jeudi 28 mai 2009
mercredi 27 mai 2009
Why is it all so awful?
Capitalism, of course. But even then, there should be seething resentment and social unrest, social unrest in our favour. The current quietism is deadening. That is what is so awful. Imagine an eternal capitalism where the elites gradually wore everything and everyone else down into fine, fine dust...
lundi 25 mai 2009
The worse the better
"It said an extra 53 million people are at risk of extreme poverty. "
The World Bank fears social unrest. Here's hoping.
North Korea and the bomb
Most of the people in the REL offices were once in CND. We are that old. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Another successful movement we were part of when young...sigh. There are still thousands of them all poied to destroy the world several times over and are still in the hands of dangerous, unsable meglomaniacs. The latest trmor n the nuclear world, then, of course, is naughty North Korea that has flown in the face of the nuclear free peaceful world and detonated a hiroshima size bomb underground. The response has been predictable. But a quick glance through the history of the stationing of nuclear weapons in the Korean peninsular shows that there were nuclear weapons placed in South Korea from the 50's until 1992 and that today, the US has enough submarines in the area to wipe the north of the map. So given that CND was wasting its (and our) time in the interests of deterrence let the North have its bomb - haven't we all supposed to have learned how to love it and live with it?
Or are our great leaders protesting in the name of peace and a nuclear free world?
Or are our great leaders protesting in the name of peace and a nuclear free world?
dimanche 24 mai 2009
Poor List - Information Dump
Studds nodded at the chairwoman and began,
'The events of 19/11 and its aftermath have changed the country. Before that date, we knew pretty much where we where. [laughter] In the months that have followed, we have to say that Britain, to say the least, has become a different, less hospitable, less secure place. It was the largest and most significant disaster in Britain’s history. The death toll, initially 65, is still rising. The nature of the train’s cargo, the contents of which are still ‘shrouded in mystery’, have elongated the drama. The government and private companies involved have been and remain reluctant to release any information about what freight the 23.50 Birmingham/London express was pulling on that fateful night, citing reasons of national security and ‘prevention of further chaos’. As we are well aware, the public reaction culminated in major disturbances in urban centres as far away as Stoke and Bromich. Disaster management teams, security divisions, state investigators and media are still in the area. Conflicting accounts of the disaster exist. Racially motivated reprisals were reported all over the country and the government, under previously secretly implemented legislation, has introduced a raft of security measures under the all embracing name ‘Sate of Exception’ and called in emergency powers to pacify the effected regions. The transport bombings a few years before have had few real consequences, in comparison. There has been, of course, hundreds of round ups.
The focus of my paper, though, is the interpretation of evidential aspects of the incident. My provsional argument is that the traces of the disaster have a ideologically intensifying effect. But, later. [laughter].
Film of the crash, from the driver’s point of view and from the CCTV from the camera at junction Bm16 shows nothing conclusive to substantiate either the official account or the account sceptical of the official view of the trigger for ‘December occurrences’. The edited footage from the first perspective showed thirty seconds of dimly lit track hurtling under the snout of the specially adapted 47’ diesel. (Other footage, since redacted, showed earlier events inter-weaved with sections from the later offical evidence). The narrative is stark. The tunnel, the cutting then the jolt and the lean to the left, and then a brief final glimpse of slewed track and overhead line as the train ploughs into aggregate, gravel and soil at just over 150mph, and, after a burst of static and colour, the final frozen frame of an estate topped embankment as the train totally derails, all merge into one in an abrupt intensity. Then blankness.
The soundtrack has been just as inconclusive. It is a very postmdern disaster. There are a few dicipherable words the background engine noise and the hiss of the wheels on the track drown out the cabin crew's words. Would we want to hear the last thoughts of a suicide bomber? If that's what it is. We hear the replacemrnt driver, give a time and a speed, figures that corresponded to the CCTV motion drags, and says something that sounds like the final location of the train. Is this piece of phsycogeographical hauntology an insignificant coincidence or luminous clue? After that there are the cries of alarm and panic. The, as I'm sure you don't need reminding, just before the tunnel, is the, that chant. The particular clip has been played and played on thousands of police and public computers, played on hosted sites, web pages, and the like, analysed in syllable fragments and forensically scrubbed, slowed down, and translated but still emerges indiscernible.
It has split the country in two. The biggest man made disaster since Chernobyl.'
He had those academic bastards by their glands.
'The events of 19/11 and its aftermath have changed the country. Before that date, we knew pretty much where we where. [laughter] In the months that have followed, we have to say that Britain, to say the least, has become a different, less hospitable, less secure place. It was the largest and most significant disaster in Britain’s history. The death toll, initially 65, is still rising. The nature of the train’s cargo, the contents of which are still ‘shrouded in mystery’, have elongated the drama. The government and private companies involved have been and remain reluctant to release any information about what freight the 23.50 Birmingham/London express was pulling on that fateful night, citing reasons of national security and ‘prevention of further chaos’. As we are well aware, the public reaction culminated in major disturbances in urban centres as far away as Stoke and Bromich. Disaster management teams, security divisions, state investigators and media are still in the area. Conflicting accounts of the disaster exist. Racially motivated reprisals were reported all over the country and the government, under previously secretly implemented legislation, has introduced a raft of security measures under the all embracing name ‘Sate of Exception’ and called in emergency powers to pacify the effected regions. The transport bombings a few years before have had few real consequences, in comparison. There has been, of course, hundreds of round ups.
The focus of my paper, though, is the interpretation of evidential aspects of the incident. My provsional argument is that the traces of the disaster have a ideologically intensifying effect. But, later. [laughter].
Film of the crash, from the driver’s point of view and from the CCTV from the camera at junction Bm16 shows nothing conclusive to substantiate either the official account or the account sceptical of the official view of the trigger for ‘December occurrences’. The edited footage from the first perspective showed thirty seconds of dimly lit track hurtling under the snout of the specially adapted 47’ diesel. (Other footage, since redacted, showed earlier events inter-weaved with sections from the later offical evidence). The narrative is stark. The tunnel, the cutting then the jolt and the lean to the left, and then a brief final glimpse of slewed track and overhead line as the train ploughs into aggregate, gravel and soil at just over 150mph, and, after a burst of static and colour, the final frozen frame of an estate topped embankment as the train totally derails, all merge into one in an abrupt intensity. Then blankness.
The soundtrack has been just as inconclusive. It is a very postmdern disaster. There are a few dicipherable words the background engine noise and the hiss of the wheels on the track drown out the cabin crew's words. Would we want to hear the last thoughts of a suicide bomber? If that's what it is. We hear the replacemrnt driver, give a time and a speed, figures that corresponded to the CCTV motion drags, and says something that sounds like the final location of the train. Is this piece of phsycogeographical hauntology an insignificant coincidence or luminous clue? After that there are the cries of alarm and panic. The, as I'm sure you don't need reminding, just before the tunnel, is the, that chant. The particular clip has been played and played on thousands of police and public computers, played on hosted sites, web pages, and the like, analysed in syllable fragments and forensically scrubbed, slowed down, and translated but still emerges indiscernible.
It has split the country in two. The biggest man made disaster since Chernobyl.'
He had those academic bastards by their glands.
Money Money Money
Interesting post . John Quiggin on the credit rating agencies. We didn't know the credit rating people were private firms. If we'd thought about it at all, we'd have guessed they were some university like economic board of boffins looking at mounds of data. Instead, they're a load of private corrupty pigs like the rest of the putrid system...
Back from the dead
A rare thing...a decent article by Nick Cohen still writing for the Observer. True, it's an easy target - the BNP - but he makes the point that the drubbing the nazis will get in the European elections will stop the political elite from using the excuse that the British public wil only go and vote far-right if one gives them too much democracy. Not sure that even if the BNP didn't exist that the buggers who run the country would 'give' out more democracy, but at least the piece shows that we were right to think Cohen was a good type all those years ago when he was vaguely left wing.....
vendredi 22 mai 2009
Flight
The economy plane commenced its decent. "But Daddy Daddy, the people really look like ants," the child said and pulled on his mother's sleeve. He smiled and nodded to the hostess and fastened the little boy's seatbelt. The cabin crew announced that the weather would be hot and that local time was half past six. The little boy started to cry. "Toby. Don't cry. Look it's because we're so high up in the sky that the people look so small."
"It's not Mummy. They're ants!" shouts the boy "They really are..."
A woman in a seat in front of them turned round and smiled a sympathetic smile. They felt the decompression in their ears. The plane shuddered and rolled slightly from side to side. The ice slwoly melted on the outside of the window as they flew through the light cloud cover. The boy started to cry. The the ground rushed up to meet them. They landed with slight jolt and there was an atempted cheer from some people at the front. They taxied towards the terminal. The captain's calm atuomated sounding voice thanked them over the intercom. The boy had started to scream.
"Toby be quiet."
Tired from their journey, the passengers around them ignored the noise and got their bags down from the luggage spaces. They queued obediently in the aisle as the steward tried to phone through to terminal control. She shrugged and held her hand over the mouthpiece. There was an impatient hiatus. Another child was screaming somewhere behind them. Another attendant said "Yes. Just open the door." She frowned at the screaming boy.
"Is everything ok Sir, Madam?"
"Yes yes thank you. He's just tired."
The door opened with a rush of compressed air. The small boy struggled to stay in the plane. They half pushed half lifted him out into the packed tunnel. They felt the heat. The boy screamed louder and tried to push his way back into the plane. Angry now the man dragged the boy by his arm round the corner and started up the slope to passport control. The woman shouted something. Passers-by looked blankly at them and pushed past. The clicking and rustling sound grew louder. The boy was flailing in his mother's arms now. Someone at the front of the crowd stopped and looked quizzically at his companion. Then others stopped too. The look on their faces registered no surprise as the enormous ravenous dark coloured ants filling the long dark tunnel hurtled towards them.
"It's not Mummy. They're ants!" shouts the boy "They really are..."
A woman in a seat in front of them turned round and smiled a sympathetic smile. They felt the decompression in their ears. The plane shuddered and rolled slightly from side to side. The ice slwoly melted on the outside of the window as they flew through the light cloud cover. The boy started to cry. The the ground rushed up to meet them. They landed with slight jolt and there was an atempted cheer from some people at the front. They taxied towards the terminal. The captain's calm atuomated sounding voice thanked them over the intercom. The boy had started to scream.
"Toby be quiet."
Tired from their journey, the passengers around them ignored the noise and got their bags down from the luggage spaces. They queued obediently in the aisle as the steward tried to phone through to terminal control. She shrugged and held her hand over the mouthpiece. There was an impatient hiatus. Another child was screaming somewhere behind them. Another attendant said "Yes. Just open the door." She frowned at the screaming boy.
"Is everything ok Sir, Madam?"
"Yes yes thank you. He's just tired."
The door opened with a rush of compressed air. The small boy struggled to stay in the plane. They half pushed half lifted him out into the packed tunnel. They felt the heat. The boy screamed louder and tried to push his way back into the plane. Angry now the man dragged the boy by his arm round the corner and started up the slope to passport control. The woman shouted something. Passers-by looked blankly at them and pushed past. The clicking and rustling sound grew louder. The boy was flailing in his mother's arms now. Someone at the front of the crowd stopped and looked quizzically at his companion. Then others stopped too. The look on their faces registered no surprise as the enormous ravenous dark coloured ants filling the long dark tunnel hurtled towards them.
Bankers
A bank in New Zealand makes an error and credits a bank account with four million pounds. The, hitherto, broke account holders disappear with the windfall. Consternation! Interpol are revved up and the bank spokescock are morally outraged that anyone could expect to get money for free. These dishonest peope!! MSM duly reports the story with ironic smiles and yet stern tonality, for, after all, this is a crime against money.
You have forgotten that the banks have stolen trillions from the people. Everything is as it was. Money, the real money belongs to us. This is a reminder to forget.
You have forgotten that the banks have stolen trillions from the people. Everything is as it was. Money, the real money belongs to us. This is a reminder to forget.
jeudi 21 mai 2009
Brief statement of the obvious
"The big lie about capitalism is that everyone can be rich. That's impossible. Capitalism works only if the vast majority of the population are kept poor enough to never quit working, are kept poor enough to accept distasteful jobs society cannot function without. If everyone were a millionaire, who would empty the trash or repair the sewers? It follows that the poorer the general population is made, the greater the worth of the money held by the wealthy, in terms of the lives which may be bought and sold with it." -- Michael Rivero
Dark humour
Alistair Darling, the British Economic Minister, issued a statement on the economy on Monday saying that the recession, "...will be over by Christmas." Perhaps he was being blithely sincere and perhaps even correct. It would take a leap of faith to believe it, though, given the fact that the Labour Party is jammed with people who are constantly 'economical with the truth' and more often than not wrong. But Darling's words must have been chosen with knowledge that the phrase "It'll be over by Christmas," was used by Generals in World War One to justify tactics and offensives and it was a saying that was meant to draw a line under present difficulties, they wil come to an end, and associate a religious element to their policies, for like the Messiah, the fruits of our decisions are on their way. During the Great War, the phrase became a joke, a rightly cynical popular response to the latest suicidal offensive on the front. (In 1914, the Generals should have added "...1918." to the end of the phrase). Perhaps Darling is ignorant of the provenance of the saying. But surely in that case some civil servant would have told him how unfortunate his words sounded. Because REL's prefered interpretation of Darling's words is that he knows full well that the current slump won't be over by December 2009 but that, like the First World War, this recession won't be over for a long time.
He's just taking the piss.
He's just taking the piss.
mercredi 20 mai 2009
Contradiction
There is a surface contradiction in the IMF's advice to the British Government. The main poit is that "[t]he sharp increase in public sector borrowing and contingent government liabilities, together with continued financial sector fragility, are significant vulnerabilities. In these circumstances, a severe shock has the potential to disrupt domestic and external stability." Meaning, of course, that the UK is practically broke and one more tihng could really do for us.
The causes of this financial turbulance are known well enough - neo-liberalism of the last 30yrs., general tendency of recessions inherent in capitalism etc. - but the government decided to spend its way out of this current down-turn in giving money to the banks thus increasing the financial difficulties that are now apparent. Thus, it is curious that further on in the report "The Fund praised the government for its "bold and wide ranging" response to the recession and the global financial crisis, noting that "aggressive actions" had averted a systemic breakdown."
What you did was good, well done but it increased in the chances of not surviving any future knock and that's bad.
What the capitalist class will do to dissolve this contradiction, naturally, is to make sure public services are cut and not that taxes for the rich will increase. They say, kindly that "it is up to the government to decide whether the emphasis should be on tax increases or spending cuts to reduce the deficit, it privately believes that action to cut public spending is a more effective and durable method of bringing the state's finances back to health," [my emphasis] as if New Labour (the current pathetic tax hike of the last budget notwithstanding) needed any encouragement there.
When will revenge happen?
The causes of this financial turbulance are known well enough - neo-liberalism of the last 30yrs., general tendency of recessions inherent in capitalism etc. - but the government decided to spend its way out of this current down-turn in giving money to the banks thus increasing the financial difficulties that are now apparent. Thus, it is curious that further on in the report "The Fund praised the government for its "bold and wide ranging" response to the recession and the global financial crisis, noting that "aggressive actions" had averted a systemic breakdown."
What you did was good, well done but it increased in the chances of not surviving any future knock and that's bad.
What the capitalist class will do to dissolve this contradiction, naturally, is to make sure public services are cut and not that taxes for the rich will increase. They say, kindly that "it is up to the government to decide whether the emphasis should be on tax increases or spending cuts to reduce the deficit, it privately believes that action to cut public spending is a more effective and durable method of bringing the state's finances back to health," [my emphasis] as if New Labour (the current pathetic tax hike of the last budget notwithstanding) needed any encouragement there.
When will revenge happen?
Poor List excerpt
The Doctor took her glasses off and tilted her head to one side. "It's not good news Mr. Glover," she said soflty. "The results show..."
"How long have I got?"
"About six months."
"Oh. Well, I didn't have much planned."
"How long have I got?"
"About six months."
"Oh. Well, I didn't have much planned."
samedi 16 mai 2009
Poor List Ch.11 - Press Ganged
McCabe heard it first as an absence of something. Instead of the city’s subterranean throb there was a lightness where engine noise and traffic seethe should have been. They could hear the crackled voices on the radio. McCabe had slowly moved his hand down towards the seatbelt mechanism by his haunch. Further along the street, they heard percussion and music and a repeated megaphoned noise that gathered into echoing shouted phrases. Then actual voices, raw in the near suspended rain. How could this be happening? They slowed behind some matt black Trooper, its rear window reflecting shifting sunlight into their faces. The seat belt came undone quietly.
“The fuck’s this?” Tony says.
Up ahead some fluorescent and light-stripped jackets of herded police shine and glint. They had driven and plunged through London’s steeped narrow streets towards the river, past Georgian fronts, shame shaded hotel back entrances and boarded up shops and bars, revved past most of the city’s landmarks and splashed through grand, yet too small, streets. McCabe, had half slumped between the two Government Agents and stares from the back seat through the rear passenger window as they slow down. The suspension of freedoms happen in little ways.
He looks around, relaxes and picks at a morsel of dried cement on his jeans, coughs, grimaces, looks around. A radio is tuned in. He lunges clumsily over the woman to try to get to the inside passenger door handle. With a swift trained action, though, she leans forward catching McCabe’s face with a heavy shoulder blow to the left side of his chin and before he even gets within arm’s reach of escape, punches him hard in the groin. McCabe cries out in surprise and pain. Three mounted police canter by at odd angles and hooves clatter.
“…some semblance of order into this stricken country…”
Tony winces and McCabe tries to say something. Lisa turns to him then to Dermott,
“Sorry about that. Some march or other?” She says and scratches the slightly enflamed orbit of her nose stud.
A helicopter clatters overhead and McCabestares at swing swaying in a playground over the way.
They pull up behind the Trooper. Boyd the Driver reaches over to the radio and a procession of static, voices and music pass by.
“I did warn you. Mister McCabe.” Dermott says and, frowning, looks at his watch. “We’re going to be late. There must be another way round Boydy?”
“Might be. Sav a look on the satnav.”
Whistling the chorus of an Irish polka, the driver reaches over to the device on the windscreen front and pushes buttons with his thick set fingers.
“Time for a pick me up. Everyone?” Tony, the man on McCabe’s right, says.
He snaps open a seat compartment and extracts a small cloth bag. A flare amidst the march ahead of them shines incandescent green and smoke pours over the road.
“The fuck’s this?” Tony says.
Up ahead some fluorescent and light-stripped jackets of herded police shine and glint. They had driven and plunged through London’s steeped narrow streets towards the river, past Georgian fronts, shame shaded hotel back entrances and boarded up shops and bars, revved past most of the city’s landmarks and splashed through grand, yet too small, streets. McCabe, had half slumped between the two Government Agents and stares from the back seat through the rear passenger window as they slow down. The suspension of freedoms happen in little ways.
He looks around, relaxes and picks at a morsel of dried cement on his jeans, coughs, grimaces, looks around. A radio is tuned in. He lunges clumsily over the woman to try to get to the inside passenger door handle. With a swift trained action, though, she leans forward catching McCabe’s face with a heavy shoulder blow to the left side of his chin and before he even gets within arm’s reach of escape, punches him hard in the groin. McCabe cries out in surprise and pain. Three mounted police canter by at odd angles and hooves clatter.
“…some semblance of order into this stricken country…”
Tony winces and McCabe tries to say something. Lisa turns to him then to Dermott,
“Sorry about that. Some march or other?” She says and scratches the slightly enflamed orbit of her nose stud.
A helicopter clatters overhead and McCabestares at swing swaying in a playground over the way.
They pull up behind the Trooper. Boyd the Driver reaches over to the radio and a procession of static, voices and music pass by.
“I did warn you. Mister McCabe.” Dermott says and, frowning, looks at his watch. “We’re going to be late. There must be another way round Boydy?”
“Might be. Sav a look on the satnav.”
Whistling the chorus of an Irish polka, the driver reaches over to the device on the windscreen front and pushes buttons with his thick set fingers.
“Time for a pick me up. Everyone?” Tony, the man on McCabe’s right, says.
He snaps open a seat compartment and extracts a small cloth bag. A flare amidst the march ahead of them shines incandescent green and smoke pours over the road.
"Long way round either way," the driver says.
“Take the flyover by Thodsby roundabout." He helps himself to Tony's illegal substance. "So Mister McCabe,” Dermott says sniffing over his shoulder, “How does it feel to be, back on the team again?”
The windscreen wipers whine a rubbery snigger. The man on McCabe’s right breathes in a line of twinkling dust in one smooth rasp.
“Painful. Actually.”
Dermott assesses at the figure in the back seat for a moment and raises his eye brows slightly.
“Take the flyover by Thodsby roundabout." He helps himself to Tony's illegal substance. "So Mister McCabe,” Dermott says sniffing over his shoulder, “How does it feel to be, back on the team again?”
The windscreen wipers whine a rubbery snigger. The man on McCabe’s right breathes in a line of twinkling dust in one smooth rasp.
“Painful. Actually.”
Dermott assesses at the figure in the back seat for a moment and raises his eye brows slightly.
"Try some of this."
There's a calll on his pda and then in a space in the conversation says,
“Look. Everyone has to do their bit in times like these though don’t you think, Lisa?”
“…in connection with the attacks…” the voice on the radio was saying. The engine gunned and a siren wailed from a side street behind them. Tony snorted in derision.
“Absolutely sir. Music Boydy. Music.” the woman says.
McCabe sits up from his crouch and leans slowly back into his seat.
“Be careful.” Says Dermott to them trying to catch their eye in the rear view mirror of the sun shield.
“Yes. We're onto it Ma'am.”He replies into the phone. The cars move forward and McCabe watches up at the glinting towers of glass and metal ten blocks away as they drift by.
“He’s no going to throw up is he Tony?”
“…Regrettably, this involved involuntary human terrain and resource depletion, but ultim…”
“Lisa. Get me the rozzer in charge of this carnival." He hands Boyd the paraphernalia. "Hello. These two’ll do here now,” Dermott says.
“Right.”
“Er, hold on.”
Tony stretches himself and puts the little red bag in his pocket as Lisa presses a button on the car door. The window glides down and McCabe shouts for help. Lisa calls to the pair of police walking towards the demonstration. One of them turns and stops, looking annoyed. McCabe continues to shout. Lisa reaches into her coat and takes out her ID and holds up her cards to them. The other officer fishes out his ID-scan from its holder.
“What’s the hold up here?”
“A march, Madam. What seems to be the trouble?” KG 1654 asks walking over to the window.
There is a bright yellow padded jacket over his uniform and suppression devices hang from his belt and shoulder harness.
“How long is it going to take?”
“Be about an hour I should think. Difficult to say. What seems to be the problem here?”
Static voices crackle from their radios.
“But traffic can get through?”
Lisa turns to the struggling Tony and McCabe and whispers something loudly.
“I’m afraid not.”
The other officer leans towards the car and rests his arm on the roof.
“Look, we’re in a hurry here and we need to get across it?
“I’m Afraid not madam." He frowns. "Regulations. You’ll have to go back the way you came. Is everything ok in here then?” the taller officer says.
“But this is a one way street.”
“Indeed it is madam.”
KG 1653 pulls a face at the struggle going on in the back seat.
“So we can’t. And look…hold on. Sir, this copper reckons we’ll be here in an hour or so.”
Dermott stabs a button on his pda and opens his window and says,
“Listen officer. I’m with Inland Security Division at the Home Office. Here’s my ID”.
The square faced police scrutinises the small heavy document opens it and scans the tiny spray of dots..
“The what? Inland Security…? Can’t say I’ve heard of it sir.” says KG 1653 and turns to his colleague. “Have you?”
“Inland Security Division?”
1654 purses his lips and shakes his head.
“New one on me squire.”
“I don’t want. To pull rank, officer, but I could get you sacked,” says Dermott.
“Right. And I could get transport down here and tow your car away for having what, three persons in the back?”
“And kidnapping! Officer I’m being kidnapped here…against my will.” Shouts McCabe.
“What’s that? Well, if you were being kidnapped sir than I suppose it would be against your will, wouldn’t you say Malcolm?” KG 1653 says to KG 1654 leaning in. He glances down at Lisa who stares back.
“I think you may well be right, Reg.”
Dermott is saying,
“He’s a suspect in an on-going operation officer. We’ve got to get him to HQ right away. Ring your chief if you don’t believe me.”
The officer stands back up and waves to other police down the road. Struggling, McCabe says as best he can,
“That’s not true officer.”
There is some more shouting.
“OK. OK. Calm down. Reg get hold of Dutton Street. See if this Inland bollocks actually exists. An’ hurry up.”
He leans into the car window frame again.
“Now then sir. What’s all this commotion?
Then, everyone is talking over everyone else. McCabe shouts that he is being taken, kidnapped and doesn’t know who these people are. Insulator Tony holds McCabe down by his arm and shouts at him to shut it, whilst Dermott and Lisa, the latter restraining and re-assaulting McCabe, convince the police officer that the person in the back is a dangerous suspect.
“Look. Everyone has to do their bit in times like these though don’t you think, Lisa?”
“…in connection with the attacks…” the voice on the radio was saying. The engine gunned and a siren wailed from a side street behind them. Tony snorted in derision.
“Absolutely sir. Music Boydy. Music.” the woman says.
McCabe sits up from his crouch and leans slowly back into his seat.
“Be careful.” Says Dermott to them trying to catch their eye in the rear view mirror of the sun shield.
“Yes. We're onto it Ma'am.”He replies into the phone. The cars move forward and McCabe watches up at the glinting towers of glass and metal ten blocks away as they drift by.
“He’s no going to throw up is he Tony?”
“…Regrettably, this involved involuntary human terrain and resource depletion, but ultim…”
“Lisa. Get me the rozzer in charge of this carnival." He hands Boyd the paraphernalia. "Hello. These two’ll do here now,” Dermott says.
“Right.”
“Er, hold on.”
Tony stretches himself and puts the little red bag in his pocket as Lisa presses a button on the car door. The window glides down and McCabe shouts for help. Lisa calls to the pair of police walking towards the demonstration. One of them turns and stops, looking annoyed. McCabe continues to shout. Lisa reaches into her coat and takes out her ID and holds up her cards to them. The other officer fishes out his ID-scan from its holder.
“What’s the hold up here?”
“A march, Madam. What seems to be the trouble?” KG 1654 asks walking over to the window.
There is a bright yellow padded jacket over his uniform and suppression devices hang from his belt and shoulder harness.
“How long is it going to take?”
“Be about an hour I should think. Difficult to say. What seems to be the problem here?”
Static voices crackle from their radios.
“But traffic can get through?”
Lisa turns to the struggling Tony and McCabe and whispers something loudly.
“I’m afraid not.”
The other officer leans towards the car and rests his arm on the roof.
“Look, we’re in a hurry here and we need to get across it?
“I’m Afraid not madam." He frowns. "Regulations. You’ll have to go back the way you came. Is everything ok in here then?” the taller officer says.
“But this is a one way street.”
“Indeed it is madam.”
KG 1653 pulls a face at the struggle going on in the back seat.
“So we can’t. And look…hold on. Sir, this copper reckons we’ll be here in an hour or so.”
Dermott stabs a button on his pda and opens his window and says,
“Listen officer. I’m with Inland Security Division at the Home Office. Here’s my ID”.
The square faced police scrutinises the small heavy document opens it and scans the tiny spray of dots..
“The what? Inland Security…? Can’t say I’ve heard of it sir.” says KG 1653 and turns to his colleague. “Have you?”
“Inland Security Division?”
1654 purses his lips and shakes his head.
“New one on me squire.”
“I don’t want. To pull rank, officer, but I could get you sacked,” says Dermott.
“Right. And I could get transport down here and tow your car away for having what, three persons in the back?”
“And kidnapping! Officer I’m being kidnapped here…against my will.” Shouts McCabe.
“What’s that? Well, if you were being kidnapped sir than I suppose it would be against your will, wouldn’t you say Malcolm?” KG 1653 says to KG 1654 leaning in. He glances down at Lisa who stares back.
“I think you may well be right, Reg.”
Dermott is saying,
“He’s a suspect in an on-going operation officer. We’ve got to get him to HQ right away. Ring your chief if you don’t believe me.”
The officer stands back up and waves to other police down the road. Struggling, McCabe says as best he can,
“That’s not true officer.”
There is some more shouting.
“OK. OK. Calm down. Reg get hold of Dutton Street. See if this Inland bollocks actually exists. An’ hurry up.”
He leans into the car window frame again.
“Now then sir. What’s all this commotion?
Then, everyone is talking over everyone else. McCabe shouts that he is being taken, kidnapped and doesn’t know who these people are. Insulator Tony holds McCabe down by his arm and shouts at him to shut it, whilst Dermott and Lisa, the latter restraining and re-assaulting McCabe, convince the police officer that the person in the back is a dangerous suspect.
"Quiet Quiet or I'll have to freeze the lot of you."
The other police puts his radio back in his belt and says,
“Sir? Apparently this Internal Security Division is for real and they’re all accredited.”
1654 sighs deeply. The noise subsides. He checks Dermott’s ID again and hands it him back.
“Sir? Apparently this Internal Security Division is for real and they’re all accredited.”
1654 sighs deeply. The noise subsides. He checks Dermott’s ID again and hands it him back.
“There you go.”
Dermott looks up at the aged officer,
“Get me through this march, right? Where in a royal hurry here.”
“Well,” the officer sighs and combs his hand through his brushed back wood coloured rug, “the thing is it might be a bit tricky. Hold on.”
He puts his hat back on and talks into his phone. A surge in the noise and chanting of the march drown out McCabe’s muffled pleas.
1654 half shouts, “Apparently, you can get through up there on your right. Watch it though. The way things are..."
They both duck slightly as a mighty firework explodes up ahead somewhere.
“Thank you. You heard the man, Boydy. Let’s go.” He waves briefly at the now wide eyed officer and the windows close."
“Get me through this march, right? Where in a royal hurry here.”
“Well,” the officer sighs and combs his hand through his brushed back wood coloured rug, “the thing is it might be a bit tricky. Hold on.”
He puts his hat back on and talks into his phone. A surge in the noise and chanting of the march drown out McCabe’s muffled pleas.
1654 half shouts, “Apparently, you can get through up there on your right. Watch it though. The way things are..."
They both duck slightly as a mighty firework explodes up ahead somewhere.
“Thank you. You heard the man, Boydy. Let’s go.” He waves briefly at the now wide eyed officer and the windows close."
The two police watch the car speed off.
"You know Reg. Maybe that bloke was being kidnapped."
"What? Nah. Besides too much paperwork."
Boydy shoots the car into the road at an oblique angle and forces a gap in the parallel line of waiting traffic. High up a big plume of red smoke from the firework is swept towards the river. A horn blares then they hit the right hand kerb with a heavy thud. The security measures had seen to it that the last hundred yards of pavement before any march’s route are cleared of parked vehicles and so Boydy is able to speed the tilting car along the glistening pavement. Shop fronts and leaning pedestrians flash past. Boyd laughs,
“City Death Race three.”
“Lamp post Boydy.”
“… me out of this fucking car,” McCabe shouts
“Now, where was I?” Tony says and picks up his little bag from the floor. The muscles in Lisa’s jaw clench and turn rigid. Then hisses to McCabe,
“If you don’t shut it, McDuff or whatever your fucking name is, I’m going to really own you. I mean really. Fucking. Own you. Do you know what that means?
“Kind of.”
“It means I’ll punch you harder than that in your ugly pugly face and you’ll be waking up tomorrow fucking morning even uglier than you are now.”
She takes the small mirror off Tony. A cop on a horse by the junction raises his hand. They brake fifty metres behind some ragged police line.
“Fuck,” Lisa says “Fuck”. McCabe rubs his bruised thigh. To their left riot police run down the side of the road in tight formation.
“Mister McCabe.” Dermott leans back towards them. “You were well warned. Now if you utter one more word in front of his majesty’s finest up here about kidnapping, being detained or other such nonsense, I will authorise Lisa to turn distinctly Guantanamo on your sorry arse. Crystal?”
“Here.” Lisa says to McCabe and offers him the mirror. But he only replies,
“Erh."
“City Death Race three.”
“Lamp post Boydy.”
“… me out of this fucking car,” McCabe shouts
“Now, where was I?” Tony says and picks up his little bag from the floor. The muscles in Lisa’s jaw clench and turn rigid. Then hisses to McCabe,
“If you don’t shut it, McDuff or whatever your fucking name is, I’m going to really own you. I mean really. Fucking. Own you. Do you know what that means?
“Kind of.”
“It means I’ll punch you harder than that in your ugly pugly face and you’ll be waking up tomorrow fucking morning even uglier than you are now.”
She takes the small mirror off Tony. A cop on a horse by the junction raises his hand. They brake fifty metres behind some ragged police line.
“Fuck,” Lisa says “Fuck”. McCabe rubs his bruised thigh. To their left riot police run down the side of the road in tight formation.
“Mister McCabe.” Dermott leans back towards them. “You were well warned. Now if you utter one more word in front of his majesty’s finest up here about kidnapping, being detained or other such nonsense, I will authorise Lisa to turn distinctly Guantanamo on your sorry arse. Crystal?”
“Here.” Lisa says to McCabe and offers him the mirror. But he only replies,
“Erh."
"Oh. Drug surge." Tony says.
They brake behind the police lines and a constable moves towards them. She motions for the window and then orders them to wait. “This should be interesting.” she tells them. She shouts to a team of police to their right and waves them on. The ISD vehicle edges forward between rows of angry UAC police and into the midst of the crowded kettle of herded protesters.
They brake behind the police lines and a constable moves towards them. She motions for the window and then orders them to wait. “This should be interesting.” she tells them. She shouts to a team of police to their right and waves them on. The ISD vehicle edges forward between rows of angry UAC police and into the midst of the crowded kettle of herded protesters.
vendredi 15 mai 2009
Neoliberalism
The sanctity of the individual is meant to be the centre of neoliberalism - in reality the individual is obliterated and meshed into the system's catastrophe.
jeudi 14 mai 2009
Torture photos not that sensational
We read that Obama, that fraud, has supressed the release of photos showing the torture of people the US dislikes. The reason is that these pictures are not sensational but would endanger US troops. You'd have thought he'd try to be a bit more convincing than that. But when your arse is being heated by the forces from the dark side I guess you say anything to keep your snout well troughed. Still, if the pics aren't that sensational, why would they endanger US troops? The people actually engaged in resisting US oppression in the ME are not going to stop because they don't get to see pictures of their 'fellow travellers' suspended from the ceiling with wire, fckd by dogs, piled naked on top of one another with shit smeared copies of the Koran on fire all about them, being electrocuted, waterboarded, crushed under boards piled with stones, hooded, starved, deprived of sleep, stress positioned, raped and murdered - -
- it's not that sensational.
Move on nothing to see here.
'Torture is not incidental to these wars, nor was it merely the preferred policy of the sadists in the Bush White House. It is integral to such colonial-style counterinsurgency campaigns, in which a major aim is to terrorize and intimidate the population. It was employed by the French in Algeria, the British in Kenya, the Belgians in the Congo and the Portuguese in Angola, Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau. The American military is following in their bloody footsteps.'
- it's not that sensational.
Move on nothing to see here.
'Torture is not incidental to these wars, nor was it merely the preferred policy of the sadists in the Bush White House. It is integral to such colonial-style counterinsurgency campaigns, in which a major aim is to terrorize and intimidate the population. It was employed by the French in Algeria, the British in Kenya, the Belgians in the Congo and the Portuguese in Angola, Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau. The American military is following in their bloody footsteps.'
Class tensions rise shock!
It's all no surprises at the moment. This is still excellent though. Steel workers storm ArcelorMittal HQ in Luxembourg. This is the way.
MP's are cheats shock!
Excellent piece by Heather Brooke on the system's attempt to cover up its troughing at the tax payers' expense. These people, especially some twat called Andrew Walker, the head of the House of Commons Fees Office, are the curators of British politics. This pathetic half arsed scandal is the whimper at the end of the whole sorry lying charade of UK plc's ideological public face.
We say again and in all sincerity and gravitas, 'Boil them in shit'.
We say again and in all sincerity and gravitas, 'Boil them in shit'.
MP expenses fraud shock
Like us here at REL, I'm sure you too are reeling after reading about MP's ripping off the tax payer. I mean, who would have thought that a political class seeped in neo-liberal ideological hogwash and bereft of any political philosophy or principle would stoop so low as to engage in practices that would only benefit themselves? How utterly shocking and, a priori, unimaginable.
The thing is, it's all our fault for voting and not undertaking political action ourselves. The turn out in June will be witheringly miniscule and that's a good thing. The model of politics that we have at the moment is disintegrating both at a macro level (its neoliberal 'philosophy' has collapsed, unemployment has increased dramatically, the parasites are getting handouts from the corrupt political elites, inequality has grown...) and at the interrelated micro level, its participants (at least a large proportion of the cnts) are filling their boots in disregard for the people they 'represent'. The BNP will not get the surge it craves but that won't stop the leaders of the failed main parties using it as a diversionary threat to try to scare people into voting for the orthodox bloc. Don't fall for it. Do something constructive instead of voting. Deface election posters with agitprop, ferment further discontent, don't go to work, sabotage a computer network. In the face of your passivity lies further degeneration. Fascism is capitalism disintegrated. This is the first phase of that collapse. We act now or are petrified under their corruption.
Put Parliament out of its misery and organise for real democracy.
The thing is, it's all our fault for voting and not undertaking political action ourselves. The turn out in June will be witheringly miniscule and that's a good thing. The model of politics that we have at the moment is disintegrating both at a macro level (its neoliberal 'philosophy' has collapsed, unemployment has increased dramatically, the parasites are getting handouts from the corrupt political elites, inequality has grown...) and at the interrelated micro level, its participants (at least a large proportion of the cnts) are filling their boots in disregard for the people they 'represent'. The BNP will not get the surge it craves but that won't stop the leaders of the failed main parties using it as a diversionary threat to try to scare people into voting for the orthodox bloc. Don't fall for it. Do something constructive instead of voting. Deface election posters with agitprop, ferment further discontent, don't go to work, sabotage a computer network. In the face of your passivity lies further degeneration. Fascism is capitalism disintegrated. This is the first phase of that collapse. We act now or are petrified under their corruption.
Put Parliament out of its misery and organise for real democracy.
mardi 12 mai 2009
Exam cave in
Everyone remembers their worst exam, well we do here at REL, but these poor kids in Gillingham have had their worst (or best if anyone of them were in the processing of tanking it) when the part of the ceiling fell on them. There's a serious issue of structural neglect here, but the bit that caught our roving explorer's eye runs :
"Everyone reacted in a calm and professional manner. The students were very mature and I'm extremely proud of them."
Curtis Ward, 14, suffered cuts and scratches on his left arm. Speaking with a heavily bandaged arm, he said: "We just started the exam when there was this big banging noise. Everybody stood up and looked up and we could see the pipe falling from the ceiling. Everyone was shouting and crying and running for the doors. Some of the pipe fell on my arm and trapped it. I got scratched pulling my arm away. I saw one girl who had a big piece of the pipe fall right on her back."
Another pupil, Sam Millen, 13, said: "It looked like one boy at the front was crushed under a piece of metal and everyone started panicking and screaming." our emphasis.
"Everyone reacted in a calm and professional manner. The students were very mature and I'm extremely proud of them."
Curtis Ward, 14, suffered cuts and scratches on his left arm. Speaking with a heavily bandaged arm, he said: "We just started the exam when there was this big banging noise. Everybody stood up and looked up and we could see the pipe falling from the ceiling. Everyone was shouting and crying and running for the doors. Some of the pipe fell on my arm and trapped it. I got scratched pulling my arm away. I saw one girl who had a big piece of the pipe fall right on her back."
Another pupil, Sam Millen, 13, said: "It looked like one boy at the front was crushed under a piece of metal and everyone started panicking and screaming." our emphasis.
Army turns on its self
The pressures must be great being an American soldier in the criminal actions in Afghanistan. Army life is brutal, America is a brutal place so its troops must have been through a cruel desensitising brutalisation. How else to explain the GI who went on a rampage and killed five other US soldiers in Iraq? The event has been oblitarated in the MSM, with (for them) good reason.
Over at wsws.org - "This outburst of violence was by no means an aberration. Suicide rates among active duty military personnel are at a record high, with 230 killing themselves last year and more US soldiers taking their own lives in January than were killed in combat."
Over at wsws.org - "This outburst of violence was by no means an aberration. Suicide rates among active duty military personnel are at a record high, with 230 killing themselves last year and more US soldiers taking their own lives in January than were killed in combat."
samedi 9 mai 2009
Police check
It's enough to make you want to riot - but the top cop in London reckons that reluctantly he might have to employ 'harsher European' police tactics to 'control violent demonstrations.' The truth behind this does not need reiterating and, it has to be said, water cannon and the like would be useful in keeping the violence down on the next demo - if they're used ON the police.
Get rich quick!
An excerpt from a mail sent from the interesting but capitalistbastard "The Daily Reckoning':
"How many people do you know who have lived through a "real bust?" No, I don't mean the dotcom bomb or the Asian currency crisis.
I don't mean the 9-11 recession or the '87 market crash... or even the '74 market meltdown or the late '70s oil crisis.
I mean a full-on social and economic reversal.
Of course we haven't seen anything on that scale since the Great Crash of '29. And many of the witnesses alive to those events are long gone from our lives.
But do you remember... how your parents or maybe your grandparents talked about those times? They never seemed to forget.
How many "Depression survivors," for instance, still save scraps of paper and bits of string... rinse off tin foil... and wouldn't dare toss leftovers?"
Us povvies at REL always have saved scraps of paper, bits of string and wool, even, and always re-use tin foil - and never have enough to eat to get leftovers in the first place. Poor but happy.
Reading further down the missive, it's clear this get rich quick scheme is, in reality, a get poor slowly scheme. But the one we're on atm, is working out just fine.
"How many people do you know who have lived through a "real bust?" No, I don't mean the dotcom bomb or the Asian currency crisis.
I don't mean the 9-11 recession or the '87 market crash... or even the '74 market meltdown or the late '70s oil crisis.
I mean a full-on social and economic reversal.
Of course we haven't seen anything on that scale since the Great Crash of '29. And many of the witnesses alive to those events are long gone from our lives.
But do you remember... how your parents or maybe your grandparents talked about those times? They never seemed to forget.
How many "Depression survivors," for instance, still save scraps of paper and bits of string... rinse off tin foil... and wouldn't dare toss leftovers?"
Us povvies at REL always have saved scraps of paper, bits of string and wool, even, and always re-use tin foil - and never have enough to eat to get leftovers in the first place. Poor but happy.
Reading further down the missive, it's clear this get rich quick scheme is, in reality, a get poor slowly scheme. But the one we're on atm, is working out just fine.
vendredi 8 mai 2009
Bad writing
A debate about Dan Brown's latest book flares up over at CiF. The usual argument, high art that no one reads pitted against shit that everyone laps up. However, on the evidence, is Brown so bad? I remember reading the Da Vinci Code, but can remember nothing about it, not even if I liked it. Here is an excerpt:
"Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas."
Assuming it is shit, for the moment, wherein doth its shitness lie? The books on how to write say avoid information dumps. But it can't be just that. Perhaps it's that 'until', that suggests he was trying to pull the painting off the wall, maybe it's that 'heap' that the too long second sentence ends withor the 'heaved' which doesn't seem right at all there The general clunkiness is a given. But then again, the guy's sold 100m copies and really couldn't give a shit.
Is it so much worse than this:
"I SUPPOSE you will be getting away pretty soon, now. Full term is over, Professor," said a person not in the story to the Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast in the hospitable hall of St. James's College.
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.
"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast--in point of fact to Burnstow--(I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to get off to-morrow." ?
The start of OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD" (1904)
It must be something to with rythmn.
"Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas."
Assuming it is shit, for the moment, wherein doth its shitness lie? The books on how to write say avoid information dumps. But it can't be just that. Perhaps it's that 'until', that suggests he was trying to pull the painting off the wall, maybe it's that 'heap' that the too long second sentence ends withor the 'heaved' which doesn't seem right at all there The general clunkiness is a given. But then again, the guy's sold 100m copies and really couldn't give a shit.
Is it so much worse than this:
"I SUPPOSE you will be getting away pretty soon, now. Full term is over, Professor," said a person not in the story to the Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast in the hospitable hall of St. James's College.
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.
"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast--in point of fact to Burnstow--(I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to get off to-morrow." ?
The start of OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD" (1904)
It must be something to with rythmn.
Inequality higher under Labour than under Thatcher
Hidden in a report on the escalation of income inequality in Britain is the nugget of gloom that Britain was a more equal place under Thatcher than Brown.
Unlike under Thatcher, though, there is no real attempt by the current regime to justify this order of things. The Tories tried to convince us by talking about money and opportunity 'trickling down' - like piss down a bitch's leg - and for some that seemed potentially credible. It was hayek of course, as in total shite, since all the money rises and condenses upwards. Even the working poor have increased in numbers. To be working poor is the ultimate aim of the capitalist system of course - it's the obverse of we're we, ourselves, want to be.
1. Poor and not working - bad but at least you've a degree of freedom -
2. working and well off - well you've not much time but at least you can afford things -
3. rich and not working - capitalist parasite or lottery winner - angry lynch mob or drug fuelled death awaits but speedboats and hotels in the meantime
4. Poor and working - really what is the point?
How true the wise words of one of Britain's most just of leaders,
"The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of the blessings. The inherent blessing of socialism is the equal sharing of misery."--Winston Churchill
(But why shouldn't the misery be equally shared? At least until it's done away with as much as it can be...).
Unlike under Thatcher, though, there is no real attempt by the current regime to justify this order of things. The Tories tried to convince us by talking about money and opportunity 'trickling down' - like piss down a bitch's leg - and for some that seemed potentially credible. It was hayek of course, as in total shite, since all the money rises and condenses upwards. Even the working poor have increased in numbers. To be working poor is the ultimate aim of the capitalist system of course - it's the obverse of we're we, ourselves, want to be.
1. Poor and not working - bad but at least you've a degree of freedom -
2. working and well off - well you've not much time but at least you can afford things -
3. rich and not working - capitalist parasite or lottery winner - angry lynch mob or drug fuelled death awaits but speedboats and hotels in the meantime
4. Poor and working - really what is the point?
How true the wise words of one of Britain's most just of leaders,
"The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of the blessings. The inherent blessing of socialism is the equal sharing of misery."--Winston Churchill
(But why shouldn't the misery be equally shared? At least until it's done away with as much as it can be...).
jeudi 7 mai 2009
The Poor List Ch.10 (Under construction) - VCS fades into the order of things
Ms. Roscoe, 15 April PT13
Vegetation Control Solutions (Bus.Reg. pt/1/ref. UK2/3 Clemp.134679) - Nature of Business: Removal of weeds from sunburban areas, general logistics, Import/Export.
Chief Exec. James Carlysle Faddon 'Partner': Nicholas Spencer Glover.
The police trertiary report says "Suspected of transporting part of the second detonator and other material substantial to the case, Sept 15 BT12." VCS is a front company for another business called Broadschern Tender run through a shell organisation with two offices in Luxembourg and one in the Caymon Isles.
The following transcripts might help. The department will forward evidence obtained from VCS computer files at a later date.
Taupe
Vegetation Control Solutions (Bus.Reg. pt/1/ref. UK2/3 Clemp.134679) - Nature of Business: Removal of weeds from sunburban areas, general logistics, Import/Export.
Chief Exec. James Carlysle Faddon 'Partner': Nicholas Spencer Glover.
The police trertiary report says "Suspected of transporting part of the second detonator and other material substantial to the case, Sept 15 BT12." VCS is a front company for another business called Broadschern Tender run through a shell organisation with two offices in Luxembourg and one in the Caymon Isles.
The following transcripts might help. The department will forward evidence obtained from VCS computer files at a later date.
Taupe
Where's the upsurge?
A recent 5April 20) Fiancial Tmes editorial notes ", “In no big European country is the main party of the left, in or out of government, surging ahead. The Burson-Marsteller forecast for the European elections in June shows that the centre-right European People’s party will remain the largest group in the European parliament—even if the British Conservatives and the Czech ODS fulfill their aim to leave the EPP.”
There is no direct 'logical' link between the popularity of ideas of a fairer more peaceful world, and capitalist crises. There is an element of relief and condescension in the FT piece. The last thing it's readers and shareholders want to see is angry people on the streets with their anger directed against the likes of themselves.
But these are early days in the playing out of this breakdown in the capitalist order of things and such relief and cheery derision are out of place. What is sufficient for us at the moment, is that the working masses of people on the whole are hostile to the entire political class that is supposed to represent them. That is the starting point for all revolutionary's efforts.
When the upsurge comes it will be at a time when no one expected it over an issue no one thought likely to matter. . .
Thatcher twitches in her grave
“We are drifting back to the old attitudes of the 1960s and 1970s when the public preferred overall mediocrity rather than letting a minority get rich and increase the nation’s wealth. When we finally have the election, Gordon Brown’s legacy will be a bloated and inefficient state built up over 13 years of misguided thinking that showering government departments with taxpayers’ cash would pay dividends. It is time to invoke the spirit of Maggie.” [Sunday Times]
'and increase the nation's wealth' - it is desperate stuff. The whole 30 year experiment in 'capitalism unbound' is, of course, to blame for the last three decades of chaos and the current fiasco. Yet as of 2009 so far, the zombies seem to be getting away with it.
[Just been informed that Margaret Thatcher, is not infact dead. It was wishful subconscious thinking on behalf of the editor apologies].
'and increase the nation's wealth' - it is desperate stuff. The whole 30 year experiment in 'capitalism unbound' is, of course, to blame for the last three decades of chaos and the current fiasco. Yet as of 2009 so far, the zombies seem to be getting away with it.
[Just been informed that Margaret Thatcher, is not infact dead. It was wishful subconscious thinking on behalf of the editor apologies].
mercredi 6 mai 2009
Moscow rules
"In recent months the transatlantic alliance had been trying to re-engage with Moscow. But its efforts have been undermined by last week's spy row and by the Kremlin's strong objection to Nato's decision to hold a military training exercise in Georgia." [Guardian]
We're no fans of the Kremlin (not since 1923 anyway) but this excerpt is politicolinguistically revealing. It's not the military exercises that have undermined re-engagement efforts, but Moscow's objections to them - exercises that will take place right next to Russian territory. So, it's not the provocative war games that are the problem, but the aggressive diplomatic response.
We're no fans of the Kremlin (not since 1923 anyway) but this excerpt is politicolinguistically revealing. It's not the military exercises that have undermined re-engagement efforts, but Moscow's objections to them - exercises that will take place right next to Russian territory. So, it's not the provocative war games that are the problem, but the aggressive diplomatic response.
Fish goes mad from the head down
As far as Brown still is the head of 'what's going on uk' and as far as one can believe the Daily catstrayMail, the pressure is getting the better of the Prime Minister. Some sort of tantrum at a telly interview over the weekend. One would have been forgiven for expecting a more philosophical approach, though. For a chap plunging inexorably to oblivion, he could be showing more ('Scottish'?) stoicism and taking it easy as the ride finishes with him, and just enjoy the view.
A wonderful world
http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=A8D7ABBFFCD799C3&search_query=what+a+wonderful+world
I can't do the flash computer stuff to send you straight to the youtube video, but this news was sinking in and it just came on the radio...Play it and look at the picture.
I can't do the flash computer stuff to send you straight to the youtube video, but this news was sinking in and it just came on the radio...Play it and look at the picture.
The horror
The news (see below) should obliterate any other news story. But the global hype about swine flu, from which seven people died, lasted ten days - and this item will be forgotten in less. The news should take up the whole news, not part of the progam that culminates in a story about the Eurovision song contest. The MSM can only do what the MSM is told to do. Mask the horror, tell people to move on, there's nothing to see here.
Defamiliarisation
This once was a young healthy human. 
The news report says 'dozens' may have died. "US air strikes in Afghanistan on Tuesday killed dozens of civilians including women and children, officials from the Red Cross have said.
Afghan officials in the western province of Farah told the BBC as many as 100 civilians might have died."
Afghan officials in the western province of Farah told the BBC as many as 100 civilians might have died."
Still, no worries the US 'deeply regrets' no sorry 'deeply deeply regrets' the incident. Just one 'deeply' isn't enough - the other covers it nicely.
Drown out
The (supposed) stabilisng of the economic crisis and its downgrade by the MSM gate keepers and scribblers mustn't hide from us the stark reality of the capitalist class' orchestrated behaviour against its working class betters. The swine-flu, the bomb scares and the hundreds of other petty distractions try to drown out the grinding noise as the two societal forces mesh and range against eachother. Pick any country in the world (like Georgia for example where the Rumplestiltskin president is lashing out in almost comical fashion to save his rancid hide), but here, news from Ireland, whose economic plight is a warning of what is ahead for others, me and maybe even you...
" The worsening situation is deepening class tensions, as companies and institutions seek to offload the crisis onto their workforce.
The first 450 of 1,900 Dell workers losing their jobs at the company’s plant in Raheen, Limerick, received their final pay cheques last week. Dell is moving production to Poland, where wages are €3 an hour.
In April, 130 workers at chip manufacturer Xilnix’s operation in Dublin were told their jobs were being moved to Singapore.
Supermarket giant Tesco threatened to lock out workers in their Douglas, Cork, store until June if a strike against a change in working conditions was implemented. Workers struck indefinitely in response.
Also in Cork, University College Cork (UCC) has demanded 3,000 staff forego one week’s pay to alleviate the university’s deteriorating financial position. Cost-cutting measures are being considered at all of Ireland’s seven universities.
An unofficial walkout at Dublin Bus’s Harristown depot over the introduction of new rosters brought the city’s entire bus fleet to a standstill, as workers at the Summerhill, Conyngham Road and Clontarf depots took action in support of their colleagues.
Nurses at Killarney Community Hospital have voted in favour of a strike against structural changes, while Sligo General Hospital nurses are to ballot for a strike against job losses.
New talks are anticipated between the Irish Congress of Trade Unions and the government to establish whether a formal agreement can be reached with the union bureaucracy on how to impose the cost of the economic collapse on the working class."
But better this willingness to stand up to the snouty ones than subside into a mordant and desperate economism.
" The worsening situation is deepening class tensions, as companies and institutions seek to offload the crisis onto their workforce.
The first 450 of 1,900 Dell workers losing their jobs at the company’s plant in Raheen, Limerick, received their final pay cheques last week. Dell is moving production to Poland, where wages are €3 an hour.
In April, 130 workers at chip manufacturer Xilnix’s operation in Dublin were told their jobs were being moved to Singapore.
Supermarket giant Tesco threatened to lock out workers in their Douglas, Cork, store until June if a strike against a change in working conditions was implemented. Workers struck indefinitely in response.
Also in Cork, University College Cork (UCC) has demanded 3,000 staff forego one week’s pay to alleviate the university’s deteriorating financial position. Cost-cutting measures are being considered at all of Ireland’s seven universities.
An unofficial walkout at Dublin Bus’s Harristown depot over the introduction of new rosters brought the city’s entire bus fleet to a standstill, as workers at the Summerhill, Conyngham Road and Clontarf depots took action in support of their colleagues.
Nurses at Killarney Community Hospital have voted in favour of a strike against structural changes, while Sligo General Hospital nurses are to ballot for a strike against job losses.
New talks are anticipated between the Irish Congress of Trade Unions and the government to establish whether a formal agreement can be reached with the union bureaucracy on how to impose the cost of the economic collapse on the working class."
But better this willingness to stand up to the snouty ones than subside into a mordant and desperate economism.
lundi 4 mai 2009
Gossip
Should one avoid gossip? Smile in Olympian detachment at the lives and tribulations of others and move on? Probably. But seeing one of Europe's most worthless politicians (a competitive area obviously) embroiled in a divorce scandal of swine flu size PR proportions does manage to raise the merest of interest, the lightest rubber-kneck frission and a slightest twinge of satisfaction at the public humiliation of Italy's tiny jumping plastic cock of a Head of State.
I'm afraid, I might have to keep following this. . . the story that is, not the tiny jumping plastic cock as metaphor or, indeed, thing.
I'm afraid, I might have to keep following this. . . the story that is, not the tiny jumping plastic cock as metaphor or, indeed, thing.
Laughter in the dark
Some MP in the bereft government has criticised Gordon Brown. No news there. But the story escalates into talk of a leadership challenge. All denied of course by the 'stalking horse'. Listen to what she says and try to keep a straight face...."'I do not want to be prime minister,' says Brown deputy as party in-fighting continues".
"I do not want to be Prime Minister" - as if Labour are ever again going to be the party in power in the rest of our lifetimes.
"I do not want to be Prime Minister" - as if Labour are ever again going to be the party in power in the rest of our lifetimes.
dimanche 3 mai 2009
The Underground of Feeling
"She was closer to the brutalized image of animals, of the beasts, of the profane world, of a disgusting cornucopia, the veritable Pandora’s box, the world of the witch and the strange alchemy and potions surrounding childbirth and, yes, artistic creativity."samedi 2 mai 2009
vendredi 1 mai 2009
Poor List Ch.9 - Teabag's first appearance in the order of events
The door closed behind him and he looked at the car park up front from under the glass roof. The rain was falling steadily but he didn’t have a coat. Two doctors walked past and a man in a wheelchair wheelied down the ramp. A helicopter clattered somewhere above the low cloud. He leant a railing and searched his pockets, took out a plastic bag and some papers and started to roll a cigarette. He lit the bent twig of a thing and looked up and, summoned by the hum of the traffic up outside the hospital wall slouched down the steps and trudged off. Outside the main gate a red Cortina was waiting. Somebody was lowering the driver’s side window.
‘Kieron,’ the man said.
‘Connor?’ He flashed a hideous smile and walked over to the kerb.
The man in the car winced slightly, over the lip of the glass, and took a long drag from a carton of milk. He motioned with his head.
‘Get in.’
‘Thanks.’
Kieron went round the back of the car and jumped in. They sped off down the flat grey unmarked road towards the town.
‘So how are you feeling?’
Keiron threw his rucksack down at his feet. The engine rattled hoarsely.
‘Ok. You know?’
‘Your mum was worried. What with all that happened and that.’
Keiron grunted and stared out of the front passenger side window at the hills and fields as they flitted by. They swung too fast round a bend in the road. He looked up and saw the estate, near the huge embankment, wheel slowly by in the distance.
‘Is she ok?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t you worry about your mum. Everything’s going to be alright now.' His face gave the appearance of a smile. 'There’s a paper down there if you want to catch up on the footie.’
‘Is there any music like?’
‘There’s some CD’s in the glove compartment’, he gestured with his left hand at the space in front of his passenger, ‘and there’s some food and that in the bag down there.’
‘Maybe later.’
They re-accelrated up a steep hill and vivd landscape burst from behind a moor top. The wind blew away some blue smoke that snorted out of the bonnet. Connor managed the gears.
‘Kieron,’ the man said.
‘Connor?’ He flashed a hideous smile and walked over to the kerb.
The man in the car winced slightly, over the lip of the glass, and took a long drag from a carton of milk. He motioned with his head.
‘Get in.’
‘Thanks.’
Kieron went round the back of the car and jumped in. They sped off down the flat grey unmarked road towards the town.
‘So how are you feeling?’
Keiron threw his rucksack down at his feet. The engine rattled hoarsely.
‘Ok. You know?’
‘Your mum was worried. What with all that happened and that.’
Keiron grunted and stared out of the front passenger side window at the hills and fields as they flitted by. They swung too fast round a bend in the road. He looked up and saw the estate, near the huge embankment, wheel slowly by in the distance.
‘Is she ok?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t you worry about your mum. Everything’s going to be alright now.' His face gave the appearance of a smile. 'There’s a paper down there if you want to catch up on the footie.’
‘Is there any music like?’
‘There’s some CD’s in the glove compartment’, he gestured with his left hand at the space in front of his passenger, ‘and there’s some food and that in the bag down there.’
‘Maybe later.’
They re-accelrated up a steep hill and vivd landscape burst from behind a moor top. The wind blew away some blue smoke that snorted out of the bonnet. Connor managed the gears.
‘Are you sure you’re ok Keiron? You’ve been shaking like a shitting dog.’
‘I’ll be right when I get home.’
'Only don't be blowing your chunks in here or anything.'
‘I’ll be right when I get home.’
'Only don't be blowing your chunks in here or anything.'
They drove on in silence after that. The car crawled through gentle folds in the earth. A huge mass of grey cloud was being buffeted in from over the hills. Over the other side the sunlight made the other clouds look like rock around a flat sea.
Keiron leant back in his seat and closed his eyes. Then as they got into the outskirts,
Keiron leant back in his seat and closed his eyes. Then as they got into the outskirts,
'Your life Keiron. I mean it can't go on. Can it? What.' He carried on. '...What do you think Keiron?'
‘Feels like we're travelling backward,’ Keiron said.
Connor glanced at the reclining figure and sniffed.
They drove through the half empty streets towards the centre. The rain re-intensified and Connor flicked the control. The wipers’ rubbery wheeze speeded up. At the ring road, Connor took a left towards the gas works. Keiron opened his eyes and blinked. His face registered a quick series of expressions, yawnings and looks of suprise as if trying to find a default face.
‘Where we going?’
‘Oh you’ll see.’
‘But this not the way back like.’
Keiron finally picked up the bag and rummaged through its contents, took something out and bit into it.
'Scenic route.'
‘Feels like we're travelling backward,’ Keiron said.
Connor glanced at the reclining figure and sniffed.
They drove through the half empty streets towards the centre. The rain re-intensified and Connor flicked the control. The wipers’ rubbery wheeze speeded up. At the ring road, Connor took a left towards the gas works. Keiron opened his eyes and blinked. His face registered a quick series of expressions, yawnings and looks of suprise as if trying to find a default face.
‘Where we going?’
‘Oh you’ll see.’
‘But this not the way back like.’
Keiron finally picked up the bag and rummaged through its contents, took something out and bit into it.
'Scenic route.'
'What?'
‘It’s a surprise Keiron.’
‘Don’t like surprises,’ Keiron said, his voice muffled by a piece of sandwich.
‘Holiday time.' Connor was saying. ‘You’re going on holiday, Keiron. Our treat, you’ve, deserved it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. You get to do whatever you want whenever you want. All the money you need, your own place. Magic.’
‘Kidding? Ace. Where?’
‘Not far Keiron, really. Not far at all. Nearly there in fact.’
‘What, seaside like?’ Keiron asked. He scrunched up a paper bag and looked at Connor, jowly and balding. 'Fucking love the seaside.' He threw the paper ball at his feet then started to roll another cigarette. Connor turned the radio on.
‘You’re always smoking Keiron. Either smoking or rolling. You should stop. Especially with that stuff.’
‘So like Scarborough or something? Got a light?' Keiron searched all his pockets and said out the corner of his mouth,
‘Don’t like surprises,’ Keiron said, his voice muffled by a piece of sandwich.
‘Holiday time.' Connor was saying. ‘You’re going on holiday, Keiron. Our treat, you’ve, deserved it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. You get to do whatever you want whenever you want. All the money you need, your own place. Magic.’
‘Kidding? Ace. Where?’
‘Not far Keiron, really. Not far at all. Nearly there in fact.’
‘What, seaside like?’ Keiron asked. He scrunched up a paper bag and looked at Connor, jowly and balding. 'Fucking love the seaside.' He threw the paper ball at his feet then started to roll another cigarette. Connor turned the radio on.
‘You’re always smoking Keiron. Either smoking or rolling. You should stop. Especially with that stuff.’
‘So like Scarborough or something? Got a light?' Keiron searched all his pockets and said out the corner of his mouth,
'Nah I'll just use end of this.’
‘Scarborough? No, not quite. Good views though.’
They had started to drive through smaller streets in the gathering gloom. Keiron stared through the window across the valley to the strange stacked oblong lights of the two emmense grey towers below and in front of them. Connor drove faster. They crossed a small humped bridge over shining rail track and then through an industrial estate and up and down row after row of sandy coloured houses, slowly, geologically, dissolving back into the ground.
‘Seriously, are you sure you ok Keiron, only youdon’ look well.’
Keiron frowned and nodded.
‘Yeah I’ll be right.’
The front tyres screeched faintly as they turned into a twisting side road, with vegetation growing as high as the railings, that then plunged down a steep winding slope and round and into a car park.
‘Well. Here we are.’
‘But this…’
They pulled next to some other cars up in front of three enormous steel waste bins at the nearest of two tower blocks. Some children played football nearby.
‘The fuck’s this?’
‘Prince of Wales Towers.’ Connor wiped milk from his mouth with the cuff of his jacket.
‘I fucking know that. Bwhat are we doing here?’
Connor switched the engine off and sighed. He threw the empy milk carton out of the window.
‘Scarborough? No, not quite. Good views though.’
They had started to drive through smaller streets in the gathering gloom. Keiron stared through the window across the valley to the strange stacked oblong lights of the two emmense grey towers below and in front of them. Connor drove faster. They crossed a small humped bridge over shining rail track and then through an industrial estate and up and down row after row of sandy coloured houses, slowly, geologically, dissolving back into the ground.
‘Seriously, are you sure you ok Keiron, only youdon’ look well.’
Keiron frowned and nodded.
‘Yeah I’ll be right.’
The front tyres screeched faintly as they turned into a twisting side road, with vegetation growing as high as the railings, that then plunged down a steep winding slope and round and into a car park.
‘Well. Here we are.’
‘But this…’
They pulled next to some other cars up in front of three enormous steel waste bins at the nearest of two tower blocks. Some children played football nearby.
‘The fuck’s this?’
‘Prince of Wales Towers.’ Connor wiped milk from his mouth with the cuff of his jacket.
‘I fucking know that. Bwhat are we doing here?’
Connor switched the engine off and sighed. He threw the empy milk carton out of the window.
‘When I said “Holiday.” I meant a holiday for your mum, me and the rest of us. From you.’
‘But, where’s the seaside?’
‘Fuck’s sake Keiron,’ Connor sighed taking his seat belt off. He opened the driver’s side door. Car doors slammed further away. Connor twisted himself out and looked back in and down. ‘Come on, out you get.’ he said to Keiron, but whose eyes now had gone glassy. Connor ran round the front of the car and flung open the passenger side door.
‘No you don’t. Out. Don’t puke in the fucking…’
Keiron hunched with a wretching sound and vomited over the dashboard.
Under a flickered light in the lift up to the penultimate floor, Connor tilted his head towards Keiron and said, ‘Slapping his mother about this cunt.’ His voice echoed down the concrete corridor. The other two men each carrying a bin bag full of Keiron’s clothes and clutter, shook their heads. The lift’s mechanisms creaked into life.
‘Twat.’
Keiron stared at the gigantic meticulously sprayed cartoon head with a mobile against its ear that had drawn itself together on the doors. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against a mirrored wall. Unobserved in the corner, the tiny grey camera’s giant eye captured their reflected light.
‘Whose place is it again?’ Connor asked. The taller of the two gentlemen said , ‘Bronny Taylor’s. But he’s . . . away, shall we say?’
‘But, where’s the seaside?’
‘Fuck’s sake Keiron,’ Connor sighed taking his seat belt off. He opened the driver’s side door. Car doors slammed further away. Connor twisted himself out and looked back in and down. ‘Come on, out you get.’ he said to Keiron, but whose eyes now had gone glassy. Connor ran round the front of the car and flung open the passenger side door.
‘No you don’t. Out. Don’t puke in the fucking…’
Keiron hunched with a wretching sound and vomited over the dashboard.
Under a flickered light in the lift up to the penultimate floor, Connor tilted his head towards Keiron and said, ‘Slapping his mother about this cunt.’ His voice echoed down the concrete corridor. The other two men each carrying a bin bag full of Keiron’s clothes and clutter, shook their heads. The lift’s mechanisms creaked into life.
‘Twat.’
Keiron stared at the gigantic meticulously sprayed cartoon head with a mobile against its ear that had drawn itself together on the doors. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against a mirrored wall. Unobserved in the corner, the tiny grey camera’s giant eye captured their reflected light.
‘Whose place is it again?’ Connor asked. The taller of the two gentlemen said , ‘Bronny Taylor’s. But he’s . . . away, shall we say?’
The lift lurched and picked up speed.
'He? I thought it was a she.' the other smaller man said.
Keiron carried the suitcase with both hands and wobbled down the dimly lit corridor after the other three men. A woman stood in the doorway at the end of the doored tunnel, in front of a patch of hall light.
Keiron carried the suitcase with both hands and wobbled down the dimly lit corridor after the other three men. A woman stood in the doorway at the end of the doored tunnel, in front of a patch of hall light.
Connor shouted over his shoulder at the floundering figure behind him, ‘Come on Keiron, you’ve got fifteen years on me. What’s up with you?.’
‘Cough.’
Connor caught the keys the smaller man had thrown and opened the door. Inside, the curtains were drawn and the lights hadn't come on.
‘Stinks a bit in here,’ one of the men said, putting his bag down next to the sofa chair. They all looked around the main room for a second. Connor opened the curtains.
‘Oh no way. You’re fucking joking aren’t you?’ Keiron said as he put the half-busted suitcase down in the doorway.
‘‘Coily go see if you can get the power on. ' and threw an envelope on the table.
‘Cough.’
Connor caught the keys the smaller man had thrown and opened the door. Inside, the curtains were drawn and the lights hadn't come on.
‘Stinks a bit in here,’ one of the men said, putting his bag down next to the sofa chair. They all looked around the main room for a second. Connor opened the curtains.
‘Oh no way. You’re fucking joking aren’t you?’ Keiron said as he put the half-busted suitcase down in the doorway.
‘‘Coily go see if you can get the power on. ' and threw an envelope on the table.
'It’s not the Ritz, Keiron but what the fuck do you expect?’ Connor said and sat down heavily on the green sofa chair and a mushroom cloud of dust, caught in a shank of dusked sunlight, bloomed around him. He ran his hand over the chair's frayed arm. .
‘I want to go back home.’
‘You can’t.’
‘What?’
‘I want to go back home.’
‘You can’t.’
‘What?’
'You just, can't.'
Connor leant up and took a framed photo from the sideboard and studied it. The lights came on and the telivision fizzed into some sort of life.
‘Thing is, Keiron, there’s an injunction out on you.'
Connor leant up and took a framed photo from the sideboard and studied it. The lights came on and the telivision fizzed into some sort of life.
‘Thing is, Keiron, there’s an injunction out on you.'
There was a pause.
'Do you know what an injunction is?’
‘It’s a pub up Grome int it?’ Coyly said coming back in, wiping his hands.
‘What?’ Keiron said.
The other man laughed. Connor passed them a tin of Sparks each.
‘Sometimes, Keiron. An injunction means you can’t come near a place or someone for like months. In your case, you can’t come near Dowley estate until August. Or rozzer’ll have you’ Connor said.
‘It’s a pub up Grome int it?’ Coyly said coming back in, wiping his hands.
‘What?’ Keiron said.
The other man laughed. Connor passed them a tin of Sparks each.
‘Sometimes, Keiron. An injunction means you can’t come near a place or someone for like months. In your case, you can’t come near Dowley estate until August. Or rozzer’ll have you’ Connor said.
‘What?’
The small man leant himself up against the window pane and looked out across the strange expanse. The other man, Coyly, sipped his beer and lifted a plate from the table slightly.
‘Jesus.’
‘Right fucking view though. Is that Molyth tower over there yonder?’ the other man said.
‘Even better when it stops raining,’ Connor said and smiled. ‘If it stops raining.’
‘But this place is shit, Connor. I can’t stay here. Look at it. I want me room back.’
‘Like I said. Not possible I’m afraid.’
‘What?’
Connor opened the can of Spark’s.
‘Look around. You’ve got tables, chairs, bit of carpet, telly - ok a portable one - computer over there though, shithouse, kitchen, bedroom. What more d’you want?’ Connor said.
The small man leant himself up against the window pane and looked out across the strange expanse. The other man, Coyly, sipped his beer and lifted a plate from the table slightly.
‘Jesus.’
‘Right fucking view though. Is that Molyth tower over there yonder?’ the other man said.
‘Even better when it stops raining,’ Connor said and smiled. ‘If it stops raining.’
‘But this place is shit, Connor. I can’t stay here. Look at it. I want me room back.’
‘Like I said. Not possible I’m afraid.’
‘What?’
Connor opened the can of Spark’s.
‘Look around. You’ve got tables, chairs, bit of carpet, telly - ok a portable one - computer over there though, shithouse, kitchen, bedroom. What more d’you want?’ Connor said.
The other man came back into the room and said,
'Packet pasta, instant soup, Instant Whip and all that in here. Sorted, really.’
'Packet pasta, instant soup, Instant Whip and all that in here. Sorted, really.’
‘The wallpaper’s coming off, it reeks of cabbage and you can see the fucking floorboards for fuck’s sake,’
Connor frowned and looked out of the window.
‘Look, stop whingeing Kieron. You’ve got a roof over your swede, haven’t you? More than many a poor fucker has, this day and age. Ah,' he gestured towrds the table. 'Before I forget, there’s a letter there for you over there.’
The taller man ran his finger over marks on the top of the table by the wall . ‘What’s all this writing?’
‘Look, stop whingeing Kieron. You’ve got a roof over your swede, haven’t you? More than many a poor fucker has, this day and age. Ah,' he gestured towrds the table. 'Before I forget, there’s a letter there for you over there.’
The taller man ran his finger over marks on the top of the table by the wall . ‘What’s all this writing?’
Keiron slowly shook his head.
'Could be worse fella. You could be in one of them village things,' the smaller man said.
Keiron looked at Connor.
'Well?'
‘You always wanted something like this to happen, Connor didn’t you?’
‘You always wanted something like this to happen, Connor didn’t you?’
‘Look don’t raise your voice at me, Keiron. And what d'you mean wanted this? You hit your own bloody mother remember.’
One of the two men looked over.
‘As it happens, and lucky it is for you, this is the way your soft deluded mother wanted it. If I’d have had my way, I’d have just slung you out fucking ages a go. Anyway stand over there, I’ve got to take a picture.’
‘What?’
‘Does this twat never say anything other than “What”?’ Coyly said.
‘Just stand where you where Keiron, before.’
Keiron, look round, took a few steps back and stood, crooked, in the doorway. Connor pointed his mobile at him.
‘But who’s going to cook?’ Keiron said.
‘Smile for fuck’s sake, Keiron. It’s for your mum.’
‘What?’
‘Does this twat never say anything other than “What”?’ Coyly said.
‘Just stand where you where Keiron, before.’
Keiron, look round, took a few steps back and stood, crooked, in the doorway. Connor pointed his mobile at him.
‘But who’s going to cook?’ Keiron said.
‘Smile for fuck’s sake, Keiron. It’s for your mum.’
After they’d gone, he kicked his suitcase and bin bags and the tables and chairs about for a minute or so. Then, while he calmed down, he stood next to the window, arms outstretched, head bowed against the glass. The room had slowly filled with flickering static and thirty nine floors and over two hundred feet of twilight below him, orange pools of light had switched on one by one. He watched a smart black car follow Connor's cortina as it kangarooed up the hill and then the motorway traffic through an extensive spider’s web in the corner. Far away in the distance on the other side of the valley, he could now just make out individual fires.
He opened the window and smoked a cigarette. He flicked the last of it as hard as he could out into the air and watched the tiny red light helter skelter down towards the ground. After, he rooted through the flat. He opened drawers, looked for money then knelt down to see if the fire worked. After a while he got it going the ate some soup. There on the wall by the bookcase, in strange little capitals, just below chair level someone had written “Nothing happens in a world of nothing.” He scratched another hole in the wallpaper. Then he dumped his clothes into the bedroom and collapsed onto the unmade bed. The room was large, the bedside light worked, the bed was springy and the walls weren’t as bad as the other rooms. He picked up the radio alarm that flashed twelve hundred and selected a channel. He frowned, or a thought passed over him. He perched himself up on his side, winced, and reached under the mattress, half crushing his fist as he did so. He rummaged around, but, finding nothing, rolled back onto the bed, wiped some blood from under his nose, swore loudly and stared at the flaked ceiling through freshly bruised eyes.
He opened the window and smoked a cigarette. He flicked the last of it as hard as he could out into the air and watched the tiny red light helter skelter down towards the ground. After, he rooted through the flat. He opened drawers, looked for money then knelt down to see if the fire worked. After a while he got it going the ate some soup. There on the wall by the bookcase, in strange little capitals, just below chair level someone had written “Nothing happens in a world of nothing.” He scratched another hole in the wallpaper. Then he dumped his clothes into the bedroom and collapsed onto the unmade bed. The room was large, the bedside light worked, the bed was springy and the walls weren’t as bad as the other rooms. He picked up the radio alarm that flashed twelve hundred and selected a channel. He frowned, or a thought passed over him. He perched himself up on his side, winced, and reached under the mattress, half crushing his fist as he did so. He rummaged around, but, finding nothing, rolled back onto the bed, wiped some blood from under his nose, swore loudly and stared at the flaked ceiling through freshly bruised eyes.
May day
Workers all over the world are protesting against the same things against pretty much the same people and for the same ideals. For one day, be less pessimistic eh? yes there's a mighty recession that's hovering over us but that doesn't mean that the fascists are about to take over - history repeates itself? well, in the 1930's Mussolini had been in power for years and the fascists were a serious force. Today they're just a joke - despite what Hain blathers on about - their breakthrough will never come - they're just like an old man trying to have a wnk. They try and try and promise themselves this time something will happen. But it never will.
There's just the bosses, and their sock puppets, and the workers. Find a demo throw something at a copper - they've asked for it.
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