The Glenn Beck Rally

The Fire Next Time

This is the first and second chapter of a longform fictional piece about the world not too far from now.

Chapter 1:




Wayne stared at the chiller, watching his own reflection in the glass, swallowing back his fear as the owner Mr Akhtar, forty and worn down like a used paperback, followed his every move from behind the plexiglass on the small monitor that he kept by the register. Life under the weight of someone's gaze was a constant, something that you learned to accept even though it wore you down, made your shoulders slump with the weight of everyone waiting for you to fulfill their idea of what 'his' kind do whenever they venture beyond their neighbourhood. Wayne silently mouthed 'fuck you', almost pantomiming the gesture as he reached in for a two-pint bottle of milk.

Wayne was fourteen, small for his age, a good looking kid who might bloom into handsome, delicately boned with languid brown eyes tattooed with black rings of exhaustion, hair kept neat by his mother, from whom he inherited his features. The parka he habitually wore swamped him even further, but it kept the cold out, something that earned catcalls from the other lads and suspicion from wherever he went. His clothes were clean but worn, and his trainers were always a brand behind what was on the street, but Wayne, whenever his heart felt heavy from the envy and the disdain of his friends and peers enough to ask his mother for the money, he would see her, slumped at the table, steeling herself for the second job she had taken on to put food on the table, the words turned sour in his mouth and he would think of something else to say, or to ask her. Mostly he would go to his room, feeling it better to keep some things to himself.

Wayne held the container down at his side as he slipped his right hand into his parka, shuffling to the counter as Mr Akhtar looked up, not at Wayne but to the entrance. Wayne catches them out of the corner of his eye, afraid to catch their gaze, the stories flooding his whole body with anxiety. For once, for all of the ambient disdain that passed between them, Mr Akhtar with his forty years and Wayne with his fourteen shared the same thought.

Fuck.

Time was, seeing a uniformed officer held a range of reactions: resignation, relief, confidence, concern, alarm. You filtered those reactions through whatever range of experiences and familial attitudes were passed down to you, or whatever you had personally experienced. Ultimately, you held your own opinions on such a subject, but you hoped that somewhere there were policemen who upheld the peace, who would render assistance or see to it that you could entertain the idea that you lived in a world that worked according to principles. That these principles only really worked in places not abandoned to poverty or narcotics was academic, you kept the poor and the ravaged out of your eyeline and you trusted that the police would protect and serve.

By the time the balloons had been taken down and the mayor had taken office, everyone in the city had been relieved of that illusion. Except no one on the corners nor living in the neighbourhood was appreciating the irony either. Because of the people who were now walking into Mr Akhtar's store, planning on picking up drinks and cigarettes for the rest of their shift.

They all wore variations on a standard uniform, black fatigues with pockets for ammunition clips, long sleeved Nomex tees under Kevlar and carbide jackets, ball caps with the corporate logo stitched into the brim and boots that were always buffed to an oily sheen. Hip holsters with ceramic pistols. Their laminated ID tags were hung from lanyards around their necks, swinging as they walked, cocksure and confident. Men and women, different nationalities, oftentimes only ever reflected in their voices when they spoke, weeks of voice training removing their accents until they all spoke in one tone - not kindly authority but the commanding indifference of a cell block rapist. The guns helped secure their authority, far more than the press conference announcing their presence or the half hearted indignation that burnt out in the 24 hour news cycle, restricted to a few bloggers who soon realised that for all their indignation, digital signatures were ignored and denial of service attacks got your house broken into and your wrists cable tied together. Clever rhetoric doesnt stand up to a bullet, no matter how much Mencken you've read.

Greg Kenny and Rachel Guttierez, three hours into a six hour shift:

Greg Kenny, third generation white trash, set free of his genetic inheritance of meth production and venereal disease by sheer willpower and a gift for appropriate violence. Five years in Airborne, washed out for Delta in favour of private sector work, lots of names to avoid indictments and oversight committees but essentially the same supervisors and mission statements. Spent a lot of time either shouting for scared indigenous peoples to keep their hands up or eating steak and vitamin supplements in air conditioned trailers whilst his former army buddies suffered in accommodation that would spark a prison riot. Stood 5'8'', Mens Health cover model body but a face that seemed stuck in vengefully acne'd adolescence and teeth that had been rebuilt thanks to a generous dental plan, so he could smile and not have it look like a New Orleans graveyard. Not that he smiled much. London gave him even less reason to smile.

Rachel Guttiereiz, youngest daughter of a former bantamweight contender, signed up because the options were slimmer than nothing, dying a little inside when she saw her sisters all chasing after dreams as shallow as daytime television would allow them, schools that intended only to prepare them for a world that existed comfortably without them and their ilk. Rachel had taken the opportunity to educate herself as much as she could, and she fought to make her own luck. Did eight years in Los Angeles , commendations and a record relatively light of padded out arrests and grasps at glory, would have stayed there but private sector recruiters haunted county jails as much as they did military bases, and Rachel, she read the papers and participated in the message boards, and she knew where the balance of power lay in her country. The world was what it was, and it was coming to terms with the fact for all its illusions of nobility and decency, its essential truth was that you got as much as you can, as fast as you can and she saw no reason why she shouldn't participate. So, here she was, via Iraq and Afghanistan. Patrolling in another country and drawing a salary and benefits package that was putting her little sister through college and her grandmother in a Florida retirement village.

They had precious little in common, certainly no attraction on either part, but a dedication to the job at hand meant that they had to negotiate some form of working relationship. Mutual respect seemed to be working out for them - Greg had some great stories, and Rachel enjoyed educating him on current affairs as she saw it. They enjoyed their work, and in that was the reason no one wanted to incorporate them into some idylllic version of the world. Their approach to policing remained constant, whether it was Iraq, Afghanistan or Detriot and it was not something that sat easy with anyone but those that it didn't affect. There was none of the empathy and common sense that was the hallmark of the experienced officer, no these were people as certain of their duty as any soldier, the quickest point between A and B being the application of force. Something that despite the rhetoric espoused by the leaders of the free world, was the essential truth of the 'special relationship'.

Mr Akhtar turned away from the monitor, as Wayne clutched the coins in his hand, Rachel browsing the aisles whilst Greg walked towards him, not looking at Wayne, eyes on the chillers behind him. Wayne was in his way and the aisle was too small to make his way around, so he took a deep breath and tried to hold his ground.

Greg, stopped for a second, too tired and removed from the niceties of life to consider how he could just laugh and be gracious.

When life doesn't pull its punches, you learn to hit back with the same amount of force.

Shoving him to one side, Wayne slammed into the shelves, biting into his shoulders and back of his head like an aluminum rabbit punch - retail dirty boxing as the neatly arranged boxes of cereal beat a one bar tattoo and the quart hit the floor, bursting open. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, his breath a ragged sob even as he managed to stay upright, even as he held back the shame and the indignation. Even at fourteen, he knew not to show weakness, but still it was a feeling that took its pound of flesh.

Greg didnt even turn, opening the chiller door and reaching for a Red Bull as Rachel paid for her purchases with the corporate charge card that they all were issued. Mr Wu, looked to where Wayne had righted himself, even though he was just another one of the kids who put years on him from the stress of having to watch them, the cost of security countermeasures that they seemed to take delight in circumventing, resetting all the RFID tags so everything cost a penny, treating it as some glorious sort of play. Mr Wu knew what was coming if the young man failed to restrain himself, because he soaked up the details of the diatribes that his daughter would enliven their dinner conversations with, and he hoped that this wouldn't the point where he could actually have the upper hand in a conversation with his fiercely intelligent, wearisome child, even if it was from beyond the grave.

Wayne stuck his chest out, face tight with rage.

"What the fuck was that?"

Greg, turned, shocked enough to be amused.

"Didn't see you."

Wayne, shook his head, still struggling with the rage but determined that he would keep his chin stuck out.

"Cunt."

Greg flexed beneath his kevlar, rolling his shoulders back, the unconscious uncoiling that Rachel knew preceded some form of action. She left the roll of mints and the softpack of Marlboros on the counter, walking to close the distance between her and Wayne. Not even seeing the split bottle of milk still lying in the puddle from where it had slipped from Wayne's grasp.


She felt her left foot slip, balance gone as her arms flailed, landing hard into Wayne's back as he went forward, his anger now lost to the disorientation of surprise.

Greg went automatic. Reflexes borne of practice, gloved hands finding purchase at his neck, fingers stiff like knives and squeezing. Limp against him before he registered just how fucked this whole thing was.

Wayne felt his head fill with light, his last breath, his last thought as undefined and alive with colours as the crayon drawings his mother still kept on the battered fridge of their flat.

Rachel got to her feet, breathing hard, panicked as Greg stood there, still holding the boy in his hands, feeling him twitch the last few moments of his life away.

"Oh shit, Greg, oh shit. What did you do?"

Greg, his face smooth and devoid of expression, gingerly put the boy to the ground.

The glance Rachel and Greg exchanged was brief, but within it, was contained the collective and individual experiences that came from years of working in volatile, ever evolving environments because whether you were imposing or reinforcing democracy, it helped if you were willing to get your hands dirty.

As one, they turned to look at Mr Akhtar,

Rachel smiled, a bright yet cold grin that otherwise would have had Mr Akhtar revert to a set of manners that had stood him well for the twenty years he had been running the shop, instead it made his stomach lurch and his legs shake. Her hand went to the holster on her right hip

"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind stepping out from behind there?

Mr Akhtar closed his eyes and thought of how he wished he could have told his daughter she was right, of how he wished he could hold his wife for one last time, of one last English summer evening.

He did not hear the shot.

Chapter Two

They worked quickly, Rachel moving to the door. Greg, lowering the body to the ground, almost gingerly. He looked up to see Rachel looking at him, her back to the door. He nodded, and she called into Dispatch. Dispatch patched the call through to Hurt, Greg and Rachel's Shift Supervisor.

Company policy was that if no one saw anything, it didn't happen. Especially in a redlined part of the city.

Redlined boroughs were a mixed blessing if an incident occurred. Redlining being what happened to parts of the country that didnt do as they were told. Not manned borders or searchlights and cement walls, but simply the act of deciding that a particular address is instant refusal on an application form. Mortgage. Employment. Credit. The standardised paths to economic mobility closed off, leaving entire boroughs open to predatory lending. Greg and Rachel had policed these areas before, knowing that whatever happened, these neo-feudal neighbourhoods would enter into a spasms of violence and then fall into a lapsed, wounded silence, the only memorial being collateral damage and wilted flower tributes or doggerel spray painted on a concrete wall. Not that they made a habit of taking any situation to the level of violence, but it happened and their first priority was to protect themselves, then the company.


If someone saw it, then you litigate them into oblivion, pay them off(which was actually useful for tax purposes). Libel chill was unique to the United Kingdom, and it certainly made the infrequent task of collateral damage much easier to circumvent, so any indignation could in turn have the volume turned down to the point that it barely mattered. They had discussed parliamentary enquiries for larger events, and the remains of The Met, mainly upper management and think tank types, were happy to make statements dismissing the matter at hand and then returning to matters of policy. Lessons had been learned after Stockwell 1 and 2.


Eventually the response vans pulled up, and Hurt walked in, a compact, aggrieved little man with a buzz cut and a neat moustache, wearing similar fatigues and equipment to his subordinates, although it looked more like a costume than a uniform on him.

"You too. Out. Reynolds'll do the brief in the car. Whose gun fired?"

Rachel ejected the magazine and racked the slide, handing it out grip first. Hurt took the weapon, and proffered his other hand to receive the magazine, which Rachel furnished him with. He turned and passed it to one of the group of technicians who had followed him in, taking photographs and looking for the CCTV cameras.

Greg, removed his gloves and passed them to Hurt, and walked out, not making eye contact, keen to get away from what he had wrought. An overreaction, but then he had spent his whole career having his nerves finetuned by suicide bombers and insurgents who came bearing gifts.

A car was waiting, he knew that he would be taken care of, as would Rachel.

Reynolds had been one of the local recruits, a former Met detective who had been groomed for the private sector, mainly because she happened to be fluent in what Rachel called 'the language of the Third Way', lots of buzzwords but little substance, ideas recycled by the think tanks and debating societies that helped ease the country down a different path. Any society can form its own language, and Reynolds, a stocky Nordic blonde who hid her university education long enough to use it to power her way into an executive role within the new force. She had never drawn a patrol, instead she appeared only at public relations events and meetings with local authorities, blissfully unaware of the unintended consequences of the new policing approach, merely repeating the same talking points with the watery-eyed zeal of a True Believer. She was holding up a digital recorder, allowing them both to retell what happened, 'in their own words'.

Which would then be edited and reinterpreted, sold as something else entirely. Either blameless tragedy or another pyrrhic victory in the 'war on crime'. There were precious few variations left, not that a generation of journalists raised on recycling press releases or cutting and pasting blog posts had the critical faculties or job security to argue with their veracity. In these times, the truth was what you could edit, and this incident was no exception.

Reynolds told them that they would be taken to a hotel tonight, their uniforms taken to be cleaned and that in the morning, they would be briefed on their press statements and interview responses. Disciplinary action was not at this stage, considered appropriate although some form of punitive action might yet be taken, it would not be considered unreasonable to expect some form of fine or temporary suspension. The company was still fighting off what was left of the unions, protesting at the sale of what was always considered a sacrosanct branch of public service. She told them all this, bar the part about the unions, because Rachel and Greg were not interested in the struggles of strangers, abstract notions of public service or greater good did not enter into their resolute American minds.

At that point, they were not even really listening to Reynolds, thinking about room service and not having to finish their shifts seemed more reward than they deserved.

The hotel was near the airport, award winning and with a staff who were almost Praetorian in their dedication to discretion and service. Greg had been there before, after a messy raid on a meth lab in one of the boroughs, and he was already figuring out what to order from room service and planning on calling his brother to brag about how cool England was. Rachel was still nervous, struggling to get her head around the policy of containment that was de rigeur for the Private Policing Initiative.

There has never been justice, it has always been about who pays, and when you have shareholders to answer to, and long term mission statements, quarterly budgeting reviews and lobbyists who constantly preach your worth to the captive audience of government advisors, the bill always seems to go missing in the post.

Greg sat back and closed his eyes, the perfect citizen for this brave new world we all live in.

Greg sat, showered and shaved in a cableknit sweater and jeans, tan ankleboots and a new haircut. He had done this before, under much more frightening circumstances, immediate pursuit through Kabul or medieval mobs destroying entire towns in order to get their hands on another Company fuck up. By comparision, this was pleasant, almost sedate. Rachel was in the shower, and Greg was tearing into the roast beef on wholemeal, fingers slick with gravy as he shoved a mouthful of fries, Rachel's food was still on the tray, lemon chicken and tagliatelle. Television was on, political debate show live from Birmingham, still discussing Proportional Representation and the continued Corporate Presence. Resentment in every audience member, but skillfully deflected and defused. Rachel had said that there was a nationalised television station once, but that got torn apart by market pressures and a change of government, plans that had been set in place whilst the press had aneurysms over radio presenters making playful jokes with elderly comedic actors. One of Greg's comrades in Airborne called it the Niemoller Effect. No one speaks up for anyone else because they don't like or agree with them, until they realise that they have all been fucked. Greg didnt care as long as he could get Fox and ESPN. Greg was a man who lived life as simply as possible, entirely in the limbic area of his brain, and in turn distorted by the childhood bigotries he absorbed. Perfect for a man who wanted nothing more to shove guns in foreign faces and get paid for it.

Rachel, showering. More to hide the tears and to get the stink off, an olfactory hallucination that went unspoken, growing in intensity as the years and incidents went by. Rachel had seldom been involved in incidents like these, they tended to be the fault of her colleagues than her, she was careful and considered but then she had actually been a police woman, as opposed to a police officer, something that she had learnt about one of the first nights in London, explained to her by one of the last state policemen, paid to provide a training and transition package before he left the country entirely. Initially they had swapped stories, more of hers than his, and she struggled with some of the colloquialisms he used, but a smart guy. Talking about the difference between common law and legislative statutes, about the things he had seen and how slowly it had all slipped away from him, from all of them. Now he was moving out entirely, relatives in New Zealand and he drank like a man in mourning. Rachel pitied him for his sentimentality, because the world had been moving in this direction for a long time, and she felt like a mammal drinking with a dinosaur. Still, she tried to follow due processes, even when no one else did. It wasnt death camps and indefinite detention, it was more creative than that.

She stood underneath the shower head, eyes closed, hot water beating her skull, massaging her aching muscles.

She opened them, turning the shower off and towelling herself dry before getting into clean underwear, jeans and a sweater, similar to what Greg was wearing, but different enough to tell that the personal shopper was a little more outre than Greg's. She stepped into the main room of the suite, and smiled at Greg.

"How long has the food been here?"

Greg, mumbled a glob of vowels around a mouthful of food, and she sat down. Cutting and forking chicken and pasta into her mouth.

"Greg. You're an asshole, you know that?"

Greg, swallowed and looked at her.

"I didnt mean for it to happen, Rach." His voice gone fragile and infantile.

"I know, but all you had to do was step back"

"I know."

"Stop saying I know, Greg. Its fucking irritating."

"I know"

Rachel shook her head, and carried on eating, trying to dampen down her anger with food.

She swallowed, looking at him and preparing to talk to him again.

She almost wished she was still out on patrol.

Why We Can't Get Over

I am not predisposed to an appreciation for right-wing ideologies - whether it be Conservatism, UKIP or its US equivalent in the Republicans or the Tea Party, along with their bedfellows in religious institutions. However there are traits that I respect, and if their opposition adopted those traits, then we might avoid the pain of being in opposition and watching these people dominate the press and political discourse:

1. They get in line. The squabbling that we are seeing as the Labour Party leadership election hits the final stages rarely happens on the Right, or at least there is less mileage in it from a press point of view. Once a decision is made, then whatever dissent happens is done in private and the various groups wait their turn to speak, each time out emboldened by the cumulative victories that internal discipline creates. I know that progressivism engenders discussion and debate, but this goes to the second trait...

2. Keep It Simple, Stupid. The general rule of thumb is that a wider audience demands a simpler message, which is something that the right have down pat - their controversies are empowered by a simple core message or talking point that is disseminated amongst their activists and supporters, simple enough to remember and repeat with confidence. So lately, we have 'Ground Zero Mosque', 'Age of Austerity', 'The Big Society' - all simple phrases that mask big and disturbing ideas that get repeated until they sound reasonable.

3. Ruthlessness/Tenacity. Sheer, would run a baby down in the street, ruthlessness. They do not stop, they do not second-guess, they just do what they have to do - unless they don't have control of the situation from the beginning. The suggestion of removing free school milk was swiftly removed as it harked back to Thatcher's most ideological excesses and no one called them on it nor did they chase it after the moment. Whereas the right's most capable will chase an issue, a freudian slip or a poorly defended position until it is forgotten what the original issue was, only the sight of the hounded politician,academic or journalist flailing at the ear and bleeding from the wounds inflicted upon them.

What they don't have is compassion and heart, ultimately the truth of conservatism is not about helping the least, it is about ensuring that the rich get paid first and a sustainable illusion of achievement keeps the rest of us in line or soporific enough to stop us taking to the streets in pursuit of the truth.

Action

I have had cause to use NHS Direct before, mainly because my surgery is oversubscribed and I often wondered if I might have been more effective in securing an appointment if I sacrificed a small animal to some ancient elder God, but also because I have things to do and cannot, will not spend a day in a doctor's for something I guess I feel is minor, to me, using NHS Direct is responsible - I am making minimal impact on the health service that I contribute to, and I am getting advice which I can choose to take or not.

Guess which service is being cut now?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/aug/27/nhs-direct-health-phone-service?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter

OK, so here is what you do if you want to do something about the issue - I will give you the tools to do something, it takes a few moments of your time but it makes a difference:

http://findyourmp.parliament.uk/

Type in your postcode, write to them about the proposed cuts to NHS Direct. In fact, here is a template using the figures collated from a very worldly commentator on the linked article

Dear -----------,

I wish to raise my objections to the proposed cancellation of NHS Direct. The objections raised by the Health Secretary Andrew Lansley are financial in nature, and although recent statements made could indicate that the replacement service is on trial, the objections do not add up when you consider the following - That statistics indicate that some 27,000 calls a day are made to NHS Direct at at total of just under 10million calls per annum, which works out at a cost to the taxpayer of £1.23, which is a small price to pay for advice and assistance when I need it.

27,000 calls a day to NHS Direct = just under 10m calls per annum

£123m running cost per annum means each call to the service "costs" the taxpayer £1.23.

I would ask that you raise my concerns with the Health Secretary at the earliest opportunity and I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

END OF LETTER

OK, so as a present to me on my birthday, do this one thing. My aim is that you will get a taste for it, its easier than playing Farmville or posting pithy comments on twitter, its activism and it helps make your voice heard.

Turin Brakes -

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUzRH-NqDtA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Evn5DTVCbLk

Going To Try Something

Enough

There are many reasons as to why we have a coalition government, New Labour had run aground on a few issues, war on two fronts, a tanking economy, a hostile press, a leader who had the misfortune of looking like an ordinary person rather than an aspirational pin-up, general apathy and perhaps a lack of will on the part of the leadership rather than the activists and local groups. Cameron et al, despite being easily mocked had a friendly press, tonnes of tax-free cash for posters and such, no real world mistakes to hammer them on(because promising things is so much easier than having to deliver on them, eh Nick?), and Cameron comes over well on camera, plus they essentially shoved Osborne in a broom cupboard.

I always imagine Osborne being into model trains, like really into them, the expression of joy on his features as he unwraps a first edition locomotive being both oddly sinister and comforting - like an evil child's toy.

The truth of it is, we don't do as much as the other side do. I know people who worked their arses off to get Tony Wright re-elected, a man who worked for his constituents, and I didn't get involved mainly because an opportunity came up to earn some money working for the polling side of the things, which was interesting and the money came in handy. I regret that I didn't campaign for him, not that I am arrogant enough to think that I would have made a difference, but the truth of it is, I might have. If I had done something tangible, I might have made a difference of some kind.

People seem to think that joining or starting a group on Facebook or trending on Twitter makes a real difference, that going to Glastonbury is a revolutionary act in itself when the only thing that brings about change is actual physical activism, getting outside, being seen and being heard.

I have a friend who has always walked the walk - she attended Hope Not Hate protests in Yarmouth Market Place, and described how people abused her and her friends simply for being there, for standing up, she has been on marches and generally, were it not for how compassionate a human being she is, could make you feel bad for not doing enough - her husband is much the same, but to them it is nothing special, it is simply something that you have to do.

Its difficult because most of us have things to do, jobs, bills, families and friends, lives and political activism is as draining as it is enervating. Its the old and the young who can get out there, or at least it used to be. Most people couldn't give a shit about anything beyond their noses, sure they can bitch about it on a message board or a blog :) but ultimately it is easy to ignore it. I do it all the time, bitch about the situation rather than do anything, and I tell myself that if I ask questions, then maybe someone will think about the situation and do something about it, but its an excuse.

We have to start doing things in the real world, and for a start, start giving a shit. Just because the cuts will fuck the poor and disabled people first, don't for a second think it will end there, unless you are rich, in which case, fuck you, you're part of the problem. Shit, there are things going on in the world right now that are abhorrent.

It is not enough to stand on the sidelines being ironic and hip anymore. To me its about compassion, about not believing the myths of capitalism and seeking alternatives to it, because companies can afford to pay a living wage, governments can afford decent public services, they can provide education that teaches people other things than how to work, that we can be good in all things and live lives of substance. Morality is a word often taken by the conservative mindset but goodness is a virtue and a revolutionary act, and we might have to fight to make government notice us, but fight we must.

Asil Nadir

Asil Nadir has been headline news today, and I had to google him to get any idea of who he is, and why his return to face trial has so much import assigned to it. The wikipedia entry on him gives you an idea of who he is and it is here.

He strikes me as being the archetypal 80's cliche - running a company that diversified into a lot of areas, using that quasi-militaristic terminology that seemed to fit business at the time, I imagine when things were good, life was never better for him, making disgusting amounts of money, living well and having the envy and respect of his peers.

Now business was the business of the time, in that the excesses of the business world were, for the most part, unregulated and even celebrated - 'yuppies', city traders, champagne and cocaine, the idea that wealth somehow made you a better person. That the Conservatives were in power at the time cannot be ignored, as it was their ideology and policy that enabled such excesses to flourish, unencumbered by the notions of societal responsibility and oversight. He was embroiled in a cash for questions scandal that brought down Michael Mates and was a major contributor to the Conservative Party, which makes sense for someone of his standing and position.

That he then went on to mismanage the company's assets, and allegedly moving millions into properties in Northern Cyprus whereupon he fled to the area, protected by the lack of an extradition treaty and from there he ran a media company that controlled newspapers, tv and radio that he used to help support a change in party, faced a massive tax bill which he will probably avoid having to pay and has been given the contract for an airport without having to go through the normal tender procedures.

He claims that he is back in the country because he was terribly homesick, that he would like treatment for his ill health, and that he feels now that he will receive a fair trial. It wouldn't be facetious to point out that we have a government who would be, at worst, sympathetic to Mr Nadir, a relic of a time when the world was in their own image. That he dictated his own terms speaks to a greater truth:

If you have money and influence, you get to subvert the rule of law - if you break the laws of a country and you do not want to face the punishment, you fly to somewhere that will protect you, and when you think that the climate is right, you dictate the terms under which you will return. I will be surprised if he is found guilty, not because of any notions as to the guilt or innocence of the man, but because he is, for this government, the right sort of man. His links to Turkey will help in securing trade and improve their standing in the EU and I bet soon enough Nadir will give congratulatory interviews and the Conservative Party will get a fat cheque in their party funds. Asil Nadir will get away with what he has done because he is rich, and because we have political leaders who are extremely comfortable with the notions of wealth and power.

I know that New Labour made the decision to become similarly comfortable with the wealthy and yes, it got them into power and they did, on the balance of it, use it for good overall, but I still feel that they were betting against the house, and if you are at all familiar with gambling in its many forms, then you know that the longer you play, the certainty arises that the house will win back all the money that you spent, and a lot more.

Alex Reid

Alex Reid must face the toughest opponent of his career - reading

Alex Reid must face the toughest opponent of his career - shoelaces.

Alex Reid must face the toughest opponent of his career - his brain.

Alex Reid must face the toughest opponent of his career - thumbs.

Brandon Lewis

He is my local MP, mine in the sense that he 'allegedly' works for me in my role as a constituent, and his role as a Member of Parliament for Great Yarmouth, which is where I live. I didn't vote for him as I had him identified as a career politician, who will, in political terms, use the cachet of being elected long enough to ensure a stratospheric ascent to the middle.

Since his election, he has continued his fine work in fixing Great Yarmouth Train Station by...wait for it, asking the Transport Minister about it. Never mind that the website created to put pressure on National Express was last updated in February 2010.

Further to this, he has supported Planet Poppadom in its bid to win the Newby Tiffins Cup 2010, which was created by MP's to honour the best Indian restaurant in the South and has a tangential link to paid a visit to B & Q, visited some other places and had some meetings. That is some workload isn't it for such a 'formidable campaigner'?. Note that this quote is unsupported, without any sources to qualify it.

But hey, if you have a problem, you can go see him at one of his surgeries, right? Well, you have to make an appointment with the office either over the phone or via a form on his site, which kind of precludes the point of an open surgery. Never mind that it could reasonably be interpreted that there will be a certain amount of screening involved, and if so, for what reason?

Brandon claims not to be a career politician, he runs two companies - Woodlands Schools Ltd which run two private schools in Brentwood, Essex where he lives and i5 Consulting which is a management consultancy, teaching you skills that you can read in any number of books for under a tenner. All of which make him uniquely placed to understand the issues unique to the town. I haven't seen him at a Sure Start centre or outside ComeUnity, have yet to see him talk about addressing the poverty of aspiration that afflicts this town, no Brandon has spent time with businesses and businessmen.

In short, the man is an archetypal Conservative, nothing controversial, just part of the new intake of MPs who seem to believe that serving their constituents is something to be avoided, let alone actually interact with them because they're people who cannot do anything for him, just want someone to solve their problems, cannot introduce him to anyone useful.

Tony Wright worked for his constituents, if he couldn't have served here, he wouldn't have gone anywhere else. Brandon Lewis failed to secure the role of MP in Sherwood, back in 2001 instead he went into local politics and served as Leader of Brentwood Council. I would consider that he might not have Yarmouth's full attention, seeing as he must have to spread himself quite thin. He holds directorships and I respect his academic achievements, certainly, but I consider that he is only here until he leaves, the political equivalent of a mustard burp - vaguely memorable at the outset but soon forgotten.

Is it about networking, favours for friends, the right words spoken to the right ears?

That he will do nothing of substance for the majority of people in this town is a given, he'll help the people who always get help from politicians and it won't be anyone who desperately needs a surgery with a case worker, will it?

If you voted for this man, you are probably getting what you want from him, for the rest of us, well is it too much to ask that he does his job?

To Clegg

Ah, Nick. Apogee for the Conservative policies, once again he perks up to defend the regressive economic policies of the Cabinet he once warned so vociferously against.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-11086137

OK, so he claims that we have yet to see the measures to increase employment, well right now we need to see whether or not he can dispute what the IFS are detailing, and further to that, how exactly can this budget continue to be identified as either 'progressive' or 'fair'. Any answers, Nick?

That is the thing, answer the question, be honest with us. If at least, you had the courage of your convictions, if you actually spoke truth to power, as it were, we might not like it, but at least we could talk about it. If this is truth, then the grounds are there to debate it, and perhaps reach a consensus. Instead we get misdirection and obfuscation, the most puerile verbal subterfuge that we expect and oftentimes find endearing and exasperating in equal measure - WHEN ITS YOUR CHILD DOING THE LYING.

Remember when Nick was trying to harness the sweet feeling of Obama's campaign, without actually capturing the substance of it, but the idea that there might be alternatives to Labour or Conservative(to be fair, even Obama has struggled to capitalise on his own momentum)? I recall conversations with people who were traditional Labour voters and were considering voting for his party. To be honest, even I considered it, but mindful of my position as a trade unionist, lover and party member, plus you know Tony Wright actually did his job as an MP so I am pleased that I actually did not vote for Liberal Democrats, which actually went to help create this motley shower.

So in honour of Nick rising to defend horrific punitive budget measures, I propose that we, in honour of Dan Savage using Rick Santorum's surname to describe a sexual act - find something similar to honour this glass of sour milk in a suit. I welcome your suggestions in the comments.

Why am I not surprised?

So, someone has finally figured out the obvious: that the government budget will hurt those who have the least in this country. Did anyone consider that the banks and financial institutions that were bailed out with public money would pay it back? Really? No, me neither.

Look, some people actually buy into the branding that companies do where they pretend to be human and slightly overfamiliar - be it from private companies or political parties, most of the time it actually doesn't do you that much harm, except when certain political parties use it to get into power, and as it turns out, they're going back to their old crowd of mates now, but they'll see you around, and they hope you're going to be dignified about it, then they will smile, except it won't reach their eyes and then they will walk away. You'll clutch your stomach, fighting back the burn of rejection you feel clawing at your insides and realise how used you were, and how you believed in them, that maybe things would have been different this time.

People voting for Conservative are voting against the concept of compassion, they give you permission to act selfishly, to climb up and pull away the ladder when you do, to deny the essential truth of our collective humanity and place on this planet.

'Compassionate conservatism' is an oxymoron, and picking on a few people who, just maybe, are the smart ones for figuring out the grift in the system to get all the trappings of a lifestyle that people have to work 60 hours a week for. Maybe we should be considering why we have to work so hard for so little, why work is so devalued now, that you have to work as hard and give up just as much to navigate the benefits system and all without the attendant dignity that just about exists when you work for a living. Seriously, there are measures that could have been taken to not offset the cuts onto the most vulnerable but those would be seen as against the true power in the Conservative Party - those who wish to keep as much money for themselves as they possibly can.

So, when and where do we say 'enough'? When do we start refusing to tolerate these things? The government should be afraid of us, to paraphrase Alan Moore, and it is time to start reminding them of that. You have to start figuring out what you are prepared to concede and what you are prepared to sacrifice so you can see things remain exactly as they are.

post 81

I am a musician, playing electric bass. I love the sound of the low frequencies, making music that you feel as well as hear and how it locks in with the drums and the higher frequency instruments.

I took a break from playing in bands in order to focus on new opportunities but have started up again, I swear it is in my blood to seek out the means to make music again.

Post 80

Hello, my name is Matt Blissett. I am a number of things, and I write on here as I grew tired of firing off 150 character status updates and wanted to expand into longer pieces, more to talk about the things that I love, I hate and the ideas that I have. This photograph is probably a touch more intimate than I like, but its flattering. Flattering is good, and this isn't a photo that I would laugh at if it appeared elsewhere, which is always a concern.

Few years ago, I would never post anything about myself, let alone a photograph, I used to be mortified about my appearance, when really I was just horribly unconfident about myself, I could fake it for short periods but deep down I used to be afraid of whatever people might think about me if I were actually myself. Then I worked through my issues, mainly because my trade union work meant I had to become more confident or fail. So, here I am.

Claudy

I cannot imagine how it must actually feel to know that the institutions you serve, or are served by have actually betrayed you. Were you of a mind to see conspiracies, would you be thrilled to know that you were conspired against? As a paranoid, would you thrill to the idea that they were actually after you? Right now, I do not imagine that anyone who lost family or friends in Claudy feels anything approaching positive.

That the government of the time, the police and the Catholic Church conspired to protect a single priest, who upon the evidence not only participated in the bombing but could well have directed the action is something normally left to fiction, a distorted and ghastly parable that serves the interest of the plot. No, this actually happened, and seeing as the men involved are dead, are beyond the reach of justice in this world(which is the only world we will ever know)

Not that it makes me feel any less disgusted. I grew up tangentially aware of the campaign on the UK mainland, only on the television news but still no wonder eighties' kids grew up so fucked, absorbing all that death and terror.

It wasn't until I served in the Navy and living in married quarters that I met someone who had actually been affected by the campaign. He had survived the bombing of a Royal Marine band school, and talked about having to pick up the body parts of his bandmates. and how he decided to marry his girlfriend, seeing as life was too short to worry about the indignation of his and her family. Terrorism is a tactic, but its one wielded by cunts. Whether its state or guerilla, Palestine, Tamil, Israel et al its a tactic and blah blah blah. Its the people left behind, whole or otherwise, the families' who see an empty bedroom and know that their lives will never be the same.

I find terrorism, as a tactic, abhorrent and yet expedient, ultimately it is ineffective and it is never actually carried out by those who direct it, be it Iman or Catholic Priest, Hamas or Tamil Tiger. All it does is scar peoples and societies, because there is no love or hope in the use of it. I can understand some of the causes and the provocations that lead people to revolt, but violence begets only violence.

I'm not honestly surprised, just disappointed and whether it is overlapping with my feelings on the Catholic Church, I am sad that the people concerned are dead, as I think that the people of Claudy deserve justice, even if it cannot replace those lost to the unambiguous judgement of an explosion. That Clegg will deliver the apology somehow makes it stick in my throat a little more than it otherwise would. Next time, remember this, when we get someone stand up and encourage us to stand tall against whoever the latest enemy is, that they probably have their price and that someone is willing to pay it.

Consider This

Benefit Fraud actually costs £1.2bn, not the figure of £5.2 as Cameron has previously stated, and therefore gets banded around as the actual cost by the media. The rest of it comes from errors - namely claimants filling out forms incorrectly and computer errors. Now that is a lot of money, but there is a counter argument that has a figure which dwarfs this and goes to a greater argument, which I will articulate.

£13bn is lost through tax avoidance by individuals and another £9 to £12billion by companies and businesses. So each year, this country loses £22 - £25billion to people who can afford to move their holdings and accounts to places in the world that means they do not contribute to this country on the scale that they should.

Now, numbers aside, let us consider what sort of person commits benefit fraud, as 'covered' by the media. Get that image in your mind, the sort of education, the type of programmes they consider as worthwhile and the names that they get called.

Hold that image -

What sort of class are they?

Now imagine the type of person who can avoid paying tax, who can pay accountants and services to facilitate such an action, who can travel to tax havens as easily as you or I can walk to the corner shop for a pint of milk. To what class does that person belong? Do they run companies? Consider that the advantages wrought are cyclical, in that one advantage feeds the other and then I want you to consider why, if the government is committed to a course of action that means to cut the deficit, that it doesn't go after the larger saving? It would be facetious to believe that this is about picking on those who cannot mount a defence and a tame media that will demonise people who were unable to make better choices, wouldn't it?

X-Factor and Autotune

Is anyone deep down that surprised at the idea that some audio has been edited/tweaked on Saturday's show? X Factor is no more about discovering genuine talent than my shaven head is about me not wanting to have it hanging down to my arse anymore. You do not need genuine talent, only an emotionally manipulative backstory, some small degree of talent and you are away.

Here is a list of the winners of the last six seasons, now I can name two that have achieved any real fame beyond the initial interest generated by their winning and even they are painfully generic, talented in the coldest, most technical sense - even Alexandra Burke has devalued her cachet by doing adverts for deodorant and Leona is yet to do anything of true worth - I cannot see her locking herself in a studio with a pound of good grass, a bunch of musicians and producing anything a tenth as cool as Voodoo or The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. No she will produce ballads that might be technically flawless but have all the emotion of a soft boiled fart and the odd uptempo number that paraphrases whatever is considered 'current' by Cowell et al.

The show is about laughing at those who cannot, or fail to see they cannot sing, thrilling at the possibility of seeing someone make it despite their circumstances and ignoring the fact that they get all that made them interesting knocked out of them until they become polished and anodyne.

The truth of music is that no matter how well you can play, no matter how well produced your record is. there will be a sixteen year old with a broken guitar and a heartful of pain who will blow you away with a chord. That's what makes it great, its been forgotten by the likes of Cowell, who I doubt actually really enjoys music for its own reward. His is a world where everything is product, marketing and financial projections rather than art and passion and pain.

Oh, and only tangentially related - why is it lauded that Will Young and Joe McElderry only come out after their initial flush of success? Why is it that they are considered role models for being fucking cowards in case the fact of what they do in private might upset their chances of hitting the top ten? Essentially they are telling young gay people that they should hide who they are if they want to be considered successful - that's not a role model of any import, is it?

Enjoy X Factor, by all means, but lets not pretend its anything other than light entertainment with no more cultural or artistic impact than a Punch and Judy Show. I like it because Cheryl Cole is mesmerising to look at.

"Someone's Got To Be The Taliban"

Oh dear, yet another politician fails to recognise that computer games are NOT REAL and that when you are controlling an avatar in online play, in no way does it cast any aspersions upon the game, its content, the player or the producers of the game. Liam Fox is the Defence Secretary for the Government, and his comments on the latest Medal of Honour game have created, well not furore, but a vague incredulous disappointment that a politician has said something a bit crap and irrelevant.

I play console games, and if they are well made, have replay value and evoke an emotional reaction of some kind or at least an adrenaline spike, then I cannot give any thought to the socio-political connotations of said game. Manhunt, a third person stalk and slay number, attracted all sorts of fuss - even being 'banned' and yet people played it. The Grand Theft Auto series has been mired in the same controversy - and yet it still sells immeasurably well. Controversy is a marketing tool, regardless of where it originates and the idea that video games contribute to the degradation of the culture allows us the luxury of avoiding confrontation with the larger issues and forces that actually do undermine our values and communities, some of which ironically have been implemented and supported by the ideology of Liam Fox's party. You have to love the Conservatives, really.

Lovely Things

I realised that I mainly post about situations, political and cultural that aggravate me, but the truth is, writing about things that I love are not as evocative but I will be posting positive messages.

Things I Love:

Pop Culture

James Bond. Rarely done well, my concept of him as the Bastard of the British Empire only really took with Connery, and to a lesser degree Dalton and Craig. My personal favourite is actually David Niven, an artful, knowing parody of the post-retirement secret agent but there still needs to be a Bond that combines the hedonism and masculinity with a secret world of terror and espionage.

Prince. In recent years, he seems to have lost the genuine insanity and passion that made his recorded work engrossing but live the man is untouchable: muscular and tight pop that blooms into whatever takes his fancy at a moment, plays with musicians who are disciplined and fierce showmen as well as incredible musicians. Never a dull record, even if they lack fervour.

Stand Up Comedy. There is not one that I rate over the others, I admire anyone who can perform like this and make it look effortless. Regardless of whether they are arseholes away from it, I look to those who see the audience as the point, who speak about truth and make it funny and it is true that the most controversial are those who do not advertise their controversy. Laughter is such a powerful and potent drug, as immersive as good music.

Material Things

Coffee. Good coffee, ground and served in a cafetiere, nothing better, no sugar, not even a splash of milk, the best stuff has a bouquet as complex as a good wine.

People. I enjoy my own company, but I know that I require contact in order to live well and happily, the exchange of energies that arise from interaction, debate, contact and passion is enervating and the point of living.

Boredom and Eastenders Omnibus

Eastenders, first time I have watched it in years and I have forgotten how relentlessly depressing it is. Not in terms of its supposed authenticity, but in how the people of Albert Square fall into the same patterns. That the 'acting' is somehow lauded makes it all the more galling.

At the moment, Phil Mitchell is using crack cocaine. This is demonstrated by him behaving like a wounded bear awoken early from hibernation and finding a wasp in its ear and following every 'drug cliche' in the lexicon of television drama.

What amusement I managed to salvage was from seeing some of the people who once trumpeted that they were leaving to pursue other roles have returned, seeking the security of their old roles but still having that haunted, slightly disbelieving expression - in much the same way that I have seen people I work with, who swore how much they hated their job still in the same position when I see them after a few years absence. The only one I have any time for is Patsy Palmer, who I have an irrational attraction to. Her voice is like nails being hammered into my skull, but in interviews, her intelligence and humanity tend to shine through.

I know millions enjoy it, and my ranting is pointless in the face of that, but come on, surely television should aspire to something more than this - at least have some fun with it.

Suggestions -

Zombie apocalypse.

Guest Directors - Lars Von Trier. Judd Apatow. David Fincher.

Total recasting. But with a steadfast refusal to acknowledge that anything has changed.

A 'breaking the third wall' edition where the cast share their disappointment at how their acting careers have panned out, culminating in hurried phone calls to their agents and Barbara Windsor storming off set in tears whilst Sid Owen reads an old issue of Heat, mouthing the words as he reads them.

Communication

I was visiting my friends the other day, who are expecting a baby any day now and something that my friend said struck me as being particularly salient:

"That it's nothing personal, only politics"

So, sometimes it is important to remember that for all the sound and fury, the majority of those who hold political positions can also be considered and decent people - apparently George W Bush is entirely personable despite the beliefs he holds. However these are rarefied positions, and I feel it is important that we must put some political ideas and situations in the appropriate context.

So, some people we can shake hands and share a drink with, others are sociopaths or aggressively incompetent. Which applies to all aspects of the political spectrum, in my experience.

However, as I see it, there are considerations that should matter, regardless. Certain untruths and positions that even reasonable people would see as unfair and even perverse. Now my bias is apparent, and it comes from my place of deep compassion and concern, not envy nor am I working through any psychological displacement or neuroses.

Sir Phillip Green is a fundamental example of the concept that businessmen somehow possess the necessary skills to be effective as part of government, ignoring the fact that he is unaccountable to the people. He has been appointed to a position where he will be overseeing governmental spending, an 'Austerity Czar', a non-title that gives him power and influence over our money.

He managed to avoid paying some £285 million by transferring dividends from the sale of his business to his wife, a resident of Monaco, a tax haven and yet somehow David Cameron believes that this, combined with his business experience makes him more qualified than you or I, to oversee governmental spending - mainly he says to oversee IT contracts, but his remit will include health care and such, all the things that we have(or had) an expectation that government will provide for us, that we pay taxes for.

So, essentially the government has put someone in charge that you did not vote for, who does not pay in the same way you do, and he will now decide where your money gets spent. How does that make you feel?

Now, normally you would get complex arguments from left-leaning commentators, politicians et al and as angry as we would all feel, these would be limited to the places we already frequent, both physically and intellectually. It is not enough that we engage our fellow travellers emotionally, we have to get more people onside, we have to make our message simpler and more effective.

We need to start pointing out, without being patronising or elitist, why people should not tolerate these situations, get them to ask questions about why this country, and this world is the way it is. You do not have to dumb down, we have spent far too long seeing our media and our politicians spoon feed us insubstantial gruel whilst outside our window, we see things fall apart and this is not reflected anywhere. Conversely, the messages need to reflect what is good about us, as people, reflecting that we love and live and find joy in things and events that we cannot, or should not put on the credit card.

We went to war on a lie, which arose not from conspiracy, but from the combination of economic forces, human decisions, political ideas and events that no one in charge could have foreseen but the truth is, we go to work on similar lies, the ones we tell ourselves about why and what we work for, and the ones we choose to believe to get us through the day. The world works for a small percentage of people, and for the rest of us, we have to labour beneath the delusion that we can join that small percentage if we can build a better life for ourselves or if we give up notions of love, freedom or charity.

Stop tolerating all the horror and start considering what we can do about it.

Immigrants

I have no problem with immigration, at all. I met a young woman today who is flying out to Greece to do bar work, no one around us happened to be anything other than pleased for her. These were reasonable people and I resisted the temptation to start a conversation around the other scenario. Not that I feel that the general anxiety around immigration should be dismissed, but it is important to set aside the racism that permeates the media coverage. Jobs aren't going to anyone, let along immigrants.

Also, when the press talk about immigrants, they mean brown and black people. My friend Brett is a New Zealander and not only is he immensely entertaining, intelligent and considerate, he helps people in his role as a union rep(note that the qualities and the role he does are connected, I myself am a rep) Not once have I ever heard anyone question his place in this country, nor would they because Brett is built like a third act antagonist.

The coverage of immigration in the tabloids is increasingly less subtle, and I fail to see the difference between some of the stories and BNP statements. Further to this, the issue is yet another distraction from the real struggle - to divide and conquer so that the working class are directed to pour their resentment onto a particular target.

Dr David Kelly

The recent resurgence for calls into a further inquiry into the circumstances of his death made me think about a few things:

1. 1. The timing of this seems to fit in with the ideological push to detract from the Coalition's performance to the idea that Labour were to blame for everything. This is useful especially when you realise that the author of a book about the case is a junior minister in the Coalition.
2. The cause of death was not limited to the severing of an artery - other causes were attributed to the ingestion of co-proxamol and existing atherosclerosis. Not that the reports mention it, no its the omission of all the facts that tells the whole story.
3. There can be no clear indications as to why and when someone will commit suicide, the failure by Norman Baker to understand this and that reports state the opinion of neighbours and the friends is genuine in their disbelief, but the phenomenon of suicide is poorly understood, and seizing on this for the purpose of advancing an inconsistent conspiracy theory is sad and degrading.
4. The inquest was postponed in order to avoid conflict with the Hutton Inquiry, and yes, it is held to more stringent standards, which may be key to resolving the matter although I doubt, that for some people, it will bring neither comfort or closure. Still, if the family give their consent, then I hope that it will settle the matter once and for all. My guess is, it was the Lizard People.

Andy and Nick

Alan, oh dear. Do you genuinely believe your recommendations will be listened to? Its a panacea, a placebo to assuage whatever your view of what this coalition is. Yet seeing as Blair moved everything over to the right, it has its own sad logic.

Ah, Nick. I recall with some clarity the excitement that you offered the electorate, that you were speaking truth to power as it were, even my good friend Sean seemed enthused about it. I was still voting for Tony Wright regardless, but you made me consider.

In hindsight, my tribal loyalty was wise, even in defeat I felt I voted for the right party, and now I get to watch you sing backing vocals to the Conservative government. That you are part of a government that characterises benefit claimants as scroungers, that is targeting the most vulnerable amongst us, that is steadfastly avoiding tackling tax avoidance and corporate financial malfeasance, destroying the social contract in the most fundamental way possible and all you got was a good place at the table and the vague promise of electoral reform galls me. You sold your party and your country out, I hope it was worth it.

Your words are cheap and pleading, with all of the integrity of a drunken lech trying to get laid. I am sure you meant well, but I cannot respect someone who genuinely cannot see the nature of their betrayal and come conference, I would hope that your members provide you with some perspective, but in my experience such dissent will be ruthlessly managed, it happens a lot, allegedly. However, I hope enough of it gets through, or that you remain ignorant and other more sympathetic parties get a healthy boost of members and activists.

The Game Is Rigged

What class do you define yourself as?

I've always believed I was working class, growing up, my mum and step dad brought their council property under buy to let, we went to the cinema rather than the theatre, except for pantomimes at Christmas, I went to state schools and we had free school dinners paid for as I recall with a plastic token, and having to let the school secretary know.

Politically, my family were 'small c; conservatives and I tended to live inside my own head, supplemented by comics, computer games and books. My discovery of political consciousness happened when I was in the Royal Navy, when I found myself at the sharp end of global politics and started asking why I was stuck for months on end at sea, enforcing a no-fly zone against a country that, as far as I could see, wasn't hurting anyone I knew.

(Not to say, that I disagree with intervention, but it has to be for the right reasons. When you sell weapons and training to a country you later invade, that may well be realpolitik but I wonder if other solutions are ever presented.)

But yes, I do consider myself working class. I tend to see people as individuals, but to deny that in this country, a class system exists is a fallacy. In fact, Grant Morrison once characterised that we have as rigid a caste system as India, with the attendant discriminations but it is invisible to those who cannot see it. I don't use this to characterise this as that other people are sheeple, the parts of my brain that store thoughts like this have rendered me useless in so many other areas. ( In fact, in any post-apocalypse scenario, leave me, I have no practical skills and I would be better off as a source of protein.)

The wonderful trick played upon us, is the idea that we are now all middle class and that means that we can be dissuaded from pursuing activism in pursuit of equality by a simple societal ego-massage. Middle and working class people don't send their children to public school, the middle class actually are in the top 10% of earners and well fuck it here is a guide for you -

Do you work for a wage? If so, you can reasonably be considered working class.

Are you salaried and your position relates to the management of others? Then you are middle class

If you are reasonably considered to be in a position of influence and have control over the means of production, then you are upper/ruling class.

So, it is a wonderful trick because most of us would consider ourselves middle class, it sounds more pleasant and aspirational does it not? Yet those of you who consider yourselves middle class and are actually working class are part of the problem, in such the same way minstrels and house negroes harmed race consciousness, so does this aspirational sleight of hand harm our social consciousness. Not that I blame you, we all should have goals to better ourselves, but consider that you should look inside of yourself for happiness, it requires less compromise on your part and it sustains long after the fact.

The game is rigged, but you cannot lose if you do not play. If you can step away from it, you can see how divisive and poisonous the whole thing is, how it has been used to prevent a fairer and more equal society, to keep things exactly as they are, which benefits only the smallest portion of society. Trinkets to keep us from seeking out the real treasure. How do you do this? Irony helps, but you can educate yourself and you can ask questions, you can get involved with something as simple as an email, but the time will come when people will tolerate no more, and you should consider whether you want to be a house pet or a lion. Hear me roar.

Conspiracies A Quiz

Multiple Choice

A. Somewhere in a room a group of people decide how the world is going to run over the next decade, where the wars will start and end, what new innovations will hit the market and generally ensure things run as they always do. They probably have ninjas to kill you if you found out the truth, but no one will believe you, unless you find a messageboard where others have pieces of the puzzle and you can all laugh at the sheeple.

B. Market forces, unintended consequences, people making decisions that are based on incomplete evidence or faulty data, political pressure and media pressure, or their assessment that this is the right thing to do, mental illness, following or trying to second guess trends in other fields, economic pressures and random events.

Which of these is more likely? Please choose three options

A. That everyone in government at the time of the WTC bombing was a soulless psychopath?

B. That Al Qaeda pulled off an act that they will never be able to pull off and that it was missed because of interagency co operation failings?

C. That every white person involved in civil contingencies around the time of Hurricane Katrina was spineless and/or a sociopath and that every black person was spineless?

D. That people make mistakes, that the idea that someone controls the world and that if we were to become aware of their existence, we would be WATCHED and possibly eliminated.

E. That no one controls anything, that you and I are in the greater scheme of things insignificant outside of our immediate circle of friends and colleagues and that the world kind of farts and bumps its way along, that we can work together if we want to, but we are mercy to our own impulses and fears.

I will mark these later, there is a prize

Me and Conservatism

I can understand being frugal, saving up for things is hard and sometimes when unexpected events happen, you have to go without a bit, prioritise as you see other people spend money on things without a care in the world. Delayed gratification, self-discipline these are traits that are useful to navigate this world. I saw a bit of that growing up, my mum worked full time after she split up with Brian and we went without a bit, not too much but as a kid, you notice these things, my kids don't get everything they want, and that breaks my heart sometimes, but I love them as much as my mum loves me, which is infinite. My mother, well I couldn't put into words how much I love her, and I am a pretty verbose man.

I do not blame the people who choose not to work, when they can make a decent living off of leaving their pride on stand by whilst they either go to the benefits office to sign on or the doctors to get another assessment, and if your rent is paid, your council tax is a notional thing then you can have money for things - when you see that most unqualified positions are minimum wage, why would you? Pride is nice but it doesn't put an IPhone in your back pocket. They are merely a symptom or simply intuitively and instinctively smart enough to not buy into the idea that working hard is at all noble.

Working hard is noble if you love what you do - otherwise its at best necessary to pretend to, I love what I am doing at the moment.

Because they serve a purpose to certain people - and its not just benefit claimants, its Moslems, european migrants, asylum seekers, gays, lesbians, the elderly,the homeless, vegetarians(Insert the tabloid target here)

If we have these people to blame, to project our frustrations onto, then we do not have to look at why we work the longest hours in Europe, why we have a minimum wage rather than a living wage, why we see these fellow human beings as something lesser than us rather than people. You know people like your friends, your parents, your lovers - they speak different languages and hold different values but ultimately, they are us. Maybe they dont see things the way you do, but I bet you do not hold the same opinions throughout your life, do you? If you actually looked at these people and saw them as people, not as projections of your own frustrations and envy, you should then ask why am I being directed to hate these people?

We have a government who specialise in divide and rule, where they point out and remove the protections that are the mark of a mature society and claim it is for our own good, when in truth it is merely to allow private enterprise to swallow up more of the things that we rely upon when we are weakest. Not everything should or could be run for a profit, it does not mean that it will be more efficient or that it will offer more, but that it will be run to make money.

Compassion is not trendy or clever, it has been made to feel mawkish and weak, but it is not, compassion is the deepest strength you can have as a man or a woman and it is something that I do not believe this government has, collectively. Compassion is not about doing things for people that they could do themselves, it is about doing things for those who cannot do for themselves, it is about helping them help themselves, and in truth, getting them jobs isn't the solution, it should be about getting them good jobs that pay a decent wage, that their rights are protected and that they are not fucking demonised by the same ideas that paid them off with disability benefit twenty years ago.

My tutor Pete said that " Love goes out the window when poverty moves in" We need love because a lot of people are going to be poor, or a lot poorer very soon. I don't think that money is a virtue, it is an illusion that stops us from asking why are things this way? We are at the mercy of impersonal forces, of individual mistakes and ideologies that crush our dreams and our hopes. We need love right now, more than ever. And I love you. Because you're you, and you are making the best decisions you can, same as I am. I don't judge you, I just wish you well. I am angry a lot not because I am worried that I am being screwed out of something, but because I do not feel that the world works for most of us, we have to fight for whatever small amount of joy we can gather to ourselves. I am proud of where and who I am, I was raised by good people, decent family who enabled me to think for myself. I want better for all of us.

More Coming

I am working on a post about conspiracy theories and how they impact on history and present politics, and their place, also a bit of a love letter to David Aaronovitch who has kicked the back doors of my belief system in.

Size Zero

Oh does this paper not understand irony?

Please, this paper regularly posts mocking articles about celebrities' weight gain.

Here

And a comprehensive review, analysis and swift kick to the nuts here

Words fail me.

Parenting

When you deal with a relative with drug and/or alcohol problems, it is difficult not to fall into the standard responses that society tells you to: for me, its not that I want him to stop entirely, but if it is a case that he 'sucks at drinking or doing drug' then stopping might stymie all of the other issues he has. You stop being angry, and sometimes it veers between premature enlightenment and exhaustion when you see the cuts on his forearms, when you show him how to apply for a twelve hour a week cleaning job and when he offers to wash up his cup, you forget how young he is. It hurts when you can see how much pain he is in, and you cannot do a single thing about it. That you can only learn to seperate who he is, from the things that he does and that still hurts like nothing I have ever known.. It is worse for Patsy, she has that maternal instinct to contend with and sometimes war against, because some of you will never have conversations where you agree that prison might be the best thing for your son. It teaches you compassion, it teaches you to be tolerant and it teaches you that there is no one way to raise a child, or to deal with his problems. I wish I could make him better, but it is not down to me or my wife or any of the people who support him as he exists. He has to make the choice as to what sort of person he wants to be.