating. Starts talking to me like an irate Headmistress or sommat. Now the Swiegen Pils in the Drug is a rough fucker of a pint. Syrupy John is a placid bloke but I remember one Friday night they had to call the cops after he’d had five pint. Took three rozzer to hold him down an' all whilst the fourth sorted out his broken nose. And I’ve seen many of you lot crawling about after a bollock full of it before you start. So, one of its many side effects is that it can make you a little short tempered. Plus Rick fucking Astley’s back catalogue playing away is not helping. As the questions carry on I gets to thinking all sorts of fates I could inflict on these fuckers and I hear myself say something in my defence. I say “Look I think I may have become a tad disillusioned with the world of work, that's all.” and some other stuff about hitting concrete ceilings an that. The bloke looks at me all side ways glances and that and says them's quite big words for someone from Clemmed and even the mother figure has a laugh too. Now I know given the scores you fuckers get in these quizzes that we are all pretty fucking far away from being the brains of Britain. We all know that that’s why Jesus Crust our saviour was not born in Held – no fucker could find three wise men – or a virgin for that matter, but there was no fucking need for this type of language. Not that I wor in any shape for any physical argy bargy or nothing. Besides there’s a screen in front of them. So I says words to the effect that just because I weren’t educated that don’t make me stupid or nothing. Are there any students in. Thought so ‘synchronised wanking team’ is it? You’re not going to win tonight’s funniest name with that are you, you cunts! But, anyway, the old lady can see I’ve ‘ad a few and that I’m slurrin’ me words a bit. [puts on posh voice] ‘Mr. O’Hara, you’re inebriated I fear.’ The cocky cunt with the sharp suit laughs and shakes his head. But before I could stop meself like, I’m stood up thinking ‘Fuck it.’ And I pops freddy out me trousers an’ starts falling about an' pissin on the chair, on the lie detector stuff that’s fallen on the floor, the posters on the wall an’ up and down the plazzie screen. [laughter]. There’s consternation back stage an’ the fella must have pressed an alarm ‘cos there’s this siren all of a sudden, and before I could finish, these two big security guards ‘ave burst in, all shouting growling and start setting about me and grabbing me and that whilst getting covered in piss. One of them, takin’ exception, holds me up whilst his chum weighs in with a few punches to me old guts. There’s a lot more arguing and thrashing about as I’m manhandled through door, and dragged down the corridor, me bastard cock all waving about still, through the foyer- all stuffed with joe public - and hurled down the ramp outside. I didn’t even have time to sign on. If the day ad started bad, it got worse later. Any toot, it’s time now for our traditional karee-okie round. [inaudible clamour] Ok, Ok I’ll sing something later. [cheers] Samantha you’re up next – who’s up Samantha next though wey hey – oof – alright I suppose I deserve that love. What’s that you say you’re doing? ‘I will always love you’ [cries of mock anguish from now packed house]. A perennial favourite in any alternative universe so give it up for Sam! [applause].
Kevin O’Hara sits at a table with three others as people bring in amplifiers, guitars and drum equipment. Rain hammered against the windows.
Kev shouts over the noise, “Christ. So how much will I be getting?
The woman looked at the man to her left and nodded. He says, “Two hundred up front and ten per cent of the bar.”
“Fifteen.” Kev says and downed the rest of his pint.
“Fine. Just swear a bit more, the punters down our end love that kind of thing. But lose the sexist stuff. Gets on the Equality woman’s tits.”
“Student cunts. I’ll get some fucking practice in. Cheers anyway. Terry. Terry!! Get these tossers some drinks in will you?”
- Thank you Samantha. Someone’ll have the place under some Health and Safety directive, fuckin hell. So there I am looking down at a pool of semi-digested pils glistening on the pavement not feeling my best. It’s half three I’ve thirty quid left out of the ton for the vet and late for me auld man’s funeral. I teks refuge in the The Flying Ashtray for a livener an’ after that things get a bit vague, but next up I’m back home four hours later, fuck knows how, slumped in front o telly soaked through, with a two litre bottle of cider. Dog limps in through the door and stares at me with its one good eye. Now am not an heartless bastard despite what some say [ironic taunts from some in the crowd] but matters had to be taken in hand. Oh yeh results. Looks like the stoodents have won this week. Best name, though, goes to ‘It’s your funeral’. Terry’ll sort out the prizes! So I pats dog on head. We had our differences , he pissed on me clothes and chewed me slippers and I kicked him about a bit, but you know, you gets used to having things round the place an’ that. So I teks a huge toke of the cider, Silver Sword - [sings] 'a drink that needs no introduction', and we go outside intert little yard round back. It were fucking pissing it down. I goes to the shed a bit choked an’ that. He’s sat there tied up looking expectant, I could just see his face in the street light like, breathin’ like a miner on his last and smelling like a pot of cabbage. I close door, quiet like, and I says to him that I’m not right proud of this and tries to explain that I’ve been forced into a bit of a corner but he just licks his chops and tries to look as enthusiastic as a three legged dog with renal failure can look. He looked at me with his great big brown eyes kind of pleading. [minute pause in crowd noise]. And I it him with a spade. I swung this mighty garden tool over me shoulder, fucking killed me busted arm and all, and ‘whoomph’ right on his bonce. Falls over like a cut off tree not a noise out of him. Trouble was, I’d only stunned the bugger, he were still twitching and making this whimpering sound. There were blood everywhere. So I hits him again. Fucking right mess. He stops breathing this time and I stagger over to the hedge and throws up into next door’s garden. I’m fucking freezing by now and covered in blood. I hadn’t planned it out all that well and were in a bit of a panic as I looked at his prostrate form lying there in the pouring rain. Fuck knows how murderers manage but I takes another gulp of cider and carries the bugger over to a quiet place on the common at back of us, fucking right job and all, and digs a shallow grave. He was a pretty big dog and it nearly did for me. Good job it were a terrible night and the ground were all soft and that. No fucker saw us. [pause]. Don't think. Any road, gets back looking like a serial killer. Sweating, piss wet through, busted lip from somewhere, trembling and covered in blood. Fucking Crimewatch. But hey come on don’t look so down. Like Syrupy John says ‘Cheer up soon be dead!’ Look, here’s a joke before I sign off with a song. There might be someone in here who’s not heard it before. Farmer and his wife are trying to have kids….[the lights’ primary colours shine back and forth and pick out faces in the crowd…the fruit machine flickers…raised voices and shouts…a guitarist tunes up…a drummer tests a bass drum]… - he rushes back inside and says ‘What the fuck are you doing in bed get up you lazy bitch, get up, the fucking barn’s on fire. [disproportionate prolonged laughter]. Yeh, thanks fer trying’. Any toot, I’m off to university! First in my family to go like. Next month got us a gig down at the Black Hole or summat second on bill only to tonight’s guest ‘Airhostess [ragged cheers] And like I promised a fucking song!! [cheers whistles] ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog’!! Elvis….too young to die [section of crowd shout - too fat to live!] Hit it Terry! Thank you and good night! [jubilant singing from crowd, more cheers].
- Give me that Kev, for fuck’s sake.- Ok Ok, shouted Terry shouted into the microphone. Let’s have some quite you bunch of fucking chimneys and let’s get this fucking thing started. Like always, barring any fucking power cuts, forty questions to stretch your general knowledge cell as far as it’ll go. Which isn’t that fucking far judging by last week’s fiasco. And if you want to smoke go out side. Jesus.
Someone in the front row shouted something.
- I know this is a cigarette, but I'm the fucking landlord. Is there any rozzer in? No? [sighs] Well, then, I spose you can all fucking smoke for old time’ sake eh? But use the bastard ashtrays you're not in your own fucking fleapits now.
The crowd traded abuse for a while with Terry O’Loughlin, licensed to sell beer and intoxicating liquor at The Junction Public House, Gledd Hill and authorised to vend food for public consumption therein, whilst Kevin O’Hara, unemployed of this parish, shittabed and ex-rugby star, leant on a mike stand and licked a dribble of Spark's Best from the greying scribbled on plaster about his hairy arm. There was more shouting and a drink smashed on the floor. There was a scuffle near the pinball machine. More people entered the pub from the noise of a cool May evening outside.- . . .and you’ll be down the fucking road. Yes. And as always ‘Answers with Kev’.[loud cheers].
Kevin O’Hara shuffled to the front and took an unsteady bow.
- No fucking cheating. Mobiles have been disabled, you bunch of reach rounds.
- Thank you Mister O'Loughlin for that kind introduction. Of course...
- Right, interrupted the landlord, Let us begin.
Familiar to anyone who has frequented edge of town pubs midweek, the forty questions were standard fare; show business, TV, politics and a picture and sound round. These events took time to organise, time which the landlord of The Junction resented but to which he acquiesced to doing in order to help out with Kevin's predicament and vaulting ambition, that may well have come off. That, and the guilt. It was Kev they'd all come to hear. That and the band. He brought in the punters and the way things were, The Junction needed all the trade it could get. Terry heaved a sigh and began.
Kevin O'Hara wandered round the bar and weaved in and around the tables offered advice and abuse to the teams. Three-quarters through and the Carbold Sheep Shaggers were in the lead followed by 'Summer Wine’ who were just in front of the 'Linsfield Synchronised wanking team.' Terry droned on “...played in the film Wild Strawberries? Which politician resigned from the government...into battle?..., and on, What country did the UK invade in 2010? It isn't Margaret Thatcher for fuck's sake. and on, No no fucking changing answers. Just leave it…” and out of the windows the rolling green of god’s own country basking in a petrol fuelled sunset that could have heralded the end of the world…and people drank the warm almost flat bitter and pale almost tasting beers and shouted and fell and pissed… “Can't fucking read that anyway, no fucking mark. Go away. Turn that fucking music down Lindsey I can't hear fuck all over here. And answers came there none. Right over to Kev. Where the fuck...?Kevin appeared, stage left grabbed the mic and shouted,
- Hey hey hey! Third prize free curry! Thank you Mr. Dameer of Top Taste...There was a ragged chorus from the crowd just discernible over the swelling hubbub.
- I can't fucking hear you?
Top Taste...[general shouting]
- Louder you dogs!
- Bottom Waste!
- That's right. Oh...the power.
Kevin slowly leant forward and pointed the head of the microphone to his bony derrière. There was a load prolonged rasping noise from the tilting speakers and Kevin stood straight and bowed amid general uproar.
- Chicken’s revenge. All right. All right. Second prize, [some obscenity is belched back at the crowd], four pints of Goat Fist and first prize this here bottle of whisky, only slightly used, and a full English breakfast. Hey cunts, some fucking quiet. Shite. I think I've followed through here.
Terry, shaking his head, made his way through the throng back to the bar.
Four pints Jim...So who's this then?...'like a duck to water.' I said...No five, make it five love...From round here ten a penny...Ha ha ha...No leave it...What's fifteen again?...Lost already fuck it...I had to chin him like...Ooof…Hey fuck off...Airhostess they’re called…..peanuts I said bastard peanuts...usual fucking chaos can't hear the...Terry! You better then?... ChKunk Chkunk Chkunk...more than usual fucking hell...Watch it...That's the ten quid I put into the fucker...god I'm pissed...Some fucking quiet in here...the fucking music down, down the other fucking way...You see, yer Arab well, different kettle of chips...Ha ha ha hooooow...watch it you I said...lost it she said good and proper.
- So I'm off down the social again all organised this time I’d got me little list all sorted out: “one vets” two: “sign on consultation” three: “funeral” . Day before I gets this letter from the so-shh. Got booted off the sick, haven’t I? . How can they do this to me? I mean, look at me? [cries of ‘Get off!’] Ged ‘em off? You sure? I say, this new doctor, keen as fuck, he was, said there was fuck all wrong with me. I said you must be fucking joking, have you seen me? I am as sick as a three legged dog. He tells me that I’ve the heart of an ox and hands me some photos of me on a roof with some tiles an’ that, and says if I don’t cart me sorry arse back off down Market Street Work Station that he’d have to fill in this here form and that would mean all monies suspended for the next two year, investigations inconvenience and so on and so forth blah de fucking blah like I’m sure you’re all aware. Fucking roofin’ - this bastard arm is all I’ve fucking well got to show for it. Gerry said it’s easy work. Drive around looking for loose looking stuff on rooves all over the area, bit o’ winder cleanin an’ that cash in hand for old rope. It’s goin dog’s bollocks for month or so, then me luck returns to form. There I am one minute scootin about fixing some old dear’s tiles, next thing I’m sliding down roof as fast as a greased fart. A sees the ladder speeding towards me, and I grabs fucking old of it, thinking I’m saved. Ah clings onto it as it falls back with me on first rung shouting to Jesus Allah and all the fucking gods in creation. Ends up straight onto the bastard van. Fucking ladder’s one of these flexible carbon fibre fuckers an’ it bends back like an’ catapults me over the old dear’s fence and straight through her fucking greenhouse. Mind you, you can’t argue with cunts like that. Way things are, social’s are getting a bit nowty with your more hardened dole wallah. Like me. And Baz over here. [inaudible] What’s that? I say fuck off. It's not as if any of you bastards are unfamiliar with the ways of the Palace of Plenty, [laughter] I know for a fact that there’s a fair number of yer that haven’t worked so far this fucking century, so you can stop the sarky fucking jeering. And the doctor, well he had it coming. Oh aye. Am forgetting here. Number one “Harold Pinter” Funny fucking name.
Where wor I? That was it - this particular day, the wife'd given me ‘undred quid to have done with the dog. She couldn't face tekkin to vets and have it looking at her like it were all her fault. Which it was in a way, running over the fucker like that. Fucking right performance. Number Two – Julius Caesar. He had a Roman nose like mine roamin all over his fucking face. No, Ceasar not the fucking dog he had no nose….I say how did the fucker smell….? [hoots of derision. Comedian stares out of the window, over the moors and fading light for a second. His face is caught in a shank of red sunlight. The lights come on] Fuck off then. I mean what were she thinkin’? So I’m drifting into town not looking forward to encountering the Gutterenstilefuhers down at the compound, but what can you do, when I bumps into Syrupy John half-limping and falling out the bookies on Peel Street. You know the place, Spearman’s, next to The Flying Ashtray, it’s the only betting shop you come out worse off even when you win, actually, especially when you win, and we gets talking. He says he’s been investin’ some of the compo he got for falling arse over down the factory stairs in slow horses and fast women. He asks me why I’m dressed up like a old mod so a tells him about auld fella and that, but he starts pippin on about how his life wor all fucked up, like people tend to do when you tell em bad news, and that he needs to submerge some of his troubles in some booze, so we end up poking our snouts into the ‘Drug and Bottle’ on the corner there. I had a few hours to spare and what harm could a pint or two do? Number three Brookside. Fucking what? Yeh Terry, soz, number four - Scott Joplin, of course. I once made a wish for a twelve inch penis but the magic fairy misheard me and granted me a twelve inch pianist instead. Budum. Ok – a word of explafuckingnation for the uninitiated - like the beer in here, my jokes are old and weak. [jeers] Like all o’ you’ll be one day so shut yer fucking ‘oles. Five Henry the third. Now Syrupy John is an old acquaintance of mine, what o? O yeh, soz, the fifth, we used to get expelled from school together regular and I ant seen him for yonks. Usually he were a right miserable get, but he were near suicidal this doleday. Tellin’ me ‘ow his girlfriend’d dumped im, how some cunt’d nicked ‘is car, the court cases n’all usual chat. What wi’ funeral later on, I wont that sympathetic like, so after a pint or two he gets up to buy some gunge off the brothers who kind of live in the corner of the pub and soon we’re all smoking and having a bit of a time of it. [‘comedian’ downs and finishes half pint during otherwise continual drinking] Mind you imagine Charles or whoever it’ll fucking be riding into battle. Are there any monarchists in? Fucking hell. Six because on that side you can hit someone with a sword better. What’s that you say? Is that really true? Well, that’s the fucking answer I have written here in front of me. Terrence is the font of all knowledge and he swears that’s the case so anyway as for driving, I couldn’t drive a fucking dodgem. In fact, I say, I’ve got meself banned from most of the driving schools round here. One of the reasons wife binned me [more jeers] – well that an’ shagging her sister. Later later… I say, it were just after ad necked me fifth pint of Pils that John asks us what I wor doing in town. [Get off] Silence Danny you cheeky streak o’ piss. Have you not seen the sign behind my arse here that says ‘Hecklers will be taken outside and treated roughshod’. [turns] Oh, wait a minute. No it fucking doesn’t – it says ‘Drugs will not be tolerated on these premises’ [genuine laughter]. First I’ve heard. Did you know that Baz? Fuck’s sake. How’s an honest to goodness drug dealer ‘spose to earn his keep these days with talk like that?. Last I heard, drugs were the only reason people tolerated these fucking premises. But don’t tell Terry, he does ‘is fucking best, even if his best is shit, like. Next ‘Bat droppings’. Nah nah that’s the fucking answer. No fucking stewards enquiry or nothing. What you say Janice? Well fuck me, language now language. What’s that Terry? “Stop fucking swearing for fuck’s sake?” Now usually I don’t pick fights wi’ people uglier than me but tonight I might mek an exception. You’re only joking, Janice, ok. I know. I’m trying too here, honest to fuck. Ten – four hundred and fifty nine. Can’t remember what the fucking question was. Terry gerrim a pint will yer, you’ve enough fucking enemies as it is [Audience member: “Joke Kev tell us a joke you useless cunt.”] Alright alfuckingright. Horse walks into a bar and sits down. Fella next to him says ‘No she went of ‘er own accord?’ Now fuck off. I’ll tell you a joke at the end. Mind you last job interview I had this fella asks us “So it says here you write your own jokes?” an’ I says to him “Well you must ‘ave had a laugh at me CV?” Oops watch out Barry comin’ through. Mind ‘ow you go – oh too late [laughter]. So Syrupy John is telling me all about the compo he’d got for his little accident at work. Now bear with me cos this might explain a few things that’s been happenin round here. Syrupy John works in the pop industry. Knows all the big names, flash clothes, big shiny car the women round ‘im like he’s God’s gift [puts on deep voice] ‘I’m int pop industry luv an’ you look as if you’ve got woddit teks.” That’s right he works at Boyd’s and Harrap’s fuckin’ fizzy drink factory.
I’m not sure I believed the cunt but, like, he’s fallen down the stairs after sliding on some stuff that should of got cleaned up or summat and proper fucked his leg up. No more burglaries for a week or two, he tells me. The judge at the tribunal believes all the stuff and grants him twenty grand or so. Not much but it’ll do he says. I believe you John I says after he’s told me whole tale – thousands wouldn’t like. Thing was he were still furious with the gaffer he worked for. Some rancour with this manager and he’s telling me his plans for revenge like. His leg is glowin with pain and he swears that only six pints of strong Czech lager can possibly provide the necessary pain relief. [sings] “Then I go an spoil it all by drinkin sixteen pints of strong Czech lager…la la lalala” [belches cavernously] I promise I’ll sing at end [cheers]. So his argumentation you might say is a little on the vague side. My intellectual capacities have been reduced by the poison pils they sell in there an all the fumes an that. But what he tells me of his devilish plan an what I remember about it had a kind of daring do about it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but praps I’ll tell you later. All right here are some more fucking answers….ninety ninety seven. Fuck me, that long ago? Fifteen, ‘The Penis Pills’, o’ course. Fucking top band. I seh, there I am like, I’m in the middle of town middler day with a load of flutter in me pocket . It felt like my life had ‘turned round’ like it says on posters. But it all fell to shite somewhere after me sixth pint. Consulfuckingtation. Question seventeen, Sadamm Hussein – yeah remember him? I say, My memory’s going. Iraq, yeh that were it remember? An’ I’ll tell you another thing, my memory’s going. [terms of abuse from crowd] Have said that ‘ave a? So, anyway before I know where I am, am ‘aving to leg it as fast as I could to get to fucking Work Stop or Hand Out or whatever they call themselves these days on time. I stumble into the gaff propped up pissed, and number seventeen ‘S’. ‘S’ for shitfer like you Scoddy. O T T F F the next one is S. How obvious, some fucker explain it to him will you. Any top up, I gets to the desk in this place an some from behind a thick plazzie screen gives me a ticket an tells me to tek a seat. Now I don’t know if you’re familiar with Queens House’s interior décor but I doubt whether Regina herself ever parked her airy arse on one of these plastic jobs. Thing is, they’re all nailed to the ground so they don’t get flung about an that and they’re all worn smooth from all the layabout arse from round here that’s got to sit on them waiting for a pickmeup. It’s dark and there’s cameras everywhere making me feel all paranoid an that. Well they do when you’re all mashed up like I was. Plus there’s all these heavy duty posters dotted about informing you of the dangers of been a scrammer an’ that. Most horribly of all, this day, I couldn’t find the shithouse. Eight. What can you do when you can’t and can’t when you can? [disorderly shouting and haranguement of performer] All right all right. I say what kind of fucking questions that, Terry? Answer, drivin’ of course [shouts of outrage]. Don’t blame me Errol. I say, driving. Things the way they are, it’s not easy keeping yer motor on the road, such as they are, these days. A lot of you get about with no licenses, insurance, stolen cars an’ all [indignant cries] that. Me? Never even passed. Like a seh. Tried a load of times. Pearson’s driving school went bust after I finished with them. Last test instructor, Greg I think he were called, passes me this list as am getting in , “WCO. What the fuck does that mean?” I said “Wrote Car Off.”, he says. “But it’s already been ticked?” “Well it saves time at the end don’t it you useless cunt.” Nineteen , From the German 'frichen'. Twenty Charles Dickens . Christ. So I gets up an asks one of the security guards where the bogs were but he just looks at me like am shit on his shoe. Turns out, bogs are all out of fucking order. Picture round – twenty is the latest Foreign Secretary, Graham Woodcock. I say, when he lies does his cock gets bigger – missus must be an happy woman…Me number’s up so it’s too fucking late anyway. The people at Queen’s House are an impatient bunch so I weaves off to the cubicle down the corridor. It’s a fucking depressing place like down the cop shop – tiny little fuck off rooms, carpet the colour of shite, walls the colour of piss an’ with posters all over them. Plus some orrible eighties fucking music. I was bug eyed pissed and fucking bustin’ but this nonce sets me up for a truth test and probe and all the fucking works. Fucking hair net thing and some crocodile clips on me fingers. For a moment I thought they were going to do for me [fucking should of done - voice in crowd.] . . . Was that a shaft of wit or was it a whaft of shit! [whaft of shit shaft of wit - inaudible] anyfuckingway, the two main gaffers stroll in from a door behind the plastic screen with these fuck off files and starts with the questions and that. Twenty one, Bernie Sumner or someone, though I 'ope he has seen better days judging from that photo. So, where wor I? [inaudible] Watch it you! I say, kiss, I say kiss I say kiss the back of me bollocks! [raucous cheers]. Twenty six Lady Diana – remember her? Queen did for her you know? Did for the brakes of the car an' that. Honest to fuck. So, these two types start grilling me good and proper name address, marital status, size o’ me cock an all the time looking at this little screen for to see if I’m telling porkies. I am most of the time, but like Syrupy John said, if you think about sex hard enough, the machine gets all fucked up. Speaking of which twenty eight – The Prime Minister himself. [boos, cheers]. I say, he’s doing a fine job considering the pressure he’s under. [laughter]. Must be a woman somewhere he hasn't shagged and country somewhere he don’t want to invade. I nearly joined the army once, meet interesting people and kill them and all that, but I failed the eye test through been a wanker all me life they said. Well fuck ‘em. Any army in tonight? O fuck. No fence. Any root, the woman starts giving me a real hard time an starts droning on about job hunting, responsibilities and stuff, but it’s the cocky little fella who’s pissing me off. He’s sat there all serious and smug and keeps pouring out water from a bottle into his glass an' drinkin' it real slow like and it starts to remind me of the seven pints of pils or so I’ve just supped. Bear with me here because it explainas a lot of things – Thirty, Cilla Black? Who? Like, I’m just nodding away trying to think of Stella Ambrose and not pissing myself. Not that she were a barrel of laughs or out. Because, by the looks am getting what am saying’s not making for a convincing job finder’s profile. Thirty one, the rocket’s gold plated! Not the send off me old fella got last month that’s for sure. Police are still referring to it all as the ‘Cemetry Road Incident’ apparently – yeh it made the papers. Partly my fault, family tensions and that, all boiled over in the church, things got out of 'and you know how it is. Well it’s what he would a wanted. Stupid twat. So I’m telling them about the fall, the lay-offs and misunderstandings and being sick and all that but these officers are having none of it and the woman, a right bitter looking thing, takes her glasses off and starts some loud spiel about stark incentives, new programs and measures to be taken and a load of other stuff I’m in no fit state to hear. ‘Cos all I can think about is leaning against a piss stone somewhere quite and perhaps blowing my chunks. Thirty Two – Chicago, of course. So I waits for a pause in the conversation, which were quite a fucking while, and asks if there’s a bog in the joint. Fella laughs, but the woman takes exception to this and nearly starts hyperventilating. Starts talking to me like an irate Headmistress or sommat. Now the Swiegen Pils in the Drug is a rough fucker of a pint. Syrupy John is a placid bloke but I remember one Friday night they had to call the cops after he’d had five pint. Took three rozzer to hold him down an' all whilst the fourth sorted out his broken nose. And I’ve seen many of you lot crawling about after a bollock full of it before you start. So, one of its many side effects is that it can make you a little short tempered. Plus Rick fucking Astley’s back catalogue playing away is not helping. As the questions carry on I gets to thinking all sorts of fates I could inflict on these fuckers and I hear myself say something in my defence. I say “Look I think I may have become a tad disillusioned with the world of work, that's all.” and some other stuff about hitting concrete ceilings an that. The bloke looks at me all side ways glances and that and says them's quite big words for someone from Clemmed and even the mother figure has a laugh too. Now I know given the scores you fuckers get in these quizzes that we are all pretty fucking far away from being the brains of Britain. We all know that that’s why Jesus Crust our saviour was not born in Held – no fucker could find three wise men – or a virgin for that matter, but there was no fucking need for this type of language. Not that I wor in any shape for any physical argy bargy or nothing. Besides there’s a screen in front of them. So I says words to the effect that just because I weren’t educated that don’t make me stupid or nothing. Are there any students in. Thought so ‘synchronised wanking team’ is it? You’re not going to win tonight’s funniest name with that are you, you cunts! But, anyway, the old lady can see I’ve ‘ad a few and that I’m slurrin’ me words a bit. [puts on posh voice] ‘Mr. O’Hara, you’re inebriated I fear.’ The cocky cunt with the sharp suit laughs and shakes his head. But before I could stop meself like, I’m stood up thinking ‘Fuck it.’ And I pops freddy out me trousers an’ starts falling about an' pissin on the chair, on the lie detector stuff that’s fallen on the floor, the posters on the wall an’ up and down the plazzie screen. [laughter]. There’s consternation back stage an’ the fella must have pressed an alarm ‘cos there’s this siren all of a sudden, and before I could finish, these two big security guards ‘ave burst in, all shouting growling and start setting about me and grabbing me and that whilst getting covered in piss. One of them, takin’ exception, holds me up whilst his chum weighs in with a few punches to me old guts. There’s a lot more arguing and thrashing about as I’m manhandled through door, and dragged down the corridor, me bastard cock all waving about still, through the foyer- all stuffed with joe public - and hurled down the ramp outside. I didn’t even have time to sign on. If the day ad started bad, it got worse later. Any toot, it’s time now for our traditional karee-okie round. [inaudible clamour] Ok, Ok I’ll sing something later. [cheers] Samantha you’re up next – who’s up Samantha next though wey hey – oof – alright I suppose I deserve that love. What’s that you say you’re doing? ‘I will always love you’ [cries of mock anguish from now packed house]. A perennial favourite in any alternative universe so give it up for Sam! [applause].
Kevin O’Hara sits at a table with three others as people bring in amplifiers, guitars and drum equipment. Rain hammered against the windows.
Kev shouts over the noise, “Christ. So how much will I be getting?
The woman looked at the man to her left and nodded. He says, “Two hundred up front and ten per cent of the bar.”
“Fifteen.” Kev says and downed the rest of his pint.
“Fine. Just swear a bit more, the punters down our end love that kind of thing. But lose the sexist stuff. Gets on the Equality woman’s tits.”
“Student cunts. I’ll get some fucking practice in. Cheers anyway. Terry. Terry!! Get these tossers some drinks in will you?”
- Thank you Samantha. Someone’ll have the place under some Health and Safety directive, fuckin hell. So there I am looking down at a pool of semi-digested pils glistening on the pavement not feeling my best. It’s half three I’ve thirty quid left out of the ton for the vet and late for me auld man’s funeral. I teks refuge in the The Flying Ashtray for a livener an’ after that things get a bit vague, but next up I’m back home four hours later, fuck knows how, slumped in front o telly soaked through, with a two litre bottle of cider. Dog limps in through the door and stares at me with its one good eye. Now am not an heartless bastard despite what some say [ironic taunts from some in the crowd] but matters had to be taken in hand. Oh yeh results. Looks like the stoodents have won this week. Best name, though, goes to ‘It’s your funeral’. Terry’ll sort out the prizes! So I pats dog on head. We had our differences , he pissed on me clothes and chewed me slippers and I kicked him about a bit, but you know, you gets used to having things round the place an’ that. So I teks a huge toke of the cider, Silver Sword - [sings] 'a drink that needs no introduction', and we go outside intert little yard round back. It were fucking pissing it down. I goes to the shed a bit choked an’ that. He’s sat there tied up looking expectant, I could just see his face in the street light like, breathin’ like a miner on his last and smelling like a pot of cabbage. I close door, quiet like, and I says to him that I’m not right proud of this and tries to explain that I’ve been forced into a bit of a corner but he just licks his chops and tries to look as enthusiastic as a three legged dog with renal failure can look. He looked at me with his great big brown eyes kind of pleading. [minute pause in crowd noise]. And I it him with a spade. I swung this mighty garden tool over me shoulder, fucking killed me busted arm and all, and ‘whoomph’ right on his bonce. Falls over like a cut off tree not a noise out of him. Trouble was, I’d only stunned the bugger, he were still twitching and making this whimpering sound. There were blood everywhere. So I hits him again. Fucking right mess. He stops breathing this time and I stagger over to the hedge and throws up into next door’s garden. I’m fucking freezing by now and covered in blood. I hadn’t planned it out all that well and were in a bit of a panic as I looked at his prostrate form lying there in the pouring rain. Fuck knows how murderers manage but I takes another gulp of cider and carries the bugger over to a quiet place on the common at back of us, fucking right job and all, and digs a shallow grave. He was a pretty big dog and it nearly did for me. Good job it were a terrible night and the ground were all soft and that. No fucker saw us. [pause]. Don't think. Any road, gets back looking like a serial killer. Sweating, piss wet through, busted lip from somewhere, trembling and covered in blood. Fucking Crimewatch. But hey come on don’t look so down. Like Syrupy John says ‘Cheer up soon be dead!’ Look, here’s a joke before I sign off with a song. There might be someone in here who’s not heard it before. Farmer and his wife are trying to have kids….[the lights’ primary colours shine back and forth and pick out faces in the crowd…the fruit machine flickers…raised voices and shouts…a guitarist tunes up…a drummer tests a bass drum]… - he rushes back inside and says ‘What the fuck are you doing in bed get up you lazy bitch, get up, the fucking barn’s on fire. [disproportionate prolonged laughter]. Yeh, thanks fer trying’. Any toot, I’m off to university! First in my family to go like. Next month got us a gig down at the Black Hole or summat second on bill only to tonight’s guest ‘Airhostess [ragged cheers] And like I promised a fucking song!! [cheers whistles] ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog’!! Elvis….too young to die [section of crowd shout - too fat to live!] Hit it Terry! Thank you and good night! [jubilant singing from crowd, more cheers].
mardi 16 décembre 2008
Happy Christmas of Mass Insincerity
Wishing you a happy festive season from some of our sponsors here.
All power to the Afghan Revolutionary Front!
Fresh from their success at arresting the wrong people for a spate of sabotage on the railways see below and a series of moronic incidents that a load of German Greens have owned up to), the French interioir services are changing the subject by planting a few sticks of dynamite in a department store and blaming it on a 'shadowy' group 'believed-to-be-linked-to-al-qaeda' called the Afghan Revolutionary Front "Qui est le Front révolutionnaire afghan, ce groupe inconnu jusqu'ici qui a revendiqué avoir placé des explosifs retrouvés, mardi 16 décembre, au Printemps ?" Who are these FRA people (who indeed, in fact a couple of security guys having a laugh in a room in the Rue de Securité somewhere in Paris) - be afraid be very afraid is the media message, that and 'Support or Troops' against these terrorists! Plus, it takes the craven climb down by Darcos off the top story slot.
File under: Lame state sponsored fake non-attacks.
File under: Lame state sponsored fake non-attacks.
Shoe gazer
Perhaps the second most remarkable thing about the shoe hero incident, was the look on Bush's face. It was the kind of look a viscious interrogator would give his victim on hearing a defiant reply. Alas, the wrong individual involved in the story got beaten up. Some people some people are arguing that this shoe thrower should be grateful for his freedom to protest, since if he'd done this under Saddam's rule, he would have been executed. Indeed, we could measure this as one success against all the other mountains of waste, carnage and bodies and the entire shattered nature of Iraq society - this is what the war was all about - after all that, after all the corruption, death and lies - you, you Iraqis, now have the freedom to throw shows at visitng dignateries and instead of getting strung up, you only get beaten within an inch of your pathetic puny little lives. There you ungrateful bastards, you fainthearted left wing traitors, you religious freaks, dare you try to say none of it was worth it now?
lundi 15 décembre 2008
Darcos and the street
Darcos, the French education minister, has been forced to postpone his ill thought out education reforms over here in France. They were opposed by virtually all the people affected, students and teachers alike. Schools were blockaded, there were daily demonstrations and strikes. It would only have taken one stray rubber bullet or a deliberate targetting of a student from the police and the whole country would have gone up. The Greek contagion has had its effect, the recession forces the elites hand and they lamely back down. Standing up for yourself works. Learn this lesson well.
Austerity and lies
Thge story of a pension fund over paying its clients for years and now having to recoup its generosity stinks to hell. It is the first of many of these rip off announcements. Make sure granny has a few extra blankets this Winter - the bastards are for freezing her to death.
samedi 13 décembre 2008
Festive Cheer
To lighten the mood - watch Olivier's Hamlet. It's got me through many a long night and longer festive seasons.vendredi 12 décembre 2008
European democracy...contradiction in terms
It is outrageous that the European Union is forcing the Irish people to vote again on the European Treaty. The vote was clear 53 to 46 percent - the same margin of victory that the little poisoned toadstool Sarko won over here in the 2007 Presidential election and alas no one got a chance to vote the fcker out again - but the unelected dictators in Brussels are not happy with the result, have offered some crumby concessions and are to present the treaty to the Irish next year. The first thing is that if the treaty had gone through by the one vote, there would be no rerun. In other words, the people are just a rubber stamp, something to give the European union a veneer of democracy. If they make their own minds up and vote contrary to what is expected, then they will be paternally admonished, given some bonbons, a second chance and told not to do it again.
Presumably, if the Irish vote No again - PLEASE PLEASE let this happen - then the EU will have to send its functionaires in to simply fix the result. It's a sham and a frightening turn of events, politically. Because if they can overturn this democratic vote they're likely to get a taste for it. Elections are not there to be little amusing games with no real impact on the political world. But this is how the elites think of our votes. Fine - if that's how they want to play it - we'll have to take them on in the streets like the heroic Greeks and occupy workplaces like in America and practically everywhere else. This is a warning from the top to us.
The final thing is that Trotsky was right. See below.
Presumably, if the Irish vote No again - PLEASE PLEASE let this happen - then the EU will have to send its functionaires in to simply fix the result. It's a sham and a frightening turn of events, politically. Because if they can overturn this democratic vote they're likely to get a taste for it. Elections are not there to be little amusing games with no real impact on the political world. But this is how the elites think of our votes. Fine - if that's how they want to play it - we'll have to take them on in the streets like the heroic Greeks and occupy workplaces like in America and practically everywhere else. This is a warning from the top to us.
The final thing is that Trotsky was right. See below.
The time is now
In the end, the working people of the world had no choice but to force themselves into freedom and socialism.
jeudi 11 décembre 2008
Saboteur Update 2
I wrote about this incident last month. In the scheme of things, it's not that massive. The police smash up the living space of commune of dissenters and arrest them for the destruction of SCNF railway property. The media and their politician controllers are overjoyed. Terrorists! Vandals!! Anarcho-Marxist Ultra-gauchists!!!! The new threat!!!!
After the blaze dies away - the silence then the reappearance of the story, this time a long way down the news program's playlist. Instead of the twenty people under investigation as originally hyped, there are now nine facing lesser charges but further interrogation by rozzer.
A week or so later, there's just two left. The protests outside the 'justice' buldings have to be screened and there are thousands supporting the falsely accused all over the countryrr. The remaining two being held (for form's sake) are detained on minor charges.
The Interioir minister was visibly trembling with pleasure upon the announcement of the arrests back in October (to take our minds off the unfolding economic mess?) but now has nothing to say about the matter. It was a frame up and she must have known it to have been one. But it is erased and rewound.
There are those, however, who don't forget so easily.
After the blaze dies away - the silence then the reappearance of the story, this time a long way down the news program's playlist. Instead of the twenty people under investigation as originally hyped, there are now nine facing lesser charges but further interrogation by rozzer.
A week or so later, there's just two left. The protests outside the 'justice' buldings have to be screened and there are thousands supporting the falsely accused all over the countryrr. The remaining two being held (for form's sake) are detained on minor charges.
The Interioir minister was visibly trembling with pleasure upon the announcement of the arrests back in October (to take our minds off the unfolding economic mess?) but now has nothing to say about the matter. It was a frame up and she must have known it to have been one. But it is erased and rewound.
There are those, however, who don't forget so easily.
Trotsky again.
Everyone, nearly, hates Trotsky. Back in college the 'Trots' were always the enemy, NUS delegations went to AGM's with pick-axes tied to the bumper plates of their coaches and wore badges with his silouette crossed out in red. But they were wrong and now, amid the ruins of the neo-liberal order they were certain would make everything right, Trotsky's words come back to haunt the ears of the living. Here is the great bearded one on Europe. It's frighteningly prescient.
"A halfway complete and consistent economic unification of Europe coming from the top by means of an agreement of the capitalist governments is sheer Utopia. Here, the matter can go no further than partial compromises and half-measures. Hence it is that the economic unification of Europe, which offers colossal advantages to producer and consumer alike, and in general to the whole cultural development, becomes the revolutionary task of the European proletariat in its struggle against imperialist protectionism and its instrument—militarism."
A United Socialist States of Europe - it does have a ring to it. . . but we are in the second time that history repeats itself and will watch from the wings as on the farce splutters and staggers. But the time will come and will come soon.
"A halfway complete and consistent economic unification of Europe coming from the top by means of an agreement of the capitalist governments is sheer Utopia. Here, the matter can go no further than partial compromises and half-measures. Hence it is that the economic unification of Europe, which offers colossal advantages to producer and consumer alike, and in general to the whole cultural development, becomes the revolutionary task of the European proletariat in its struggle against imperialist protectionism and its instrument—militarism."
A United Socialist States of Europe - it does have a ring to it. . . but we are in the second time that history repeats itself and will watch from the wings as on the farce splutters and staggers. But the time will come and will come soon.
Systemic collapse
Long ago, you must have read some Milan Kundera. Czechlovakian writer who had so much success with Unbearable Lightness of Being. It was an excellent read, but I read it ages ago and don't want to go through it again for fear of deflating another illusion of youth. In it, somewhere, though, there is a character who's a doctor but who has been forced by circumstance to clean windows for a living. The blunt message, apt enough at the time, was that the Soviet system was doomed - for look at what is happening to the brightest and best! Window cleaners! Ten years later or so, and the system does indeed collapse. Another triumph for capitalist democracy!
Then, long after Kundera has faded away, in Greece, that symbolic home of civilisation, the government embarks on a standard austerity programme, gives billion to the banks and sanctions the murder of people in the street. "A young woman told the Guardian, "I have two degrees but I am a waitress. There is no opportunity for young people here any more but I don't think this is confined to Greece. The economic situation leaves a lot of young people across Europe feeling bleak and hopeless."
The equal and opposite novel needs to be written. A working title: The bearable weight of death
Then, long after Kundera has faded away, in Greece, that symbolic home of civilisation, the government embarks on a standard austerity programme, gives billion to the banks and sanctions the murder of people in the street. "A young woman told the Guardian, "I have two degrees but I am a waitress. There is no opportunity for young people here any more but I don't think this is confined to Greece. The economic situation leaves a lot of young people across Europe feeling bleak and hopeless."
The equal and opposite novel needs to be written. A working title: The bearable weight of death
mardi 9 décembre 2008
Greece
"Many young people live with the unbearable knowledge that there is no future, that the future is a bricked-up window. Somewhere out there a blind fury is lurking ... Not violence, but desperation appears to be the origin of our story”
The crisis like a pupae metamorphoses into something much more threatening for the global order. . .
The crisis like a pupae metamorphoses into something much more threatening for the global order. . .
Crisis abates. . .
The people at Daily Reckoning.com are a bunch of right wing free marketeers, but they tend to be ahead of the economic game. They analysed the data and back in 2004 predicted this crash - not the timing exactly but close enough. This from them on the crisis' recent illness. . .
"Yes, dear reader...we think...we hope...that we will enjoy a classic post-bubble bounce. If we’re lucky, it will last for 3-6 months...and give everyone a chance to catch his breath.
Mr. Market is like a cat. He plays with his prey before he finally eats it.
And he’s perfectly capable of giving the whole world the impression that crisis of 21st century capitalism is over. "
"Yes, dear reader...we think...we hope...that we will enjoy a classic post-bubble bounce. If we’re lucky, it will last for 3-6 months...and give everyone a chance to catch his breath.
Mr. Market is like a cat. He plays with his prey before he finally eats it.
And he’s perfectly capable of giving the whole world the impression that crisis of 21st century capitalism is over. "
lundi 8 décembre 2008
Woolworths
Where d'you go now for those emergency birthday presents, bargain bin videos and toys that break after a day? Here for a superbly funny sociological examination of what it was like to work in the place.
Something positive
I don't hold with the human resource jargon - words like 'attitude', 'negative' and the ever present 'positive. Positive should just mean either a) the pole on a battery or b) expressing utter certainty. Some shill called Debbie in the comments section had the termerity to upbrade me for not being positive about how things are going in America. Well, we here at the REL offices, like thousands of other political critics, bloggers and lefties will be proven right about Obama like we were proven right about those WMD's and all that shyte. But anyway, if 'positive' is meant to mean 'mindlessly optimistic most of the time' - I'll do my best for a minute or two and revel in this story from Chicago. For me, like millions of others, the word Chicago conjurs up sophistication, dance, car chases, huge music, humour and so on and so anything about the place kind of bucks up the spirits in an illusory way I'm sure but this story should put a tiny spring back in your step. But somehow, I don't think it's Debbie's idea of 'positive'.
"The occupation of Republic Windows and Doors by 250 workers in Chicago, Illinois is an important step forward and one that deserves the full support of the working class throughout the country and internationally.
For the first time since the onset of the economic crisis, a section of the working class is taking an independent stand and resisting the corporate assault on jobs and living standards, which is claiming thousands of new victims each day.
These workers are displaying enormous courage. They refused to be thrown out of the factory when management moved to shut down the plant last Friday, after giving the workers just three days notice. They have insisted they will not leave the plant until management pays the severance and vacation pay owed to each worker."
All power to them - Debbie if you're out there - send these heroes some money.
"The occupation of Republic Windows and Doors by 250 workers in Chicago, Illinois is an important step forward and one that deserves the full support of the working class throughout the country and internationally.
For the first time since the onset of the economic crisis, a section of the working class is taking an independent stand and resisting the corporate assault on jobs and living standards, which is claiming thousands of new victims each day.
These workers are displaying enormous courage. They refused to be thrown out of the factory when management moved to shut down the plant last Friday, after giving the workers just three days notice. They have insisted they will not leave the plant until management pays the severance and vacation pay owed to each worker."
All power to them - Debbie if you're out there - send these heroes some money.
This sucker's going down
Inconceivable but the bankrupcy of the UK is now however vaguely, on the radar. Here's what the comrades say, "No one may expect a country like the UK to default, but until recently no one expected a major bank to go under either, still less a whole string of banks. Amid so many unknowns, one thing is certain. The experts may disagree on the correct response, but they are all agreed on who should bear the cost of the recession that is engulfing the world economy—the working class."
The suckers, as far as the markets are concerned, are us. . .
The suckers, as far as the markets are concerned, are us. . .
dimanche 7 décembre 2008
Meander
A wandering run in the countryside under a winter sky my mind wanders and back home cooling down I randomly pass from K-punk's essay on Joy Division to free books on line from a link in the latter to some of Woolf's short stories and this "Yes, yes, I’m coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment I’ll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again."
I'm not that shamed to say that I avoided Woolf's stuff when I was young. I've got to stop the juvenille ramblings...but that paragraph is more than rather good.
I'm not that shamed to say that I avoided Woolf's stuff when I was young. I've got to stop the juvenille ramblings...but that paragraph is more than rather good.
Class and motherhood
The case of Karen Matthews in Britain has come to an end with the mother of the 'abducted' Shannon getting a heavy jail sentence. It's an awful story and one in which the Daily Mail middle England middle class snobs are revelling in. Because the people involved are the dark centre of all middle Englanders hatreds and prejudices - the sub-working class, the unemployed, the Welfare dependent and the northern. It has to be said, the central figure of Karen Mathews could not have been a more convenient target, she is almost a caracature of what the Daily Mailers want to read about.
Yesterday's Mail was in full preening mode with a^picture of Matthews on its front page with the abject headline 'Pure Evil' and underneath breathlessly "...and yes the social services were involved!" Matthews has had - gasp - seven different children by five different fathers. She has never worked. She lived in a town called Dewsbury. I know the place - you wouldn't really want to live there. It's a small town, the people are fine, but the area is bleakly situated in the moors just to the north eastish of Manchester, has been drastically effected by the last thirty years of deindustrialisation and so has more than its fair share of deep social problems. Poverty is widespread, the schools are not brilliant and the town centre is a depressing place. (Adams makes reference to this but only to supress it in a typical middle class flourish - "The Dewsbury Moor estate was not the best place in the world to live, its impoverishment of opportunity was no doubt a factor in Matthews' behaviour, but even so, others seemed to manage it much better than she did.")
None of this is to condone Matthews behaviour of course but putting these terrible events into some kind of socio-economic context, however sketchily, is infintely more interesting than the brainless knee jerk zombie reactions of the tory press. Sure, drugging your own off-spring is not recommended - but did you know 16% of all parents carry out the practice? (And the McCanns did the same to their kids....). Matthews was a a neglectful mother, whose own personal history was warped by neglect as well.
She dreamt up a scam, a pathetic infantile scam, to have her daughter 'kidnapped' by one of her lovers and play off the media to get money. The poverty of the scheme is as palpable as that permeating the estate she lived on and it had its roots in a TV series ( called 'Shameless' a series that also condescended to Britain's underpriveleged - a kind of poverty porn for the comfortable classes). The media reaction to the missing Shannon had become standard. It was huge - poster, police searches, TV updates etc. - but deep down like in most of these cases, you have to 'suspect' the parents.
Tim Adams in today's Observer, writes a seemingly neutral cover story but which ultimately reveals itself to be just another snide self-satisfied enjoying the shock I'm so glad I'm not like those people piece. After outlining the sorry case, he then sets about, with barely concealed satisfaction, refuting Beatrix Campbell's piece written earlier on this year in which the feminist writer defends Matthews from the attacks Matthews received on the Today programme (a BBC radio programme that sets the political tone for the day amongst the snobby classes in the UK) and compares her favourbaly with the McCanns. Adams then argues that everyone was blinded by 'ideology' into thinking that just because Matthews was working class and deprived, then she couldn't possibily be lying and as schemeing as she, in fact, was. Thus, Adam's concludes, like the liberal seeming but ultimately just as harsh Poor Law officer that questions about how Matthews had lived her life (ultimately 'moral' questions) ought to be asked and asked rigorously "Such questions may be ideologically unpalatable, they may even be middle class or snobbish, but they can't afford not to be asked. Matthews' 'lifestyle' was her choice, and to a certain degree that of her partners, but you can be certain it was not her children's."
This is to place all the 'respônsibility' for this sad, depressing story upon the heads of two socially isolated and damaged individuals and to absolve any other social factors from their contribution to the terrible mess that happened. As the essay progresses, Adam's middle class sensibilities are given free reign. All objectivity evaporates and he gets nasty and personal. Matthews is not a conventionally attractive figure to the plucked, facailed, botoxed and tanned soulless drones that have done so well out of the class war over the last twenty years. She looks ragged and aged beyond her 31 years in the photos, but her 'fame' is a necessary part of British social life - that part of British social life that stratifies, judges and condems in order to make itself feel the superiority it know it doesn't possess. All it has is more money than the 'lower orders' and since money was the motivation for this particular crime, they have to screen the motivation out by the hysterical moralising that even those at the supposedly liberal Observer are now wallowing in. Hence "One of the things that had been most striking sitting through the trial was the sense that Matthews had never remotely had to come to terms with the consequences of any of the choices she had made in her life. She was not used to being judged; she appeared to have no remorse; just a childish sense of the unfairness of her predicament."
One can almost here the upper class vowels and intonations steaming of the heap of shit that is this paragraph. The jargon of individualism, the pop-psychology and the utter self-righteous snobbery is all part of the spectacle that is called "The lower orders are out of control and revolting LOOK at them uugh".
Adams' conclusion is confused and symptomatic "It is not right either to lump every individual in a problem postcode into an underclass. Child abuse is not a class issue. But parents living in poverty who want better for their children are not helped by political attitudes that protect at every turn those who take no responsibility for their lives. No parent's 'lifestyle choices' should be exempt from scrutiny if they are clearly risking the welfare of their child. "
It states that child abuse is not a class issue when all along (the cleansing of the McCanns and the direct class snobbery of the entire piece) that's what is has been about (besides - empirically, child abuse probably IS a class issue, but that is another story) and whilst not wanting to blame the social services, he does precisely that and is sympotomatic because, just like any other class warrior, he draws out the wider conclusion that all these povvy chavs should have their lives put under the microscope because they are different from 'us'.
PS - And all throughout this show trial, the banks and finacial institutions carry on their task of taking the money off the people. A theft that will disproportionally hit even the economically deprived that Adams so sanctimoniously credited with being poor but doing well. But when their lives go wrong, they will go wrong unobserved and the aspirational bourgeoise and their repugnant social opinions will have to find another scandal to make themselves feel a glow of inner moral satisfaction.
Yesterday's Mail was in full preening mode with a^picture of Matthews on its front page with the abject headline 'Pure Evil' and underneath breathlessly "...and yes the social services were involved!" Matthews has had - gasp - seven different children by five different fathers. She has never worked. She lived in a town called Dewsbury. I know the place - you wouldn't really want to live there. It's a small town, the people are fine, but the area is bleakly situated in the moors just to the north eastish of Manchester, has been drastically effected by the last thirty years of deindustrialisation and so has more than its fair share of deep social problems. Poverty is widespread, the schools are not brilliant and the town centre is a depressing place. (Adams makes reference to this but only to supress it in a typical middle class flourish - "The Dewsbury Moor estate was not the best place in the world to live, its impoverishment of opportunity was no doubt a factor in Matthews' behaviour, but even so, others seemed to manage it much better than she did.")
None of this is to condone Matthews behaviour of course but putting these terrible events into some kind of socio-economic context, however sketchily, is infintely more interesting than the brainless knee jerk zombie reactions of the tory press. Sure, drugging your own off-spring is not recommended - but did you know 16% of all parents carry out the practice? (And the McCanns did the same to their kids....). Matthews was a a neglectful mother, whose own personal history was warped by neglect as well.
She dreamt up a scam, a pathetic infantile scam, to have her daughter 'kidnapped' by one of her lovers and play off the media to get money. The poverty of the scheme is as palpable as that permeating the estate she lived on and it had its roots in a TV series ( called 'Shameless' a series that also condescended to Britain's underpriveleged - a kind of poverty porn for the comfortable classes). The media reaction to the missing Shannon had become standard. It was huge - poster, police searches, TV updates etc. - but deep down like in most of these cases, you have to 'suspect' the parents.
Tim Adams in today's Observer, writes a seemingly neutral cover story but which ultimately reveals itself to be just another snide self-satisfied enjoying the shock I'm so glad I'm not like those people piece. After outlining the sorry case, he then sets about, with barely concealed satisfaction, refuting Beatrix Campbell's piece written earlier on this year in which the feminist writer defends Matthews from the attacks Matthews received on the Today programme (a BBC radio programme that sets the political tone for the day amongst the snobby classes in the UK) and compares her favourbaly with the McCanns. Adams then argues that everyone was blinded by 'ideology' into thinking that just because Matthews was working class and deprived, then she couldn't possibily be lying and as schemeing as she, in fact, was. Thus, Adam's concludes, like the liberal seeming but ultimately just as harsh Poor Law officer that questions about how Matthews had lived her life (ultimately 'moral' questions) ought to be asked and asked rigorously "Such questions may be ideologically unpalatable, they may even be middle class or snobbish, but they can't afford not to be asked. Matthews' 'lifestyle' was her choice, and to a certain degree that of her partners, but you can be certain it was not her children's."
This is to place all the 'respônsibility' for this sad, depressing story upon the heads of two socially isolated and damaged individuals and to absolve any other social factors from their contribution to the terrible mess that happened. As the essay progresses, Adam's middle class sensibilities are given free reign. All objectivity evaporates and he gets nasty and personal. Matthews is not a conventionally attractive figure to the plucked, facailed, botoxed and tanned soulless drones that have done so well out of the class war over the last twenty years. She looks ragged and aged beyond her 31 years in the photos, but her 'fame' is a necessary part of British social life - that part of British social life that stratifies, judges and condems in order to make itself feel the superiority it know it doesn't possess. All it has is more money than the 'lower orders' and since money was the motivation for this particular crime, they have to screen the motivation out by the hysterical moralising that even those at the supposedly liberal Observer are now wallowing in. Hence "One of the things that had been most striking sitting through the trial was the sense that Matthews had never remotely had to come to terms with the consequences of any of the choices she had made in her life. She was not used to being judged; she appeared to have no remorse; just a childish sense of the unfairness of her predicament."
One can almost here the upper class vowels and intonations steaming of the heap of shit that is this paragraph. The jargon of individualism, the pop-psychology and the utter self-righteous snobbery is all part of the spectacle that is called "The lower orders are out of control and revolting LOOK at them uugh".
Adams' conclusion is confused and symptomatic "It is not right either to lump every individual in a problem postcode into an underclass. Child abuse is not a class issue. But parents living in poverty who want better for their children are not helped by political attitudes that protect at every turn those who take no responsibility for their lives. No parent's 'lifestyle choices' should be exempt from scrutiny if they are clearly risking the welfare of their child. "
It states that child abuse is not a class issue when all along (the cleansing of the McCanns and the direct class snobbery of the entire piece) that's what is has been about (besides - empirically, child abuse probably IS a class issue, but that is another story) and whilst not wanting to blame the social services, he does precisely that and is sympotomatic because, just like any other class warrior, he draws out the wider conclusion that all these povvy chavs should have their lives put under the microscope because they are different from 'us'.
PS - And all throughout this show trial, the banks and finacial institutions carry on their task of taking the money off the people. A theft that will disproportionally hit even the economically deprived that Adams so sanctimoniously credited with being poor but doing well. But when their lives go wrong, they will go wrong unobserved and the aspirational bourgeoise and their repugnant social opinions will have to find another scandal to make themselves feel a glow of inner moral satisfaction.
samedi 6 décembre 2008
Stock market moves off stage
It's strange at first to consider that after yesterday's bad employment figures in the US that the Dow Jones was up nearly 300 points. Especially given this, "Peter Morici of the University of Maryland told the Wall Street Journal, "This was much worse than expected and represents wholesale capitulation. The threat of a widespread depression is now real and present."
It merely reveals that the plunge since last year has now played itself out and shareholders think that all the unemployment that is being produced will lead to increased profits. Fewer workers mean less of a pay bill which means, in the short term, more profit. It won't last. The next crash will be early next year. The workers will carry on paying long after then.
It merely reveals that the plunge since last year has now played itself out and shareholders think that all the unemployment that is being produced will lead to increased profits. Fewer workers mean less of a pay bill which means, in the short term, more profit. It won't last. The next crash will be early next year. The workers will carry on paying long after then.
jeudi 4 décembre 2008
Crisis back on form
The British media are fond of describing the ups and downs of the crisis in the past tense. The Guardian always couches its treatment of the latest near calamatous financial events with phrases that give the reader the strong impression that they've missed out on something. Last week the economic system nearly collapsed, last Friday the financial system came within a whisker of shutting down all together, last month the world economy was literally inches away from an enormous black hole's singularity that would have sucked us all into money oblivion etc. etc. So it is refreshing to read something in the present tense on Bloomberg of all places that "Chinese officials urged the U.S. to do everything possible to restore calm to financial markets and said they are preparing for a “worst-case scenario” as the global crisis deepens."
It's that as the crisis deepens that lets slip, once again, the gravity of the crisis that some media nozzles prefer to try to defy. . .
And if you thought the Chinese were meant to be inscrutable, think again because this seems almost in your face "“We hope that the U.S. can take all necessary measures to stabilize its financial markets and economy as soon as possible and ensure the safety of China’s assets and investments in the U.S.,” Wang said. “To work together to tackle the financial crisis is the most pressing task that we are facing.”
Not so much a coded warning as a threat?
It's that as the crisis deepens that lets slip, once again, the gravity of the crisis that some media nozzles prefer to try to defy. . .
And if you thought the Chinese were meant to be inscrutable, think again because this seems almost in your face "“We hope that the U.S. can take all necessary measures to stabilize its financial markets and economy as soon as possible and ensure the safety of China’s assets and investments in the U.S.,” Wang said. “To work together to tackle the financial crisis is the most pressing task that we are facing.”
Not so much a coded warning as a threat?
mardi 2 décembre 2008
Lie detector
The best lie detectors are people who listen to politicians of course, but that's too easy. The British government is set to introduce lie detector tests to catch people who are trying to cheat the benefit system. This story is rich in irony and, since this is British politics, stinks that peculiar shitty smell that only London can produce. The Guardian puffs this dreadful measure up and some but the laughable line comes at the end - "The Cabinet Office paper tries to put the emphasis on fair rules in the context of the credit crunch. It says: "As everyone enters difficult economic times ... fair rules will become more important.
"If people perceive that not everyone is treated equally, that some get preferential treatment, that people who break the rules get away with it, respect for rules is undermined."
I wish I could be as funny as that.
Update: It's a long shot, but in the same paper the same day in an article about inducing out of baody experiences - "The illusion was so convincing that when the researchers threatened the dummy with a knife they recorded an increase in the subject's skin conductance response - the indicator of stress that polygraph lie detector tests rely on. "
"If people perceive that not everyone is treated equally, that some get preferential treatment, that people who break the rules get away with it, respect for rules is undermined."
I wish I could be as funny as that.
Update: It's a long shot, but in the same paper the same day in an article about inducing out of baody experiences - "The illusion was so convincing that when the researchers threatened the dummy with a knife they recorded an increase in the subject's skin conductance response - the indicator of stress that polygraph lie detector tests rely on. "
bizarre
The West's smug hypocricy has just become a faint buzz of background naseau but sometimes stories crop up that increase the feeling of sickness unto death. Like this "Ali Hassan al-Majid, the cousin of Saddam Hussein known as "Chemical Ali", has received a second death sentence for the mass killing of Shia Muslims during an uprising in southern Iraq after the 1991 Gulf war."
First - most of the culprits of the Iraq story of the last twenty years are going to get away with it. Despite Bush's arrogant confession that he didn't really know what was going on, he and Blair and the rest of the 'Coalition of the Chilling' are not going to face any firing squad for the mountains of corpses they are directly responsible for.
Second - (the obvious point here) - is the second death penalty like if the first one doesn't work, are they going to resusitate the bugger and do for him again or are they hoping that in the after life there'll be another hangman waiting to send him to another distant and more demanding damnation? It reveals an almost childlike glee for revenge and death that makes you wonder wherther our leaders aren't the good guys we here at the REL have always taken them for.
First - most of the culprits of the Iraq story of the last twenty years are going to get away with it. Despite Bush's arrogant confession that he didn't really know what was going on, he and Blair and the rest of the 'Coalition of the Chilling' are not going to face any firing squad for the mountains of corpses they are directly responsible for.
Second - (the obvious point here) - is the second death penalty like if the first one doesn't work, are they going to resusitate the bugger and do for him again or are they hoping that in the after life there'll be another hangman waiting to send him to another distant and more demanding damnation? It reveals an almost childlike glee for revenge and death that makes you wonder wherther our leaders aren't the good guys we here at the REL have always taken them for.
Disgrace
What else could you call the decision by the coroner at the Demenezes inquest? These are postmodern times, we have been told, and moral interpretations of events are passé. But they are also still capitalist times where the state cannot be seen to be committing unlawful acts even when it does in plain sight. The former act as a buffer to the latter. The desired citizen-outcome is an uneasy apathy. This ought to jolt us out of this apathetic unease. The police cen kill in broad daylight in front of eye-witnesses and then the jury is instructed to either return a verdict of lawful killing or an open verdict. They can kill you and remain either innocent or not guilty.
We can wearily say that this is nothing new, that the British state can murder with impunity but it doesn't thaw the chill that these bungling incompetent/ruthless killers//mixture of both state thugs engender. May they rot from the inside out.
We can wearily say that this is nothing new, that the British state can murder with impunity but it doesn't thaw the chill that these bungling incompetent/ruthless killers//mixture of both state thugs engender. May they rot from the inside out.
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