Lights Out

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, Self help books are from Hell

2009-09-28T03:17:00.000-07:00

You will almost certainly heard of a best-selling book called “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus”. It purports to be a guide to help men and women get along with each other, and it did so largely by exhorting men to hack off their genitals and bow in slavish worship of the superior sex. Naturally enough, it is one of the biggest piles of rancid goatshit ever to stain the pages of literary history. Even for the self help industry (which I have heard some ladies I know refer to as “brilliant; they’re really good for training the boyfriend!”) this book surpasses all other contenders in terms of trying to take away our poor quality 70’s TV buddy-cop shows, and place men firmly at the bottom of the social pile.

And do you know what the worst of it is? A man wrote it. No, this wasn’t some Dworkinesque fun-free lady intent on conditioning her future husband to enjoy ‘Sex in the City’ who was scribbling away. It was another man who did this. What on earth, I thought, could have driven him to collaborate on such a grand scale? Had he been promised better rations and access to an Xbox 360 in the Brave New World he was helping create? Well, what better way to try and get into somebody’s clearly disturbed psyche than to read his misguided words? I hope you all appreciate this; I read the bloody thing so that you don’t have to. Donations for my recuperation will be gratefully received…

The Introduction

And before we even get that far, things are looking bad! A glance at the acknowledgements tells it’s own terrifying story: nearly every person he thanks is a woman! His wife, his three daughters, his mother, his sisters…oh my GOD, the poor bloke has obviously been brainwashed!

As for the intro proper…well, it was the standard explanation of why any disagreement between a man and a woman is inevitably the fault of the testicle owner. Naturally enough, my urine began to boil freely and I had to take a break before continuing. So once I had bleached my eyeballs and scraped the dirt from my brainstem, I was ready to continue my journey

Chapter 1 – Men are from Mars, women are from Venus

The eyeball bleach was, however, required almost immediately I turned the page. Not that there is anything horrifically wrong about this chapter. Assuming that is that you don’t find reading stuff that treats you like a retarded Disney child offensive. Jesus…this is the kind of twee bullshit that is usually found in the Mr Men books…a lot is said about imagination, but one question does remain unanswered. If men and women are from two different planets and survived perfectly happily, then why didn’t we just stay on Mars and watch the lesbian show through the telescope? Astronomy would have replaced watching football as the number one activity for the average man…

Chapter 2 – Mr Fixit and the Home Improvement committee

It seems that women prefer to reflect on their troubles, whereas men will always try and offer a solution. According to this, our number one ambition is to try and solve women’s problems when they tell us all about them. He seems to be missing the point. The reason that we come up with solutions to their problems is so that they will shut the fuck up with their endless complaining (oh dear God, sometimes I think that half of my life has been spent listening to women ranting about what their stomach looks like, with a degree of self importance not seen since Razorlight released their last album, “I’m Fucking Great Me; Look at my skinny jeans”) and leave us to contemplate who we’d rather shag if we had the choice between Cheryl Cole and Kirsten Dunst.
The book seems to be working on one fatally flawed assumption: that we have hidden depths to our characters that women can unlock if we modify our behaviour. Trust us, we really are as shallow as our beer fixated ‘façade’ suggests.

Chapter 3 – Men go to their caves and women talk

Finally, a chapter that seems to have some sort of grounding in reality! Men, we are told, get withdrawn when faced with a lot of stress. Perhaps this is the first in a series of coded messages to the female world at large. “When you nag the fuck out of us, and we go quiet that means you’re stressing us out and could you please SHUT UP!”
Alas, this does not seem to be the case. All too soon, the writer (perhaps having been bitch-slapped to within an inch of his life by his agent upon reading this section. His female agent…) returns to the approved party line. It seems that we should learn to talk more. Well, allow me to let any women reading this on a little secret; we can talk until our throats are dry. We just don’t want to talk to you. Your musings on what shade of aubergine would look best on the kitchen wall are very sweet. But I’d prefer to discuss how to shoot down the helicopter on the last mission in Grand Theft Auto IV with my mates. You get interested in my world, and I’ll get interested in yours, ‘kay?

Chapter 4 – How to motivate the opposite sex

A delightful series of pages entitled “How to Motivate the Opposite Sex”. 17 pages in all, which is 16 and a half too many. This is what he should have written:

Men: For fucks sake, don’t stare at her tits too obviously. And tell her that she looks beautiful at least once a week. Women like that kind of shit.

Women: Stop nagging about tidying up and housework. Yes, we would live in a pigsty if we had to, and no we don’t care what other people think if they saw the state that the living room is in.

As a side note, the insistence on stretching the whole “different people from different planets” metaphor to explain everything is starting to make me feel cancerously ill.

Chapter 5 – Speaking different languages

Oh for fu…now it seems that men and women speak different languages from each other! Unless your girlfriend retailed at £69.95 and was imported from Manila, this is bollocks. I personally can understand every word that gets shat from a woman’s mouth. Equally, they understand my semi-coherent headspew about why £15 million for a football player is money well spent. What we both seem to have a problem with is why we’re trying to spoil a perfectly good relationship by opening our mouths and making noise that neither one of us wants to hear. Unless you really do care about the intricately layered trifle of nonsense that is laughably referred to as the plot to Eastenders, or unless she has a deep and abiding interest in Steven Gerrard’s mystifying loss of form, stick to screwing each other. It will mean less hassle in the long run for both of you.

Chapter 6 – Men are like rubber bands

Men are NOT like rubber fucking bands! Men LIKE rubber bands, yes. Ask any man about this and he will wax lyrical about the first time he felt the joy of flicking a loop of brown rubber across the classroom, and into the unsuspecting face of the faux posh kid who’s mummy won’t let him mix with the boys from the council estate.
The only way this could remotely be considered true is if you are a woman. To them, men are indeed like rubber bands: to be stretched and twisted according to whatever passing whim they may have. To ensure I wasn’t brainwashed by this piece of feminist subterfuge, I hammered some nails into a plank of wood after I had finished it. With the sweat of manliness upon me, I continued reading.

Chapter 7 – Women are like waves

Only like the waves of nausea that creep over me every single time I hear two women discussing yeast infections.

Chapter 8 – Discovering our different emotional needs

This is a missed opportunity. He could have broken free of the mental chains his extended female menagerie has undoubtedly placed on him. He could have said that our emotional needs can pretty much be addressed by a selection of Playstation 3 games and the occasional viewing of a David Attenborough documentary. Instead, we get told that there are 12 different types of love and that we have to master all of them before we can be considered to be an evolved human being. Talk about overcomplicating an already difficult issue…
For the record, Men don’t have any trouble saying the words “I love you”. It’s just that it’s difficult to say it with a straight face when your girlfriend has just spent the previous half-hour making grunting noises interspersed with the occasional plea to be fucked. Why do you think men prefer to shag with the lights off?
Oh, and there is a mention of men as “Knights in shining armour”. That is the first recorded instance, and I hope the last, of a man using this ladywrong phrase.

Chapter 9 – How to avoid arguments

Have a sex change. Show me a world where men and women don’t argue and I’ll show you a world where one gender is completely under the control of the other. These days, men and women can be more or less equal. But they’re different. So they’ll disagree. And argue. And what’s more, no arguments mean no post-argument sex. I rest my case.

Chapter 10 – Scoring Points with the opposite sex

Oh, the poor bastard. It seems that this man has spent his entire married life with a woman who follows him round with a clipboard giving him marks out of ten depending on how much his every action shows his love for her. What in the name of Joseph’s underused cock is it with the female desire to give a point score to every aspect of a relationship?! If you’re happy, then enjoy it. If you’re not, then tell us. But please, whatever you do, stop acting like a judge at the Olympic Husbandry finals. If you want point scoring, then go watch Torvill and Dean. Otherwise, go and bitch about us to your friends in the pub toilets. You’re good at that.

Chapter 11 – How to Ask for support and get it

Or to put it another way, how to allow your girlfriend to dictate every aspect of your life. From what kind of clothes you wear to what kind of music you listen to; rest assured that your woman will want to change it all! I mean really, are there any women left in the world who don’t hear the sentence “Can I ask your advice?” as “Can you stick your nose into my affairs to an intolerable degree whilst making me feel like an emotionally stunted and inadequate little turd?”
Now, I’m not saying that there isn’t a place for emotional support in a relationship. That place is in the pub with our mates. Any advice can be sought at around 15 minutes before closing time, and you can be safe in the knowledge that all of you can pretend that you can’t remember the specifics of whatever it was thanks to excessive drunkenness!

Chapter 12 – Keeping the magic of love alive

This can be achieved by ignoring every single word of advice that the previous 11 chapters have given. Live your own lives as best you can. Make sure that you spend lots of time doing the things you want, and not compromising your ambitions in order to keep the peace. And always make sure that you both do whatever makes you happiest. That way, when you get together with your other half you will have plenty to talk at each other about whilst totally ignoring whatever the other person is saying.

The Funniest Joke in History

2008-08-09T06:43:00.000-07:00

These days, hardly anyone gets the joke and if I’m entirely honest? I can’t see the situation getting any better. History will, I suppose, say we were so sharp that we cut ourselves fatally. Assuming History even bothers to note the joke in the first place. It seems more people are missing the point each day, so who is to say that posterity will get even the faintest notion that Plato was the greatest satirist who ever lived?

My name, for what it is worth, is Lachesis. I may be one of the last men walking under the bronzed sky who remembers the laughter of the Symposium as Plato gave his first reading of Apology. I know for certain that no-one but me remains of those clever, desperate men who came up with the idea of using our respective gifts to both promote and defend the ideal of Athenian democracy after our city had lost so much in the ruinous war against Sparta. The times were dark (though not, I must concede, so dark as they are now) and we were by no means alone in fearing that the conquering Spartans would enslave and extinguish Athens and it’s culture in much the same way as they had done to the Messenians al those years ago. Armed resistance was not an option, and even if it had been I must confess, somewhat shamefacedly, that we would never have taken that option. Our talents lay in other arenas; those of philosophy, poetry, rhetoric, and politics.

You may very well snigger at that. And, in truth, I would not blame you for doing so. The last Athenian government did not, and they were perhaps the only ones who didn’t. The Spartan conquerors did, and it was that condescending laughter from them that spared our lives and allowed us to continue writing, adding to the great joke that would rescue democracy. As I have mentioned, the times were doom-laden and the city was rife with mutterings against the government who were to be the stewards of the fall of Athens. How, asked the mob, had the great Democracy which was the envy of cities all over Greece and beyond, been driven to the brink of defeat by a city of rapacious, barely civilised warriors whose barbarity would’ve shocked even barbarians? How had we not been able to lead the rest of Greece into the enlightened age that the fathers of Democracy had promised? Was this not a sign that Athens’ experiment had failed, and should be abandoned in favour of something more in line with the leaderships of their enemies? “A tyrant would never have allowed this to happen!” was a common enough cry in the streets, jostling for pre-eminence amongst others who favoured monarchies, oligarchies, and the like.

It was with this as our backdrop that we presented our counter-propaganda proposal to the Council of 500. Cratylus spoke first;

“My fellow citizens, on behalf of my comrades I thank you for gifting us your precious time. I swear that gift we have to offer in exchange is of an equal value to you.

You know (how can you not?) that the streets are awash with talk of abandoning democracy in the face of our most desolate hour. You know too that to do so would invite not just defeat, but ignominy that will echo down the ages. The Athenians will gain a reputation for high-minded talk when it suits them, and for abandoning any of the principles that we have tried to instruct the world in when things go against us. We share what is no doubt your view that even, in fact especially, in times such as these we must hold fast to the course set for us by Solon and by Ephialtes.

Yet you must also have arrived at the same conclusions that we have; that to try to force the mob to see that Democracy must be adhered to would be counter-productive. To enforce a measure by strength of arms and tell the people that it is for their own good? That would be folly on the scale of Midas!”

At this point, I confess to a certain watery feeling in my bowels. Judging by the angered expressions that peppered the council at that last remark of Cratylus’, almost a quarter of that august body did not think that such a thing would be folly in the least. I suppose that in any system of government, no matter what its overall virtues, there will always be those who will see those that oppose them as an implacable enemy. Furthermore, they see an enemy that can only be curbed with harsh words and brutal treatment in order to impose the ‘correct’ beliefs on them. Whilst I of course abhor the blood thirst of such men, I had no wish to be seen aligning myself directly against them at such a delicate juncture in our history. Cratylus continued;

“No, to win back the mob to acceptance the true ways of governance will require something quite different from the oppressive measures that our enemies of the Peloponnesus use to whip their people into obedience. We need to appeal to the hearts of our people.”

Cratylus paused, and allowed a half smile to slowly appear. This had the usual effect in that the council, even those still outraged by the implication that they were of a no better heart and morality than the Spartans who sought our destruction, quieted down and waited to see where these fine words were leading them.

“Fellow citizens, if I were to ask you who was the worst fruit of the Athenian tree, would you tell me ‘Peisistratus; that fellow was the rankest that ever there was’? Judging by your silence (and, if I may say so of such eminent men, your puzzlement) I would assume you think he is not.

Would you all cry “There have been none so foul in our history as Hippias! The cur betrayed us to Spartans and Persians for his own profit!”? Again, I would say that the answer would be no.

And why should that be? Why should these two vice-sodden men be counted only among the lower ranks of those who have done evil to our fair city? Fellow citizens, I think we all know the answer to that question. It is because we have the worst example of what Athens has to offer within our living memory, and so we have no reason to plunder tales of our ancestors to find our city’s darkest demon.

Who is it that I speak of? Why, I am sure that I do not even need to recount any of his infamy for you to know. The man who, in the name of Philosophy, filled the heads of the sons of our greatest citizens with blackened, charred obscenities. The man who stood by, smugly claiming that the attempted coup of his students was ‘no business of his’. The man who the mob would have torn to pieces with their bare hands once the depth of his venal, self-serving sophistry was revealed had he not beat a hasty retreat to Hades with the aid of a cup of Hemlock. Fellow citizens, I see by your faces that you know of whom I speak. But I ask of you, say his name to me so that we are all in agreement before my friends and I continue.”

Cratylus’ voice had strengthened and the rhythm of his words quickened as he approached this point of his speech. I could see the puzzlement that had been so impertinently mentioned begin to melt away and be replaced with savage amusement as Cratylus led them down a merry path to the name of the man who would have seen Athens fall to a tyranny worse even than the yoke of Sparta. As one, they answered his question;

“Socrates!”

Cratylus beamed at the council, as if they had just unpicked a riddle set by Apollo himself.

“Socrates. The pot-bellied, pig brained degenerate himself. Yes my fellow citizens, Socrates. Of whom the best that can be said about his teaching is that if he was filling a pupil’s arse with his cock then at least he wasn’t filling their hearts with horseshit”.

A few scandalised gasps at this (surely forced and faked for the benefit of reputations more than anything else), but mainly the council rumbled with what mirth could still be coaxed from a leadership staring into the abyss.

“But what about him, you may be asking yourselves. Who cares about a dead villain? What use is idle talk of a monster from the past when we now have other monsters on our doorstep? My fellow citizens, I shall presently give way to my friend Plato who will explain in words more apt than I just how we shall use Socrates. It will be a great irony my friends, for we shall be using the man who tried to sow the seeds for the death of democracy to ensure that it does not just weather the Spartan storm, but thrives!”

To his credit, he clearly didn’t expect applause as he gave way to Plato. As you may have gathered from his words, he was a great one for self-promotion through rhetoric, old Cratylus. We’d always assumed that was another joke; the loquacious Cratylus of Athens, direct descendant of that other Cratylus who renounced the spoken word and communicated only by pointing at words he’d drawn in the dust. His boy is one of Aristotle’s pupils now. I’d say his father did a good job with him, although he’s too serious by half; he thinks of the whole world as a logic puzzle that can never be solved. Anyway, please excuse an old man’s digressions. Cratylus swiftly gave way to Plato, allowing not one moment between the ending of his speech and the beginning of Plato’s so that the council could not interrupt the flow of what was being said.

Plato was an unusual man to be speaking to the council. He was making a name for himself as a poet and satirist in Athens, and was a young man at the time. He had spoken at the Symposium a few times, and even once at the Assembly. But never before the Council, though if he truly was nervous then he did not show it.

“Citizens of the Council, I thank you. Socrates and his teachings are a byword for greed, venality, treachery, and vice. No decree was required from any leading citizen to destroy his books after his trial; so complete was his fall from grace that even those few philosophers outside of Greece and Alexandria burnt such works of his that they had in their possession rather than risk his poison dripping into the ears of antiquity. Within a few more years it will be as if he had never existed, save as the punchline to a ribald cookhouse joke. I think we can all agree that this is a good thing, can we not?”

A sea of furiously nodding heads erupted at this. Plato nodded sagely; a good move, as the council always liked to hear from men who agreed with them.

“Yet although he is dead and his teachings anathema to all, we do not live in a city that is content with the Democracy that he tried so hard to destroy. Many are of the opinion that, although Socrates railed and raged against we democrats, his aim of getting rid of Democracy was not such a bad one. It was only that which he sought to replace it with (which was, as I hardly need remind you, a travesty of good governance with himself as a debauched and flaccid ‘Philosopher Prince’ at the titular head of such a state) which made him such a villain.

Citizens of the Council, I ask you this; would these people be so keen to abandon democracy to some lesser form of government if they thought that these other forms would have been Socrates’ final aim? I ask you to consider this; if the people of Athens felt that Socrates had been in favour of, perhaps, an Oligarchic government under the watch of his beady eyes? Or a tyranny? A monarchy perhaps? Can any of you imagine how utterly bankrupt something would become in the eyes of the mob of Athens if it was seen to be allied with the desires of Socrates himself?

If you will allow, I have taken the liberty of composing a satire taking this very notion as my starting point. In it, I have placed the honeyed and plausible words of those enemies of democracy in the mouth of Socrates himself. I have made him unrecognisable from the uncouth lout that we all know he was, and made him into a man who (if Athens did not know the truth of him) is a paragon of reason and intellect. And I have then made him speak approvingly of both those people and those ideas that run contrary to the survival of Athenian democracy. If I may…”

And Plato began to read. The smiles came quickly to the faces of the council, far quicker than they had during anything Cratylus said and quicker still than when it came to be my turn to speak to them. The laughs took longer, but slowly and inexorably they came. Plato was a writer of true genius; starting with a nod to the feigned ignorance that hid Socrates’ base cunning, he built up a verbal picture that was hilarious precisely due to its utterly bizarre nature. The replies to the charges brought against him by Anytus, Meletus, and Lycon were far from the incoherent vitriol that he had actually brought to bear. They were plausible sounding and had the ring of a deeper truth about them. But to be delivered by such a grotesque, darkly comic figure as Socrates would have left the listener in no doubt that these words, though they may seem soothing to a mind fogged with the terror of the oncoming Spartans, were nothing more than the lies of a traitor.

Plato gave way to rapturous applause as I came forward to outline to the Council just how we would use satires such as this to bolster the Athenian commitment to democracy. There were some on the council who disapproved of what we were proposing, feeling that it was little better than trickery on their part. They said that they had no wish to deceive the Athenians into backing Democracy. At the time, I was able to dismiss such concerns as the worrying of womanish old men (and being of no small comedic gifts myself, was able to do so whilst keeping even those who had objected smiling). With the benefit of hindsight, I am inclined to think that those womanish old men were the wisest people in the council. Ah, but regrets are the main coin of we who have seen all that they have sown grow into a bitter harvest. You will, I trust, forgive me for more digression from the main thrust of what I have to say, but I will remind you again; we were young. We were fiercely intelligent, and believed that we knew better than the old men of the Council. Whilst they had shepherded Athens’ democracy, we believed we would be its sheepdogs; fighting off the many wolves who would tear our flock apart. Now I am older and I recognise our naivety for what it truly was.

The Apology was read out across the city within a few days. Our allies too wished to take advantage of our propaganda, subtly altering here and there to ensure that their citizens too would get the joke; that anything championed by Socrates was a sure path to damnation and suffering. We all received the warm thanks of the council, Plato more so than anyone. Seemingly inspired by the use of Socrates as a Philosophical device, he wrote many more works designed to ridicule those who held views contrary to those of the greater body of the Assembly and Council; Crito saw Socrates arguing for justice from a prison cell, and caused hilarity when first read. Laches silenced those citizens who called for surrender to the Spartans, saying that perseverance in the face of fortitude was no courage at all. Other works such as these helped rally Athens to the common good of our Democracy.

And it was all for naught. Athens still fell, and the 30 Tyrants began their rule. We were fortunate that they cared little for our wordplay and linguistic games. So we wished to write comedies that glorified an old sot? As long as we contented ourselves with clever words that did not stray into politics too overtly, then we were left to our own devices. The Tyrants ruled in the name of their Spartan masters, and did so with no small degree of viciousness. Plato for his part revisited the Apology, rewriting some parts to make Socrates (for all his incalculable vices) seem morally superior to those people who now controlled our city. So subtle were the changes that they were not noticed by any of the Tyrants’ men until the whole city had heard the new version. Similar changes were put into all of his other works to that point. This Socrates, whilst still the epitome of all that could be wrong with Athens, was used to make the Tyrants and their masters seem even lower than he.

Plato’s words were far too clever by half for the Tyrants. The end of their reign was brought about in no small part by the democratic fervour whipped up by his seemingly endless river of witty, inventive satires that helped make the people unafraid of their bullying masters. Once such a mindset had been forged, the Tyrants were doomed to meet their end.

After that, Athens was free from the dominion of anyone but Athenians. Plato had no reason to continue his polemics and savage attacks on the enemies of democracy, and he began gradually to work on matters that were closer to his actual philosophical interests; the cosmological musings of Empedocles and Protagoras were his chief passions. However, he still held bitterness in his heart for the militarism and vicious arrogance of the Tyrants, and for the many still-extant tyrannies that pock-marked Greece like boils on a Persian Princess. So he dusted off Socrates-as-literary-device one final time, and wrote a scathing rebuke of those who believed that a perfect state involved having one man sat at its head; The Republic.

Had Plato been content to read it in his newly founded Academy, then no doubt things would have ended there. But he was growing proud as well as old, and the acclaim afforded to him by his fellow Athenians was not enough for him. He wanted universal recognition of his gifts, and so he charged his Academy students to take Republic back to their homelands so that other cities would hear of and appreciate his work.

Unfortunately, Plato’s naivety had not shrunk in proportion to the growth of his ego. What was recognisable as satire to even the most ignorant Athenian was less so to a Persian, or a Syracusian, or even someone so near as a Corinthian. Where we saw the morally bankrupt words of a cunning fool, they saw the well reasoned arguments of an intelligent man. What we knew to be Socrates’ hack-Sophism was translated by Plato’s beautifully written comedy into compelling philosophy.

At first, we all thought little of this. We didn’t care whether more ignorant cities missed the point; that gave us one more thing to laugh at them for. In our hatred of the arrogance of our conquerors, it appears that we had allowed ourselves to sink into the arrogance of the conquered, in that we sneered at any and every man who was not an Athenian. We had lost because we were not as obsessed with force of arms as these barely-cultured Greeks surrounding us were. So it therefore followed that we Athenians were the most cultured, and the most concerned with matters of intellect out of all the cities of Greece. I suppose that such was the puncture to our armour of pride caused by our defeat against Sparta that we thought along such lines purely as a method of preserving our Athenian identities. But then again, maybe I’m just making excuses. For whatever the reason, we allowed the misconceptions to spread unchallenged for almost 15 years.

By this time, there were few outside of Athens who thought of Socrates as he really was. From villages on the highest mountains to colonies across the bronze sea, everyone spoke of the erudition and common sense of Socrates. Plato has recently tried to correct this misconception, charging one of his finest pupils to counter the fallacious Socratic thought that has swept the world. But it seems that this Aristotle is as much concerned with chiding his teacher for his pride as he is for ending the insidious spread of the venomous teachings that Plato placed in the mouth of Socrates. Disheartened and ashamed, Plato writes little these days. He seems tired, too tired to even attempt to correct the mistake that is starting to see works of satire being treated with the utmost po-faced seriousness by men who must surely lack a developed sense of humour.

I too feel I can do little to combat this monster of Plato’s creation. I am merely a poet whose works number less than 30, none of which can even be quoted now even though the most recent was written less than 2 years ago (and I would be lying if I said that that did not sting my soul more than a little). This, then, is my attempt. Not for me the duplicity and trickery that Plato first used, and which now seems to be getting compounded by Aristotle. No, I shall settle on what I now believe we should have stuck to in the first place. I have told you the truth. Though if Plato is as good a writer as I believe he is, much good it will do you. Soon the joke will become the truth. And if anyone actually tried to apply the thoughts and ideals outlined in, say, Republic? Then I truly don’t believe that anyone will be laughing.

What do Beans Mean?

2008-07-04T04:46:00.000-07:00

Someone challenged me to write a short story about cannibals and a giant tin of baked beans. So I did. Sort of.

The first thing that Jamie became aware of was the unpleasant smell and sensation emanating from and focused around his trousers. It says much about the strange workings of the human brain that his first conscious thought was that of disgust; at some point between passing out in what he presumed to be a drugged haze and now, Jamie had shat himself. And he was mortified as to what his companion might think. Even as the urgent demands of his recent memories began to make themselves heard, and he was reminded of some of the rather more excellent reasons to feel upset, the nagging feeling that he had somehow rendered himself less manly stayed with him.

“Beenz meenz Heyenz!”

The words were barked out a few feet in front of Jamie. Although fear (and self loathing) had kept his eyes closed, his curiosity (which had no times for faeces-related self pity) was piqued by hearing this vaguely familiar phrase in this unexpected context. That same curiosity fought a brief battle with his mewling fear, was victorious, and forced Jamie’s eyes open as its prize.

“Beenz meenz Heyenz!” said the ragged, rangy, filthy figure on the left, presumably to return the…greeting? Let’s go with greeting…to return the greeting of the equally dishevelled and marginally more hairy man on the right. It was difficult to make out much more detail than that due to the opaque cloth that had been used to blindfold him; it was night now, and the two men were stood in front of a large fire. Had Jamie been a little less concerned with the smell of shit, and a little more anxious to find out just what was happening, he might have wondered a little more about the 10 foot tall metal tube sat in the centre of the fire. He would certainly have been professionally intrigued by the scratchily written “Heyenz!!” that had been scored into the metal tube over and over again.

Instead, his brain picked this moment to provide him with a full summary of his current situation.

The field work for his Anthropology doctorate was, basically, not going very well. As a lover of the easy life, Jamie had thought that studying some of the remote settlements of the Appalachian Mountains was a stroke of genius. Not only were these hillbilly hamlets relatively untouched by academia (thus guaranteeing him publication once he’d completed his thesis), but he wasn’t too far away from the creature comforts of the big city. He’d only need to endure one night of camping. Two at the most. And he’d be hailed as the first man to try and untangle the anthropological roots of the modern redneck. That he had an attractive undergraduate with him on the trip made it all the sweeter. He may be an overweight, prematurely bald, middle aged man with a scattered brain and questionable hygiene, but like all men he was convinced that any woman who spent enough time with him would find herself unable to resist his obvious charms.

This last thought, having nagged at him for a short while, kicked his conscience back into gear; where the hell was Lucy? They had both been sat in one of the 5 desolate looking shacks that made up this hillbilly hell when he had began to feel woozy. He’d knocked back his draught of moonshine (to his hosts obvious delight; Jamie had always prided himself on being able to relate to the lesser peoples he studied), whilst Lucy had looked on smiling. She had refused hers, which had annoyed Jamie no end; she’d NEVER make a decent anthropologist in his opinion. Too stand offish, and unwilling to get her hands dirty. Too concerned with keeping up appearances, thought the man who was taking time out of contemplating his imminent doom to fret about having shit in his trousers.

From behind him, a hoarse female voice erupted;

“You shower of fucking CUNTS! People know we’re here! They’ll come looking for us, and then you hillbilly ARSEHOLES will be FUCKED!”

Said pair of hillbillies made a strangled, snickering noise at this outburst, which continued without hesitation, repetition, or deviation regardless of the men’s seeming amusement at it. Jamie tried to turn his head. His failure to do so gave him his first clue that, just maybe, he was bound and gagged. In fact, this was a perfect opportunity to use the words “trussed up like a turkey”. Perhaps Jamie’s brain was being kind to him by not providing this alarming turn of phrase; he would then have had no choice but to consider what happens to turkeys once they’re trussed up, and then his last few minutes on earth would’ve been even more horrifying than they actually were.

He started to half-heartedly struggle, but after a few ineffectual moments, he instead began to cry. This seemed to break Lucy’s concentration from her efforts to break the world record for the longest uninterrupted stream of abuse.

“Jamie? JAMIE! Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

He paused in his weeping, strained to turn his head properly to see her through his makeshift blindfold, failed, nodded an acknowledgement, and then he carried on with the important business of crying.

Unfortunately, this also seemed to attract the attention of the two men. He felt rough hands on his face, and the blindfold and gag were pulled away.

“Izhee ruddy fur tost?‘

”Ah reckun.”

And with that, the hairier of the two hawked up a gobbet of phlegm. He did so in truly epic style, spending almost 20 seconds snorting and clearing his tubes before, satisfied with the mouthful he had acquired, he spat in onto the ground next to Jamie, where it landed with an audible thwack.

Jamie became aware of some movement around the edge of the fire, He could make out the hunched, ungainly shapes of what he assumed were the other villagers. Something like 15 to 20 people were beginning to gather, seemingly only showing their faces after hearing the apocalyptic spit of what, had he asked her, Lucy would have identified as the Head Hillbilly.

He wouldn’t have asked her, even if his throat wasn’t dry and parched. Because right now, he had finally noticed the enormous steel cylinder and the fire. He had also noticed the steam rising from the top of the cylinder. And, now that he REALLY concentrated, the bubbling noise coming from within. Despite himself, and regardless of the fact that he estimated that he already voided himself completely, he shat himself a little more.

Lucy, having remained conscious for the 4 hours of Jamie’s drugged sleep, was already well aware of the contents of the vast tin can. She’d watched the 5 hillbilly women fill it with pail after pail of water. They had dumped handfuls of what might have been either beans or seeds in there as well. Then they’d lit the fire and waited. She may only have been a 1st year student, but she didn’t need any sort of degree to speculate on just what these grinning, moonshine-swilling savages had lined up for her. As such, she spent most of her time bellowing insults and venom at the increasingly amused rednecks. This suited her just fine, because whilst they were amused, they also assumed she was expending all of her energy on impotent fury. This further meant that they hadn’t noticed her free herself from her bonds, or that she was tensed and ready to grab whichever one of their captors came anywhere near her.

Disappointingly, they were concentrating entirely on Jamie. The two men hoisted him up and carried him toward the tin can. Her eyesight wasn’t great without her glasses, so she couldn’t quite make out the “Heyenz!” scrawlings on its surface. Jamie, however, could. He could also hear the low murmuring of the crowd that was now gathered. “Been zontost…Been zontost…Been zontost”. Initially with some solemnity, but with a rising undercurrent of excitement as the two men brought Jamie closed to the tin can, the crowd chanted in unison.

Lucy was in a dilemma. She could, at any moment, make a run for it. All eyes were focused on the shaking corpulence that was Jamie (quite a few noses were too, even through the sour stench of redneck sweat).She knew the trail they’d taken to get here, and she was confident she could get back to the hired pickup within a few hours. She was young, fit, and could run at a decent speed even without the incentive of not being killed and eaten by morons. But what about Jamie? Okay, so he had treated her as a glorified note taker, and if his hand had “accidentally” brushed against her arse or her chest once more, then she would’ve probably killed him herself and cheated the cannibals out of a hearty, if somewhat fatty meal.

Fortunately for her, though not for him, the decision was taken out of her hands.The men put Jamie down, and the senior hairy bastard raised his hands aloft. The crowd went suddenly silent.

“Woss Beenz meen?!” was his shouted question.

“BEENZ MEENZ HEYENZ!!” came the bellowed reply from the crowd.

This was quickly taken up as a chant by the assembled hillbillies. As they gleefully yelled their bastardised slogan, the two men once again hoisted Jamie up, and took him toward the enormous tin can.

For his part, Jamie had time for two final thoughts. His second-to-final thought, he was pleased to note, spoke volumes of his dedication to his discipline; he wondered what had led this isolated hamlet to set up what appeared to be a bizarre, cannibalistic cargo cult. Why were they all so entranced by an advertising slogan from 20 years ago? What made them ritualistically worship a vast idol representing a tin of beans? He would love to spend more time trying to unpick the threads of this mystery, but time was something that was in diminishing supply.

His final thought, as he was hurled into the boiling mass of water, herbs, and beans amidst the whooping and hooting of the crowd was a certain satisfaction that the hot water would at least clean the shit off his bottom. “Because no-one wants to die an undignified death” he thought, as his eyes melted from their sockets and his organs burst inside him.

As the crowd hollered their approval and their bellies gurgled in anticipation, there was no attention paid at all to the Lucy-less area of the enclosure where the two had been tied up. She had made her decision to make a run for it just before poor Jamie was sent fatally into the beans. It was over 40 minutes before her absence was noticed, and by the time they started their pursuit, she was almost back at the car. She had driven almost 70 miles away before she saw a billboard advertising Heinz beans.

The police were puzzled as to why she was screaming, laughing, and crying at the same time when they found her.

Database Work

2008-02-27T04:17:00.000-08:00

In the last fortnight, 3 hugely unpleasant murder cases (as opposed to those happy-go-lucky murders…) have been concluded in the UK. 2 serial killers and 1 stultifyingly sick fuck found themselves convicted and sentenced to life in prison. The two serial killers (Levi Bellfield and Steve Wright) were told that they will never be released. The aforementioned sick fuck, possible serial killer Mark Dixie, will serve at least 34 years. (Why do I call him sick and not the serial killers? Because his defence against the murder of Sally Anne Bowman, whose raped and brutalised corpse was pretty much hosed with his DNA, was that he’d not murdered her but happened upon her body and had sex with it. Speaking as a former solicitor, I would imagine his defence team will have been almost sexually excited themselves when they dreamt that up).

This trio of charmers sparked off 2 debates in this country. The first, that of the death penalty, is something I’ve discussed before. My opinion, for what it’s worth, hasn’t changed; baying for the blood of somebody (no matter what kind of repugnant scum they are) is, unless one is a family member of the victim, indicative of a stupid and cruel person to whom empathy has become a foreign feeling. Whether they’re assuaging some vague sense of guilt (Jamie Bulger’s killers are regularly mentioned in internet petitions demanding medieval justice. I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that his killers walked him, crying and visibly scared, past dozens of people who did nothing to help him), or simply wallowing in grief and anger that has nothing to do with them, I have no time for anyone who belligerently insists on the death of another human being. The taking of a life should always be a matter of regret. Regretfully, I would agree that all three of these gentlemen need to be studied in some detail to find out just what makes them tick before being quietly put to sleep.

The other debate is one that, as someone whose job title is to all intents and purposes “Database geek”, holds quite a lot of interest for me. All of these men were convicted with the help of DNA evidence. In the case of Dixie and Bellfield, DNA samples were taken by the police on unrelated matters, and when DNA from their murders was checked against the DNA database, voila; the police had strong evidence that they had their murderer. The debate that has been forming on the basis of this is “Shouldn’t the state have a DNA database of every person in the UK to make it easier to catch people like this?”

Broadly speaking, 2 sides seem to have formed (well…3 sides; these days, in any debate and no matter how emotive it may be, there is always a good sized contingent who would vote “I really don’t care”); on the one hand we have people who say “Yes, of course we should because DNA is 99.99% reliable, and anything that helps society catch and rid itself of monsters like these 3 men is a good idea”. On the other, there are the people who say “Why exactly should we trust the state, which doesn’t exactly have a good record of looking after confidential information on its citizens, with a database containing DNA records? And in any case, we are not a nation of suspects; I resent being treated like one by having to provide a DNA sample.”

Both of these views have their relative merits, and it’s worth taking the time to look at both of them before making up ones mind.

First of all, what are the arguments in favour of a national DNA database? It seems to me that quite a lot of the support for the database is predicated on a false notion; that DNA evidence cannot lie, that because of the cold science behind it, it is therefore incapable of being biased or irrational. Therefore, no-one has anything to fear from a DNA database because it cannot be mis-used.

Well now, here’s a thing; whenever I’m working in a database, all of the information in there is just as cold and factual as the sequence of an individual’s DNA. However, I can manipulate that information in pretty much any way I choose to provide evidence of whatever it is I want to say. What’s more, because I’m good at my job (and oh so bashful about it), I can do so in a way that could not actually be called “lying”. What I get out of the database will be 100% factually accurate, yet on several occasions I would shy away from calling it “the truth”. More often than not, it simply provides evidence to back up my point of view in a discussion (or argument) with my boss.

What I’m trying to say here is that context is everything. We’re told that DNA is an infallible, unfailingly accurate method of identification? Well…so are fingerprints. We don’t have a national fingerprint database (yet…), but wouldn’t this help the detection of crimes? We’ve had fingerprinting as a technique for identifying suspects for over a century, yet we’ve gotten on rather well without trying to set up a monolithic database with everyone’s prints on there. As for being always accurate…well, I’m not going to pretend to understand all of the science behind matching DNA samples. However, I do find myself wondering; how exactly do they collect the DNA from the scene of the crime? What are the risks of contamination and a correspondingly lower chance of the DNA from the scene being a “pure” sample? On a more paranoid note, how easy would it be for someone to introduce a DNA sample taken from the database to the scene of a crime in order to make someone a suspect? Particularly if someone is already strongly suspected but their DNA has not made an appearance in the crime scene; how tempted would you be as a policeman to do that in order to try and get a conviction?

Personally, I feel that relying on DNA evidence alone can be a dangerous thing. In fact, reliance on a single piece of evidence is regarded as dangerous by the entire legal system. There used to be rules on how a judge had to direct the jury if a case relied on a piece of evidence uncorroborated by anything else. Although the legislation that set out those rules was wiped out by section 34 of the 1988 Criminal Justice Act, they lived on in the form of a discretionary warning given to juries by judges which is called a Makanjuola Warning (named after a case in the court of appeal). If such a warning was issued to juries in every such case, then I personally would have my main objection to DNA evidence wiped out in one stroke. I’m not entirely sure that it is at present, although Barry George winning his appeal against his conviction for shooting Jill Dando (based entirely on forensic and DNA evidence) might lead to a change there; I’ll certainly be interested to see the result of his retrial.

I haven’t yet addressed the more widespread fear that a police force with a database of the DNA of every citizen is a bad thing. I have that same feeling, though I’ve got difficulty articulating just why it makes me uneasy. Perhaps the fact that I’ve never had anything but good experiences of the police has kept my view in this regard from hardening (my DNA is nestling in the current database of people who’ve been arrested whether they were subsequently charged or not, and I find I don’t really care). In other words, I accept that I don’t fully buy into the argument for completely personal reasons. Therefore I can’t dismiss it as a load of old mungbeans, nor can I support it wholeheartedly. Suffice to say that I believe it should be up to the Police to convince us why we have to have such a database, rather than for us to give reason why we shouldn’t.

We do, at the opposite extreme, have some people who feel that DNA evidence doesn’t have a place in investigation of a crime. Not unreasonably, they feel that anyone who has not been convicted of a crime should have their DNA sample destroyed.

I think this view comes from two wellsprings. The first is something we’ve just looked at; that uneasy fears that it will somehow be used against us, or at least our awareness of the potential for that to happen. The second is a rather more traditional form of pride; if I’ve done nothing wrong, I’m innocent. And if I’m innocent, why are you keeping hold of my DNA? It’s been used in the solving of this crime, and I resent the implication that I may decide to commit future crimes. It’s like you’re using my DNA as a deposit to ensure my future good behaviour.

This viewpoint, whilst opposing the “DNA Database helps catch murderers” opinion, is just as valid. And when we are left with two equally valid attitudes, how do we reconcile them? If our government’s track record is anything to go by, they’ll do so by either ignoring both until the furore dies down, or making a cack handed compromise that manages to please no one unite both sides in their anger at the government for being so inept.

Perhaps I’m being unfair, because such balancing acts are what governments are meant to do on a daily basis and with every issue imaginable. But hey, that’s what they say they’re going to do when they’re elected, so fuck ‘em. They have deliberately tried to get to the top rung of society’s ladder, and they get whatever privilege that entails. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable in asking them to discharge their duties too.

Which brings us back to “how do we settle this argument?”. I’m buggered if I know, but I think I know why it arose in the first place. We live in a democratic society, and one of the definitions of that society is that we as individuals give up certain rights and have certain duties we should perform in order to enjoy the protections of that society. However, these days we have the perception that those at the top couldn’t give a shit about our rights and are only concerned with adding to our duties. And that society itself is sick and broken, so we are resentful of doing anything to benefit it. With that backdrop, is it any wonder that a measure that has unquestionably stopped 3 remarkably vile men from committing further atrocities is facing such a groundswell of justifiable opposition?

It Couldn't Happen Here

2008-01-16T03:55:00.000-08:00

Kenya is a fabulous country. Whilst I can’t claim to know a huge amount about it on the basis of a 2 week holiday and some friendships with Kenyans dating back to university, I can sing its praises. It seemed to be filled to the brim with confident, humble, entirely gorgeous people (seriously, I have never met a Kenyan who was not physically gorgeous. Even the men. Which, what with homosexuality being illegal in Kenya, could lead to a lot of sexual frustration for those people who are good with colours).

So when the whole country seemed to turn to shit a few weeks ago, I was more than a little surprised. After all, this is a nation with a mix of Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Pagan believers. In other countries (Sudan for example, or Somalia which borders Kenya) this has been a sure-fire recipe for bigotry, intolerance, and civil war. In a moment of drunken candour, I asked a Kenyan gentleman named Bough to explain just why Kenya boasted such stability when other African countries were degenerating into civil wars fought by followers of Religions that battle in the name of peace and brotherhood. Bough told me that any disagreements were regarded as either personal or family affairs. Religion didn’t enter into it, and was universally regarded as a private matter. For someone brought up in a family who loudly proclaimed Africa to be a continent full of savages, this was a pleasing confirmation that everything I had been told by my parents was horseshit.

And even now, as we’re told that Kenya has turned into a land where children are thrown back into a fire to die because they are of the wrong ethnic group, religion doesn’t seem to be the divisive force behind such horrors. Rather, we are told, the divisions run along tribal lines. Though it’s not yet been said directly by the media, the implication of “Bloody Africans; always ethnically cleansing each other for belonging to the wrong tribe” has been fairly strong; Rwanda and Sudan keep getting mentioned in the same breath and we’re invited to draw our own conclusions.

For those of you who haven’t been following this story, Kenya had an election in December of last year. The incumbent, President Mwai Kibaki, seemed to be heading for defeat at the hands of Raila Odinga. I’m not totally sure, but I think this would have represented the first time an incumbent president lost a contested election. It seems Kibaki was uncomfortably aware of this too, and at the last minute there was a sudden and not-at-all suspicious surge in the number of votes for Kibaki. Pressure was also put on the Kenyan electoral commission to declare Kibaki the winner, even though the result was still uncertain. Unsurprisingly, Odinga was less than pleased with this and accused Kibaki of rigging the election. It seems that Kibaki regards the presidency as his right, and Odinga has responded with populism and demagoguery. Chaos and death then ensued, although a semblance of normality now seems to be resuming.

Now maybe this is just my left-wing sensibilities talking here, but I get the overwhelming sense from most reports that we should be viewing this through colonial eyes; in other words, what can one expect from a country that haven’t yet learned how to do democracy properly. It’s not that long ago that Kenya was run by a hugely unpleasant dictator, Daniel Arap-Moi. So who is surprised that a tin-pot nation has a tin-pot election which has led to political stalemate and (rather more importantly) rioting and death?

Yet it’s not so long ago that we saw another disputed election where supporters of the gentleman who lost waged a bitter battle to reclaim what they said was a stolen and unfair vote. It was an election that resulted in a polarised and divided nation. Although it didn’t lead to the rioting we’ve seen in Kenya, it had exactly the same effect on the politics of that country; everything came to a grinding halt. I am of course talking about the election of pretzel swallowing, speech mangling half-man half-chimp gruppenfuhrer, Dubya.

In the coverage of the Kenyan election, we are hearing a lot about tribes. “The dispute is basically on a tribal basis” we are told. “The Kikuyu tribe have done well under successive Presidents, and the other tribes feel oppressed by this”. And with that, we can safely dismiss the whole sorry and sordid business as an inevitability in the land of White Mischief. Yet I didn’t read a single report on the US election discussing the tribal differences between the people of Florida and the people of Ohio. We heard no discussion about the Hispanic, Black, Asian, and White “tribes” of the USA and their different viewpoints. What we did hear about were “communities”. Of how the different communities in America voted, and what those communities wanted from a President.

So what’s the difference? I’d hope it’s obvious, but for the sake of clarity…we, like most Western nations, are a country with an imperial past (or, if you’re a septic, an imperial present). It is a past where the word “tribe” has developed negative connotations of savagery and barbarism (due mainly to European subjugation of Africa and Asia in the 18th and 19th centuries). When the media use that word to describe the basis of the divisions in Kenya now, I would contend that a lot of the white, middle class tribes of the UK conjure up a picture involving the film Zulu, Michael Caine, and the phrase “…’fousands of ‘em!”. Had the word “tribe” been used to describe the different communities in the USA, does anyone doubt that there would have been bewilderment at the use of the term at best, howls of outrage at worst?

I am loathe to characterise this as racism, if only because I find the tendency to overuse that label has devalued it. It’s perhaps more accurate to describe it as parochialism on our part. We use language that helps distance ourselves from what is happening in Kenya, and assure ourselves that we’re far more civilised. This also helps us to forget about the fact that exactly the same sort of thing has happened in the nation that boasts of its democracy (and tries to impose it on strategically unimportant countries). Or that we in the UK are no strangers to vote-rigging scandals (from the 1987 vote-buying allegations in Westminster to the rather more recent Olympic vote-buying storm), allegations of corruption (the Little London PFI scandal in Leeds in 2006) or politics and violence mixing queasily together (a Solihull counsellor was doused in petrol and set on fire back in the late 90’s).

What is happening right now in Kenya is abhorrent. But let’s not kid ourselves that it can be explained away by tossing in a few sentences about savagery and tribalism. And let’s never think, as a friend of mine in Kenya told me she did, that it could never happen here. It already is. It’s just we’re better at keeping our political catastrophes cosier.

A Matter of Trust

2007-11-22T04:00:00.000-08:00

There has been something of a fuss lately about public trust in the media. For those of you who have been living in a cave for the last 8 months, and for those of you who are foreign (one and the same thing to an Englishman), there has been hand-wringing and soul-searching aplenty about the cavalcade of lies that the tellybox spews out on a daily basis. This has led to the print media doling out "TV Lies!" exclusives like a mad paedophile throwing sweets in a playground. Which has in turn caused the BBC to behave like a 12th century flagellant, so keen are they to reassure the braying herd that the Beeb is really sorry and can be trusted.

My initial thoughts about this were, it would appear, much the same as the initial thoughts of anyone who tries to project an image of themselves as cynical, world weary, and unsurprised by anything (i.e. anyone with a pair of testicles): "God, everyone knows that the media lie! What kind of loser doesn't realise that the information we're presented is manipulated with more skill than a Thai masseuse manipulates a lonely man to a happy ending?” Possibly you found that seam of thought was shot through with streaks of "Who cares if some mouthbreathing dolescum spunk all their coins on Richard and Judy phone in quizzes". Maybe that was just me.

That is all well and good, and I'm guessing that it's the best response that the Shitbox Overlords could hope for. In fact, judging by the recent "TV lies!" exclusives we've been seeing (does anyone really think that a children’s program calling a kitten by a name that wasn't voted for by all the sweet kiddies is an abuse of our trust?) one would be forgiven for thinking that we're being manipulated into thinking "Who gives a shit?" about the whole debacle.

But as I've thought about it a little more, I've found myself a little puzzled. Our reaction as a society to the notion that the people whom we rely on to bring us the facts about the world we live in are liars is something of a strange one. Rather than displaying the outrage that the print media has so desperately tried to manufacture, we've responded with breathtaking insouciance. We're all, it seems, at pains to point out that we were never so stupid as to believe what we were told by any media. We're all too clever and independent minded for that. Nobody has pointed out the very legitimate concern that if we cannot trust the media to deliver the facts about what is going on in the world, then none of us will actually know what is going on in the world. And in our ignorance, we'll be that much easier to render frightened and impotent.

Okay, I should explain myself before I'm written off as unduly paranoid. What I'm saying is that our collective reaction to the Media Lies To The Plebs shitstorm is not a healthy one for society. The role of the media in society should be to present us with the facts, perhaps with some basic analysis to help make complexities clearer, and allow us to make up our own mind. The role that it actually plays is to give us a version of events so skewed by subjectivity as to render it almost worthless. For example, any report on Fox News is going to present the right wing view of that event. The Guardian will always present a left wing view. So the same story will be presented with a totally different emphasis. We, the people, are (despite my more misanthropic moments) not that stupid, and so we will notice the disparity.

The logical conclusion to draw when presented with such disparities on a daily basis is "Sections of the media are lying to us". We can then either decide that the media that represents the political faction we agree with are telling the truth and condemn those opposing. Or (and this is the approach I suspect most of us take) we get so frustrated at being force fed conflicting viewpoints, each one presented as the unvarnished truth, that we decide that nothing in the media can be trusted and so grow apathetic about it. Thus when actual media lies are uncovered we simply sigh in amused detachment rather than reacting with the boiling fury that it warrants.

I think one of the reasons that this apathy is so terrifying to me is that it indicates that we don't actually care about the world around us any more. We don't care that we're lied to on a daily basis. All we seem to be fussed about is being made to look stupid or ill informed. But as it's the media who we rely on to keep us informed, we end up with the paradoxical situation where we don't listen to what they tell us (because we know they're lying, and we don’t want to be laughed at for believing their lies), but neither do we know what is actually happening because we have no easy alternative way to get the information. In other words we carefully maintain our own ignorance in order to avoid being mocked for our ignorance.

Some might say that the breakdown of trust in the media is no bad thing. We live in the Internet age and so we can avail ourselves of any information in an instant. Well yes, we can. However, being as any old yahoo can produce the information one finds in the self-professed Independent Internet Media, it's often of less value than the subjective news acquired from traditional media sources. An over-reliance on such sources leads inevitably to a Legion of Ottos (Otto being a fantastically stupid character from A Fish Called Wanda who insists, in the face of all available evidence, that he isn't stupid) who will make dunce-like proclamations of Oil being an inexhaustible natural resource that is produced by the earth's core, or that a high school shooter was being mind controlled by the government because "I saw it on the Manchurian Candidate" (I have talked to people who genuinely believe both of these things, and go so far as to take the piss out of anyone who doesn't go along with them. And people wonder why I have such a low opinion of humanity…).

So we find ourselves in a position where we cannot trust what we are told by the traditional media. Nor can we believe the reams of shite on the Internet. And because we cannot trust those sources, we have to make our minds up based on…well, based on nothing more than whatever our gut instincts might be. We have absolutely no frame of reference to help us come to an opinion. About the only news items that we can guarantee are not lies are those increasingly popular sections where once-respected journalists mindlessly read out the texted opinions of a public that, as members of, we know to be as ignorant as us. It seems that the media has seamlessly shifted from providing facts to recycling public stupidity.

So why do I find that so terrifying? Why am I, noted by all who know me as an anti-social despiser of people, so thoroughly pissed off at the willful ignorance of my fellow man? Jesus, isn't it obvious? The apathy generated by an endlessly lying media isn't just confined to our opinions of what is in the news. That apathy seeps into every aspect of our lives, because our lives are the news. We all know that governments are lying, self-serving, authoritarian drinkers of Lucifer’s jism. But rather than get annoyed, we tell a few ironic jokes. We're well aware that our working hours and conditions are causing health problems across the land, but we content ourselves with some blackly humorous grumbling. Because of our apathy, we're unconcerned at starting a war on terror that will last longer than the precious oil that is its root cause. And we dismiss anyone who points out that perhaps we might want to take better care of the only planet we have, or that our loss of civil liberties is a dark and terrible thing as someone who is just taking it all too seriously and should just relax because, hey, everyone knows the media are lying to us when they talk about global warming/terrorism/whatever.

And because of our apathy we're allowing people in positions of authority to abuse that trust with impunity. I don't wish to sound smugger than usual, but I'm no longer content to reassure myself that I'm still independent minded and clever enough to realise that we're fed daily doses of bullshit to keep up ignorant and compliant. I am, as the film says, as mad as hell. And I'm not going to take it any more.

Short Story: The Female of the Species

2007-10-05T06:17:00.000-07:00

She checked her watch again; T minus 20 seconds. She’d been in place for six minutes and she was impatient to begin. There was no thought of whether the other three were in position; she had enough faith in them to expect nothing less than complete success on this mission. Nevertheless, she had enough experience to beware overconfidence. Once they moved in, they would only have a few minutes to take down the few perimeter guards and get Cassie inside, to the nearest terminal. That was going to be the biggest challenge; if a single guard managed to raise the alarm…well, then they’d have the whole base to deal with. And not on the terms she’d like either. Extraction was not an option unless the mission had been completed. As with so many previous missions, they all had to be perfect. Anything less would get them killed. Or worse, captured.

At exactly 26 minutes past 3 in the morning, the power for the electrified fence went down, and 3 grey clad figures emerged from the darkness and made their separate ways to the perimeter fence. They stealthily made their climb over the perimeter wall and were inside the facility by 26 minutes and 54 seconds past 3. At 27 minutes past, a soft crackling noise indicated that the fence’s power was back on. Though the three women had no reason to doubt Cassie’s ability to take down the power and delay the alarm, they all breathed a sigh of relief that the first phase had gone off without a hitch.

There were eight guards to deal with before the three women could send the signal for Cassie to join them. They had chosen their points of entry with the split of the guards in mind; both Lucy and Clare were to take down two guards apiece. This left Amanda to deal with the remaining four; one patroller and three gate guards. The Captain had been insistent that Amanda do the lion’s share in phase 2. This had annoyed Lucy to an extent; so Amanda had screwed up on the last mission. Everyone made mistakes, but as far as the rest of the team were concerned, Amanda atoned for hers by making sure all 6 of them got out alive. Yes, Nicky was still in hospital but in a few months she’d be back and good as new.

The Captain, though impressed with Amanda’s initiative subsequent to that (admittedly horrendous) cock-up was furious at the lapse in protocol that had led to it. This, Lucy reasoned, was her way of making Amanda prove her professionalism. “And if she doesn’t and winds up dead, will the Captain be sorry? Or will she just shrug and take on another team member?” Lucy, annoyed at herself for the distracting thought, shook her head to clear it. Amanda was one of the best Special Ops soldiers that Lucy had ever worked with. They could have told her to take down all eight and she’d probably still manage it quicker than with all five of them working together. But Nicky wasn’t here, and the Captain was co-ordinating this from the Eyrie. And so the three would have to do their tasks without the additional support. So be it.

Despite Lucy’s faith in Amanda’s ability, it was Clare who made the first contact. As the fence’s power had returned, one of her two guards had heard the crackle and made his way to the fence. Clare froze into perfect stillness as he passed her by without noticing, his eyes fixed on the fence. With a sweep of her arm executed with a ballerina’s grace, she took her Glock from it’s holster on her shoulder, brought it to bear and fired a single shot. She was close enough that the silencer had minimal effect on her aim, and the guard dropped to the ground. Working quickly in case anyone else had heard him hit the floor, she moved him into the shadows of one of the outlying facility buildings. She whispered “First contact, complete” into the microphone under her ski-mask.

Amanda smiled as Clare’s voice came through her earpiece. The others tended to write Clare off as lacking the killer instinct. “Too methodical and too damn slow” was the main complaint. Amanda on the other hand, never doubted Clare’s ability for a second. So she was methodical? Then she made fewer mistakes. And Amanda had recently had cause to really appreciate getting it right without any errors. Now Clare had just proved that she could be as good as making snap decisions as she was making them with the luxury of time on her side. All Amanda had to do was the work of two women against four Spetznaz trained guards. Simple, right?

She dealt with the patroller first. For all his Special Forces background, weeks of idly patrolling what had become the world’s most boring perimeter must have dulled his edge. She had gotten both arms into place before he even registered her presence, and the compression of his carotid artery made for a silent death. As she lowered him to the floor, she whispered “Second contact complete”. Almost instantaneously, Clare’s voice was heard “Se…third contact complete”.

In spite of herself, Lucy was impressed. She’d always regarded Clare as being fundamentally unsuited to field ops. As Intel, she was second to none but Lucy had misgiving about trusting her with the simple task of killing. It seemed her doubts had been misplaced. Once again, the Captain’s decisions were the right ones. The Captain was always right it seemed, and that fact provoked a faint, nebulous sense of irritation in Lucy.

Happily, she had an immediate opportunity to deal with it; both of her patrollers had met on their circuitous route. Amanda and Clare’s kills had made it imperative that these two not live to walk their patrol again. Rather unprofessionally, both had stopped to exchange a few words. This gave her a couple of seconds to decide on how she was going to do this. She couldn’t give either man a chance to shout or raise any sort of alarm that would lead to the alarm going off. And good as she was, it would be arrogant in the extreme to assume that she could get two perfect shots off in the short time it would take either man to draw breath and make a noise.
With the speed and grace that was her norm, she set a simple trip-trap. A volley of darts, loaded with Ketamine, would launch from the small box she positioned at chest height and at least one would hit the target’s flesh. She retreated back to the few shadows that the numerous floodlights in the facility grounds allowed, and waited.

The men finished their final chat, and made their way onwards. Their pace was maddeningly uneven; by the time that the first guard had triggered the trap, the second was at the very edge of her vision. Though they generally worked without night sights, Lucy found herself wishing for one as she fired the shot simultaneously with the darts finding their target.

She should have spared her wish for another time; a red Rorschach blot blossomed on the ground in front of the man as he fell, looking for all the world like a man who had drunkenly stumbled and fell. When she was satisfied that he wasn’t getting back up, she made her way over to the prone, pin-cushioned, and heavily drugged guard. She placed her gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger. A quick spasm marked the end of his life. Lucy checked both guards for a pulse. As she dismantled the trip trap, she muttered “Contacts four and five complete”.

Amanda had just finished getting the dead man’s fatigues on over her own grey combat suit when she heard Lucy’s voice. The final three contacts were all down to her, and it had to be done quickly. She tried to remember how the guard had walked, silently cursing herself for not allowing him a few more moments of life so that she could better observe how he moved. Not bothering to hide the body now that all the patrollers were dead, she took a deep breath and advanced on the gate.

One of the guards sat in the booth flipping idly through the worn pages of a magazine. The other two, a man and a woman, were at the gate itself. The man turned and nodded an acknowledgement to Amanda, confirming that her disguise was good enough for what was required of it. She nodded back and, head down, approached the booth. She walked around it to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her and turned to face the guard who looked up from his magazine

The report of the rifle rang out at an almost painful volume in the cramped booth. Although it muffled the shot to the outside world, it didn’t muffle it nearly enough to hide the sound from the two guards on the gate. The door was kicked open just as Amanda had turned to face it. Three shots sent him staggering back, and Amanda followed him, training her gun on the momentarily startled woman. Her life ended in that moment. The echo of the final shot faded away.

“Contacts six through eight complete. Cassie, in you come.”

Lucy and Clare joined Amanda at the booth.

- “No silencer?” Clare’s tone neutral, not implying any fault.
- “No need. All the other contacts were done. There’s no way the noise will have been heard in the facility.”

Lucy nodded in agreement with Amanda’s assessment, as did Clare. They waited for Cassie to join them. She was there in just over two minutes, her cheerful face red with exertion and perched on her stocky frame. She smiled at all three of her colleagues, then made her way to the terminal within the booth. From a pocket came a flash drive, filled with all manner of beautifully coded pieces of poison, which was inserted into a dock in the terminal.

“O-kay…lockdown is easy enough to initiate, but there’s a bitch of a failsafe to ensure that the main alarm goes off. The Captain says that there are 3 people in there who have the authorisation code to disarm the Suppression measures, and if they hear that alarm you can be damn sure that’s what they’ll do.”

Lucy sighed inwardly, knowing exactly where this was going. Amanda gamely played her part; “Can you deal with it Cass?”

Cassie’s grin broadened. “What do you think? Give me 10 minutes to bypass it and get the lockdown started. Unless one of them decides to come out for some air, the first they’ll know of it is when they hear the gas vents. At which point, they’re fucked. The corporation chiefs are so shit-scared of any of the fun that they’re researching finding it’s way out of that facility that the Suppression won’t leave fleas alive, let alone people.”

Lucy nodded. She hadn’t been happy at the unknown factor; what if one of them did decide to come out for air? She would have to trust Cassie to make sure that any disarm codes’ binary scream went unheard. Again though, she needn’t have worried. It was seven minutes later when Cassie said “Okay, we’re on.”

It would be three minutes before the Suppression measures began, and Cassie had hacked the facilities internal cameras to monitor things. The women clustered around the terminal and watched anxiously. The three minutes passed without incident. The majority of the people were sleeping in their bunks; the entire Research team were in bed. Only a few insomniacs and security staff were out of their beds.

The cameras showed those facility staff that were still awake reacting with puzzlement to the hissing noise from the walls. That soon gave way to shock, and then fear. Whatever that stuff was, it was effective. The twenty or so people who had been awake were unconscious within twenty seconds and dead in another twenty. Those who had been sleeping died quietly and without fuss.

Cassie touched a button and the monitor went dead. She retrieved her flash drive, and left the booth with the others. As they made their way from the facility gates, Lucy spoke into her face-mic.

“Facility staff neutralised. Lockdown complete. ETA at extraction point, 5 minutes”

A mellifluous voice answered. “Good work. See you all back at the Eyrie.”

From the Captain, that counted as the ringing praises of a choir of angels. Satisfied with a job executed professionally, the women made their way to the extraction point and from thence, home.

Short Story: Any Regrets?

2007-09-28T08:45:00.000-07:00

If I were to be allowed just one regret in my long life, it would be that I haven’t been an honourable man. That may surprise you, but I imagine it would surprise you more to know that it is an honest and heartfelt truth.

Everything started out so simply and without any guile. Much has been said about my humble beginnings. My early life in the army, that of an unspectacular Second Lieutenant who did the job that was in front of him and nothing more. Of my subsequent fledgling career as a journalist and all that stolidly written, workmanlike copy. What is all the louder for being unsaid is the bafflement at how someone whose ambition seemed limited to doing what he was told and doing it competently got to where he is. What you have to understand is that nothing was planned. I didn’t have any Caesar like machinations to get where I am. Things just happened.

I have a second surprise for you; those first few weeks were terrifying for me. Have you ever experienced the fear that comes from knowing you’ve done the wrong thing and are just waiting to be caught? I had the dread borne of knowing I’d done the right thing and only having my conscience to answer to. Although I suppose that realisation only hit me fully his wife wanted to speak to me.

I’m getting a little ahead of myself I suppose, but you’ll allow an old man his meandering thoughts, won’t you? The part that you all know about is the kidnap and the subsequent murder. That’s all a matter of public record, the Home Secretary kidnapped along with the hack interviewing him. The killing of all his bodyguards. The three days before anything was heard, and what was heard being far from what was expected. Trust me, if you’d heard what had really happened…but that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? The last words of the Peacemaker. When I do move on to the next life, I expect Orwell to punch me squarely in the face for that title.

All I knew was that we were in van, we were hooded, and we were travelling at speed. Our captors spoke in harsh, barked commands in a language I recognised as Farsi. “Al-Qaeda!” was the blindingly obvious conclusion I had drawn, and I assumed the Home Sec would draw the same one. Then I heard his familiar voice calmly stating “All right Michael, I think we can drop that now.”

Then silence for a moment. There was a rustling noise, then “Ah, Christ that’s better! Okay, could you give me our status please Michael?”

My initial fears of terrorists allayed, I assumed I was taking part in some sort of exercise, a demonstration of the vulnerability of a senior minister with a view to building support for the current raft of security legislation that had caused rioting when first announced. And here was I, the tame and unimaginative hack to write the exclusive.

“What? Oh him. I wouldn’t worry about Christian names Michael; I rather doubt it will matter very much to him in a few days. Now come on, status report.” The smooth voiced politico voice was gradually faded to be replaced with that of a man dealing with his subordinates. The next voice to make itself heard was a deep Scots burr.

“Very well sir. The kidnap itself went exactly as planned. The grab has resulted in the deaths of your bodyguard, and 3 civilians were unfortunately caught in the crossfire. Our contacts in the Met have ensured that only the false information concerning our vehicle and whereabouts is acted on, and we’ve made sure the usual sources are already disseminating misinformation over the media and internet. Our ETA is 15 minutes. We need to get you made up and him beaten up before we start filming. If we keep on schedule, we’ll be out of their by 2pm and travel in a rented car to the safe house. We’ll keep you both out of sight for 2 days, wait for the media frenzy to build. Them we’ll release both video and body. Any questions sir?”

“No…no, thank you Michael. Very good. Now, as our friend here appears to have soiled himself, do you think we could do something about the smell?”

I didn’t know what was going on, but what I did know was not good news for me. I few (very very un-Islamic) voices started a groaning, mocking chorus.

- What fucking unit was this wanker in?
- To shit himself like that? Probably the marines Geordie!
- Yeah yeah, fuck off Rich. Well done, you’ve just won first prize in the Cleaning up the Shitty Journalist competition. We're going to be working on him, and I don’t want shit sprayed around the place while we’re working.”

A cacophony of laughter almost obscured the litany of complaints from whomever Rich was. No one else said anything for the rest of the journey. I was left to myself, head in a hood and shit in my trousers. I didn’t think it was worthwhile offering that I’d been no more than a glorified clerk in the army. To be honest, I had other things on my mind.

When we arrived, I was stripped but for the hood. Cold water blasted my indignity clean before fists and feet inflicted it afresh. I still didn’t know who these people were and what they wanted, but they clearly enjoyed a good time at someone else’s expense; I was beaten so badly that I wished I could’ve died, then paraded in front of a camera in a room draped with black flags and golden Arabic script. This was the first time they’d even taken the hood off me, and the first time I saw any of my dark haired, olive skinned captors. When they took it off, a blurred figure in front of me spoke in that same Scots voice I had heard in the van.

“Jesus…Heh, you boys had fun then? Alright, can you speak son? CAN YOU SPEAK?”

A blow to the jaw followed. I tried to say something, a plea perhaps. My word came out as a slurred string of nonsense.

“Okay, let’s get started. We’ve got 10 minutes while that prick is still in makeup so let’s try to go for one take. Ready? On my mark…mark”

The brogue vanished in a flash leaving a screaming, ranting Farsi in it’s wake. I’ve no idea what was being said; I was broken and resigned to death by this point. I just wanted it all to end.

We must’ve got what was desired, because we did get it in one take according to an audibly satisfied Michael. The hood went back on, and a volley of punches and kicks drove me to the floor, with some more of the same to keep me there.

As I regained consciousness, I was aware of hearing the Home Sec’s scared but measured voice.

“…are serious. They wish me to tell you that the body that came with this message is the first of 2 if their…please. Please I have a wife, I have children! Please! I…okay okay, stop! Please don’t hit me any more, I’m sorry!

If their demands are not met then there will be another body to follow the first. Be brave Sarah, and tell Ka…no, please let me say something to my wife!”

- It’s alright sir, the camera has stopped running
- Oh, righto. How was that?
- Yeah, that was good. The makeup looks excellent. You’d think you’d got the worst of the beating.

These two voices chuckled at that, just two people sharing a joke. I’m not sure why, but that’s what set off the fuse in my mind. “You’re going to die, and it’s just a joke.” That was the first thought.

I was picked up and dumped in a van, hands still tied in front of me. After we arrived at our destination, I was taken indoors and down some stairs. My hood was taken off my head a second time and I was face to face with one of my captors. He put something down next to me, and stood to leave. “Call it a last drink mate” came the genial voice, and the door closed on me.

The room was small and windowless, bare of everything but walls, ceiling, floor and door. Next to me was a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels. It took me an hour to make out the label; I later found out that the beating had almost caused one of my retinas to detach.

The next few hours should have been a lonely hell made bearable by whisky. Instead, the fuse that a poor joke had lit began to burn away in my brain. They were going to kill me in the morning. I was a prop in a performance, nothing else. I didn’t matter. I was inconsequential. My only value in them lay as way of drawing attention to a fake message. I wanted to stay alive.

By the time the same man arrived in the morning to take me to my end, he looked into the room and saw an empty bottle and a glazed expression on my face. He came in the room and squatted down beside me.

It’s safe to say that he didn’t expect to find himself lying on the floor, groaning in surprise as his brain tried to process exactly how the semi-comatose drunk had managed to snatch the bottle from the floor and smash it into the side of his head in a single, sweeping motion. Had he the time to consider it, I’m sure he would have expected to find hand scrabbling at his holster to get his pistol. That time was cut short by an almost certainly unexpected click of the safety catch and the following explosion of the bullet through the back of his skull before it tore into the greyness that made him what he was.

Maybe I should've told him I'd poured the whisky onto the floor and watched it seep away into the boards?

I had heard people like them before when I was the glorified army clerk. Big boys with dangerous toys and letting the whole world what big, swinging dicks they are. They’d already relegated me to the status of body, and I will treasure the look of surprise on the faces of the two men who came bundling into the room as I shot them both.

I had no idea how many there were you know. I didn’t much care about anything at that point. I didn’t expect to escape, and I didn’t expect to live. I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t die a joke. Can you understand that? It wasn’t my military training, as some of the more entertaining conspiracy theorists have hinted at. And it wasn’t the desire to be the hero of the hour that the media painted it to be. I didn’t have a wife and children to get away to, and my parents were long dead. The only regret I had right then was that no-one would feed my cat Miette when I was gone. 3 of them were dead because they thought I was a joke, and I wanted to kill more until I stopped being funny.

One of them had a semi-automatic rifle, which relegated the pistol to getting tucked into the back of the green combat fatigues I’d been given to replace my brown crusted jeans.

There was no look of surprise on the man I encountered on leaving that room, simply a gunshot that was answered with 8 of my own. I stepped over the contorted, bloodied, and extravagantly dead man and continued to the foot of the stairs. It looked like I was being held in a cellar of some kind. I decided not to chance peering up through the trap door, preferring to let another 5 bullets precede me. A thump followed by a panicked shout and a door slamming seemed to confirm the wisdom in those bullets, so I pushed up and out. Michael’s vacant eyes greeted me.

That was the first thing that even gave me pause. It was perhaps just over a minute since I’d fired the first shot and 5 people were dead. Dead by my hand. I may sound regretful as I say that now, but at the time…at the time I had less compassion toward the men who’d placed me in that situation. And I’d heard a door slam, probably the one on the wall less than 10 feet away.

I stood for a moment longer, staring back into Michael’s dead eyes. The door flew open, and the minister burst into the room holding a gun in shaking hands whilst he stared at me with wild eyes.

His shots all went wild. Every one. The click-clicking of the empty gun went on for a long time before I spoke.

“Why?”

The impotent gun ceased it’s noise and dropped from his hands as he sank to his knees.

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me! I’ve got a wife, I’ve got children I…”
As I advanced on him he cowered and received the rifle butt in his face for his trouble.

“WHY!?”

It was difficult to make out any coherent narrative in the whimpering and mewling that followed. And to be fair, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to have what seemed a turgid little power-play explained to me. But I learned that the 5 men I had killed were ex army, all of whom had been employed by the Home Office whenever MI5 needed to be kept out of matters that might cause them any dismay. And I would guess that killing 5 British Muslims and storing their bodies in this safe house to be found when the crack 5 man military unit save the Home Sec and kill the 5 radicals who kidnapped him and killed the journalist with him would cause significant dismay.

What dismayed the Home Secretary was the amount of money he stood to lose if the Security legislation did not see the light of day. I’m afraid he wasn’t very clear on the specifics of that; he was babbling and crying a lot, and I’m happy to say that he’d shat himself too.

Then he started crying for his wife and children again so I shot him. I’ve always hated hypocrites.

We were in an isolated enough place that the gunshots caused no alarm. I was left in a house with 6 dead men for company. What started as an angry attempt to win back some dignity had ended in blood, tears, and freedom. And I now had to cope with the reality of what I’d just done.

From there, we enter the wonderful world of public record again. My heroic attempt to save the Home Sec from a rogue element of the Security Services who wanted to stoke the fear of the Islamic world for their own benefit became a very popular story for a while, and everyone wanted a piece of me.

But I was scared. There was no way that he could have planned this alone, without the knowledge of anyone in government. I was terrified of having an “accident”, though my paranoia was diagnosed and dismissed as post-traumatic stress.

When his wife came to see me, cameras blazing in the ward, I was practically hallucinating with the fear. I’d barely slept in days, and I didn’t know who was going to get me or how. Maybe she would be the one to kill me? Revenge for her husband? Stupid of course; she was a nice enough lady and gave no indication she’d ever had much interest in politics. But she must have adored her husband. The pain in her eyes as she asked me if her husband had suffered much at the hands of the Faked Five was…well, I don’t like to think too much about it. I didn’t answer her, and the nurses said I was too doped up. But I never made any effort to speak to her later. I couldn’t bear facing her and shattering her illusions or trying to maintain mine.

And so I got myself into politics. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? There was enough goodwill toward me that getting elected wasn’t a problem. And you know all about how the cabinet at the time made good use of me as an example to get some of that Security legislation brought in to fanfare and cheers later on. I really didn’t care; the fuse was still burning; they’re going to kill you. You need to stay alive. And I did it by being their poster boy. They got what they wanted, and I got to smile for the cameras and help them get rich.

You know, I don’t know whether them naming the final Act after me when it became law was a stunt for the public or a joke on me. But I didn’t care. I was the Peacemaker, the man who brought about the laws that ensure security for the public.

Even after those laws bit them on the backside, even after the majority of that cabinet had been shot after show trials, and even after that new breed of bastards got on the scene, the ones that don’t even kid themselves about their greed, I’ve stayed sacrosanct as the Peacemaker. And more importantly, alive.

Now isn’t the best time to decide whether a noble death would have been better than this longevity at the price of liberty. But it’s death that’s coming for me soon, and I suppose I’ll find out afterwards whether it was worth it. But I hope that regret counts for something.

Untitled Short Story #2

2007-08-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

The thing that struck me most when we arrived was the stillness in the air. Not oppressive, nor as the prelude to a thunderstorm. Everything felt so…peaceful. Even when we started searching and found the horrors that lay behind every door in that tiny hamlet, the aura of the place was one of serene tranquillity.

I know I wasn’t the only one who felt it either. As Jim and I got out of the patrol car, our conversation had ceased suddenly, as if the air had been stolen from our lungs. We had pulled up next to what we took to be the village green. I remember that Jim said something about how the smattering of houses that made up the hamlet of Dantons View could fit onto that green 3 times over. It wasn’t a particularly amusing or witty comment you understand. It was exactly like Jim; factually accurate, somewhat irritating, and requiring a forced laugh from myself to prevent any repetition. But it’s the last thing I remember him saying. I’m told we were there for just over 15 minutes before backup arrived, and I can’t remember either of us saying a thing in that whole time. I mean, we must’ve of course, but I just don’t remember what it was.

We both stood there stunned by, and into, silence. At the risk of repetition and incurring your disbelief, I have to stress this; everything felt so golden. So…so awesome. Don’t get me wrong; what we found there knocked that feeling right out of my head. But sometimes, I do wonder about why it all felt so right when everything turned out to be so wrong.

Jim cleared his throat, and I looked across the patrol car at him. He jerked his head toward the small cottage to my left; it was a pretty little stone-built affair with a small but clearly well tended garden that was an explosion of summer bloom. Jim placed his helmet on his head and started toward it. I shook my head to clear it, and then refocused on the task at hand.

We didn’t hear the 999 call that had led to us being here. All we heard was the dispatch calling all cars about a possible violent disturbance at Dantons View. Jim and I were just finishing up a working lunch in the beer garden of The Hanged Man. Jim always liked to stop by at one of the many pubs that seemed to be scattered around Dorset like seeds in a field. He was a Dorset boy, born and bred, and I think he liked the status afforded him as a dedicated country-boy bobby. Me, I always thought that was just an act to get himself free beer and lunches. But I suppose you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.

I got to hear that call a few months later, when the doctors said I was well enough to be interviewed about what had happened. It was the strangest thing; you hear the 999 operator’s voice, professional tones cut with that oo-arr accent I used to love. But she’s cut off by a woman saying…no, shouting I suppose. She shouts “Please!” Just once, that’s all. And not crying and tearful either. She sounds scared all right, but she sounds shakily in control. Then there’s a click, and then a sort of high pitched whining, bit like what you get on them old tellies when you switched them on and off. Only it keeps going, gets louder and higher. All the doctors in the room looked like rabbits in crosshairs when they got to that bit of the tape, and I don’t suppose I looked to good either. You can just hear the operator going “Agh!” and there’s some thumping, which I suppose must’ve been her ripping her headset off and throwing it away. That whine lasts for 20 seconds, but it felt longer. Then there’s a silence for just a moment.

After that, I hears this voice saying one word. It’s a difficult voice to do justice to, but I’ll try and describe it although you might not like what I’ve got to say about it. It was…well, I’m a father twice over. If you’re a dad like me, you’ll know what I mean but if not you’ll have to take my word for this. Anyway, when you’re a dad, one of the proudest moments of your life is when you hear your little ‘un say it’s first word. It’s a joy, it really is. You see this little intelligence behind your kid’s eyes; they’re not just babbling, they’re communicating with you for the very first time. I’ve heard it twice now and it hit me in the same way each time; pride, joy, tears, and wonderment. Your little lad or lass stops being something that you just care for, and they start to be something you can relate to. They’re not just a gurgling receptacle for you your love and care any more; they’ve started on the road to being thinking, talking, breathing beings, and they’re something that came from you from nothing. You feel like you’re part of a miracle. All of that, all of it comes from that first word from your child’s mouth.

The voice said “Good.” That’s all it said, but in that one word I got that same feeling; something making tentative steps toward intellect and it’s own identity. It even sounded like a little kid’s voice. If you’d heard it in any other context, you would’ve coo-ed and ahh-ed at it. As is, soon as I heard it I started screaming. They had to sedate me for another week; every time I came round I started screaming again. I hear two of the three doctors who were there listening have quit now. Doesn’t surprise me.

Anyway, Jim walks up to the gate and unlatches it. We both walk through and take the 6 steps to the front door. Jim knocks on it. No answer. He knocked again, a bit harder and this time the door opens. No Hammer Horror creaking or anything like that, just a duck egg blue door swinging slightly and quietly inward. There weren’t any noises inside except for the tick of a Grandfather clock. But in that crack of the door opening, I thought I saw something inside.

I shoved Jim aside, interrupting him as he was about to call out “Mrs Henderson?” I would guess (her name, along with the name of the house, was all the dispatcher had given us). Jim always took himself very seriously, and I can’t imagine he would’ve let me off easy about that shove later on. As it happened, it didn’t matter and I don’t suppose it would’ve mattered even if he’d lived bearing in mind what was in there.

Considering how much blood there was in that living room, I don’t know why it struck me as odd that none of that sticky crimson mess had seeped through into the kitchen or the entrance hall. It was as if someone had taken that living room to another building to commit its atrocity, then quietly taken it back. I stood there, dumbfounded; walls, ceiling, floor, and anything on them were covered in blood. When you say that, you just say it and you imagine a room painted red, right? This wasn’t like that; there were thick black clots of it oozing around. There were purples in there; it looked like a madman’s palette. And the centrepiece…I understand that they’ve still not been able to figure out how he did it; the bones and fibres of muscle were all knotted together. 7 people died to make that abomination. Both of Mrs Henderson’s cats too; I saw a couple of paws sticking out from that ungodly mess.

Jim and I, well we were rooted to the spot. We didn’t want to see something like that, but when you do see something like that…well you just can’t stop watching, can you?

At first, I thought the noise was Jim throwing up until I realised that it wasn’t coming from behind me but in front of me. A small, squelching, and human noise. I swear to God I saw the thing move, and that broke my trance. I turned and I ran. Jim took his lead from me for once, and he ran too. We got back to the patrol car, an oasis in the desert of sound with it’s crackling radio. I hadn’t noticed that our own radios had gone dead as soon as we’d gone into the house, and they stayed that way after we got out. I grabbed the mic and tried to say something. My throat was cracked though, and all I could manage was a couple of little squeaks that would have sounded hilarious at another time. I guess the fact that I was trying to talk to control but couldn’t was what made up their minds to send backup. By my reckoning, that means there was about 10 minutes between my failed attempt to use a simple police radio, and the arrival of half a dozen squad cars, ambulances and (a little later on) a team of 4 soldiers to try and take old Albert down.

I heard Jim give a gasp from outside of the car. When I looked out, he was staring at the upper window of Number 1, Dantons View. It was a great big old thing, probably a farmhouse way back when, but now owned by a burnt out bigshot from the city, Jonathon something or other, and his wife. There was something undulating in the window, but I couldn’t quite see what it was; it was greenish-white and I can’t swear to this, but I thought it looked like old dead skin. The more I looked at it, the more I became certain I could hear, just at the margins of the silence, the sound of someone giggling.

Jim turned and ran. He ran the 200 or so yards across that village green, went straight over a fence, and through the open door of one of the other houses. The door slammed shut, and I was 100 yards away, Jim’s mad dash having taken me off-guard. I flung the door open as I got there 15 seconds later. Jim was stood only 2 yards in front, his back to me. Facing him was a man who must’ve been in his Sixties. He was a strange looking man, beanpole legs supported pot bellied and sallow frame which in turn sprouted spindly arms. His white hair was wild, but his face was serene and he was smiling that terrible, calm smile that I still see in some of my nightmares. I’ve been told his name was Albert, and that he was a retired antiques dealer. That smile never left his face. Not then, not when he killed 2 more police officers who were there as backup, not when he was shot through the knees to render him immobile. I’m told that as he bashed his own head in whilst he was awaiting trial in his cell at Brampton, even whilst his brains sprayed out of his self-destroyed skull, he still had that smile on his face.

I don’t know about that, but he was definitely smiling when his hand snaked out and took Jim by the throat. Smiling when he lifted him. Smiling as he looked into Jim’s eyes. Smiling when, without any seeming effort, he closed his hand into a fist crushing Jim’s larynx and tearing through his arteries. Jim danced a stringless puppet dance as he died, and Albert kept staring at him. Again, this could be just an imperfect recollection of a pretty emotional moment, but I thought Albert’s eyes changed a little as Jim died. They went from blankly smiling to a kind of puzzlement. No, that’s not right. Curiosity.

Then he looked at me, and dropped Jim like an old toy. I’m not ashamed to say that my bladder failed me when that old man looked me in the eye. It wasn’t fear though. Aye, I know; that sounds like coppers bravado, but it wasn’t. I felt elated when he looked at me. I felt like everything bad that had happened to me didn’t matter any more, and that everything was going to be all right. Now you might say that’s a stupid thing to think whilst Jim’s arterial blood was spraying me, Albert, and the whole room, right? And you’d be right. But you weren’t there. So to hell with you; you don’t know.

Albert’s beaming visage came closer to mine, and as it did the ecstasy in my brain doubled, then tripled. It was sheer bliss, that feeling. I wondered if that’s how everyone feels when they know, unequivocally, that they are about to die. Then everything went black.

By the time I came round, 4 days had passed. The doctors said that they couldn’t find any injuries on me, and that my coma had been as a result of extreme nervous trauma. My parents, worried looking and drawn, were sat by my bed as I woke. I don’t see them much nowadays. I think seeing their son screaming obscenities and with madness in his eyes when he first woke up has somewhat affected their view of me.

It took even more time to get me from screeching loon, to catatonic stupor, to tentatively sane recovery. In all that time, no-one has told me what was in the other houses in Dantons View. No-one has explained what happened to me. No-one seems to want to talk to me about it. I know none of the houses there have been re-occupied; they all sit empty with rather forlorn looking FOR SALE signs in each of their gardens. The story may not have made headlines, but word gets around and even the whispered rumours of what happened have been enough to put off any interest.

I’ll be getting medical retirement from the force in a few months. No-one seems to begrudge me it. In fact, most of ‘em are happy to see me go. Coppers can be a superstitious bunch, and I think they see me as a Jonah or something. Or maybe they’re angry at me for not dying like Jim or the other two. I don’t know, and to be honest I don’t care. By the time I get my retirement, I’ll have been on convalescence for almost a year. I’ll have saved up £20,000. With the way things are, I’ll be able to put down a good sized deposit on a house in Dantons View. I haven’t decided which one yet, but I’m counting down the days until I can go and see the Estate Agent’s and put in my offer.

This could be a new beginning for me; the start of something much better.

Untitled Short Story

2007-08-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

I dunno. Things seem a lot more peaceful now that the confiscations are all in the past. The recent past I grant you, but the past is what it is; best left behind. It all seems sorta distant now. What’s that feeling you get, when you’re having a dream? Disconnected? Is that it? Whatever it is, that’s what I’m talking about.

The whole thing seems ridiculous now that I come to say it out loud. The newspapers are forbidden from reporting on it now, and to tell you the truth, they all seem pretty relieved about that. Maybe not the reporters themselves; I’m sure there are a few good apples out there. But the big media barons? Heh; you can bet they’re about as happy as pigs in the proverbial right now. How do you run a story like that without making yourself look like a fool? Or scaring the shit out of your readership. Either way, who wants to pick from one choice or the other?

Anyway, that’s not what you give a shit about, right? You just want the good stuff. Fuckin’ MTV generation…yeah, I know I know; it was all better in the “good old daze” right? Well…fuck you. It was. It’s called a daze for a reason. It means a pleasant stupor. Did you know that? We were all pleasantly stupid about what was going on. Not like now; now we know something is going on but we’re fucked if we know what. That being true, I think I’ll stay with my happy memories of being stupid. That okay with you?

So there’s this closed session at the UN. For the first time in it’s history, every world leader is gonna be there. Every one. Didn’t matter if they were the Queen of Sheba or the Cunt from Canada. All world leaders were gonna be face to face. The idea was to “provide a face to face forum to end world war” or some such shit. I don’t really remember and, well, I can’t check my facts any more can I?

Anyway, the session lasted 17 days. The whole world seemed to hold it’s breath while the king shits of turd mountain sat and talked. Two of ‘em died. I always think it was a fuckin’ miracle it was only two; all those fat, rich, happy bags of piss and wind? Putting them all in one room for so long? Jesus, I’m surprised no-one suffocated on the bullshit.

2 fewer and 17 days older, the press got summoned to hear what all those brilliant world minds had agreed upon. I remember watching it on YouTube before the internet got shut down; some bleary eyed American President announced that “measures will be taken across all countries and by all peoples to guarantee peace in our time”. At which point, if we’d been a halfway sensible people, we’dve thrown those pricks back and that room and told ‘em to fuck off. Pretty much every conflict worldwide had died down in those 17 days. 17 days with no stupid old man trying to solve a grudge with young man’s blood had led to a distinct lack of direction for people whose hate petered out pretty quickly without orders to sustain it.

Then the books started being confiscated. The list was drawn up (not that we ever saw the fucking thing) and the authorities started cleaning them up. Funny; you always think that sort of thing is gonna be all stern faces and moustaches on pricks. Turns out it’s a bunch of mousy, polite men and women in overalls collecting books from shops and from houses to be removed “for the good of mankind”.

I’m not sure anyone really even misses them to be honest. Hadn’t read most of ‘em so who gives a shit, y’know? There was a lot of protests by people saying that their civil liberties were were being taken away from them. I dunno about that; if you want to read, there’s plenty of books still to choose from. But…well like I said at the start; it’s weird. We all heard that there was a big plan for world peace, and then the confiscations started so we all just assumed…well, it must be for our own good, right? Why else would all our leaders want to get rid of certain books?
Now…now there’s a strange atmosphere. I get the sense that everyone is waiting to see what happens next. No-one seems to know but I know there’s that tingle in the air; not the one you get before a storm, but the one before a senseless pub kicking or when that kid got caught stabbing cats. We’ll see I suppose.

So why’re you making this program then? Wouldn’t have thought talking about this stuff was exactly popular now.

Who did you say you were with again? BBC?

Can I see your press pass again please mate?

Army of Me: Fifth chapter

2007-07-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

386 days ago

The key rattled in the lock of the front door. Joanna awoke on the sofa with a start, and looked around in that special state of bewilderment reserved for the suddenly woken. Why was she on the sofa? What time is it? Where the bloody hell was Alex? What is that abominable shite on the TV? She glanced at her watch and was greeted with the revelation that it was just before 6am, which meant that the gaudy celebnews vomiting from the screen was Breakfast TV on BBC1. She was on the sofa, she remembered, because she had waited up for Alex to come home from what he had promised was going to be “a quiet one with some of the lads from work.” And that key in the lock was, presumably, Alex attempting to make a stealthy return from his sedate evening’s fun.

She heard the front door slowly open. A few moments later, it closed quietly. She waited until she heard the creak on the stairs and shouted “Alex? Is that you?” Judging the immediacy of the creaking’s cessation, it was. A croaking voice confirmed it; “You’re up early. Are you okay?”

The fug of her awakening was blasted clear by burning fury. She leapt up from the sofa and stormed through into the entry hall to see a dishevelled, bleary eyed, and unmistakably guilty looking husband half way up the stairs. “Oh I’m fine Alex, just fine. I thought I’d wait up for my husband to return. And here I am. Alex, just what fucking time do you call this?”

Alex winced at his wife’s raised voice. He walked back down the stairs to come and face her. “Jesus…look, Joanna I’m really sorry. I’m sorry, I just…look I was going to come home I really was. It’s…well…” he sighed as his thoughts tailed off, and as he reached her he tried to cover for the non-existence of his answer by enveloping her small frame in a hug. “I’m so sorry Joanna; it won’t happen again I promise.”

Joanna put up with the embrace for a few moments before shoving Alex back. He gave her the look of a freshly kicked puppy as she did so. “WHAT won’t happen again Alex? Where exactly the fuck have you BEEN? You didn’t even call, I’ve been worried sick!” And true enough, she had been. When he hadn’t returned by midnight, she’d assumed he’d gone onto a club to continue his quiet and refined evening out. When the clock struck one and he hadn’t returned, she had begun to fret for him. She hadn’t dozed off until well after 4, which was a testament to just how hard she’d been working over the previous few weeks, because by that point she’d convinced herself that he might be lying dead in a gutter or awake in some other woman (in which case, the former would very soon become true).

Alex, eyes cast downward in a gesture of supplication, offered no immediate answer. Indeed, he seemed to be lost for words. Joanne felt a sliver of ice cold fear stab through her stomach and into her heart. She thought that she recognised the guilt of a man caught cheating in his face, and she fought to control the renewed surge of anger before asking in a voice strained with tension “Were you with someone last night?”

His head snapped up at this, and his eyes blazed through the misty beginnings of teardrops. “No. Joanna, Jo no I’ve not…shit is that what you think?” He searched her drawn face for confirmation, and took her continued glare as such. “Jo, I swear to you on my life that I wasn’t with another woman last night. It’s not like that.” He paused, then added with a curl of his lip “It’s a long way from being like that.”
Joanna looked hard at her husband for a few moments more until she was convinced that his face contained no semblance of a lie. In fact, she realised, it contained more than a few clues to self loathing. Newly concerned, she drew closer to him. “Alex…baby, what happened?” she softly asked him.

Something in the gentleness of her tone connected directly with the hot shame that Alex had been trying to banish from his mind since waking up in a cold, dark cell in a police station. He felt his body crumple, and for just a moment he gave in to the despair and disgrace he felt as tears began to streak down his face.

“Oh baby…” and Joanne moved forward to embrace her husband. At this, Alex stiffened a little and controlled himself, putting an end to he always thought of as shameful mewling. Collecting his thoughts, he returned Joanna’s embrace.

“Jo, I’m sorry. I was stupid. Can we go and sit down please?” Without waiting for an answer, he took her by the hand and led her back through to the living room. He sat on the brown leather sofa and Joanna sat beside him. Alex took a deep breath. “I got arrested last night.” He tried to keep hold of Joanna’s hand, but she withdrew it sharply.

“You got arrested?” She was genuinely shocked. She knew Alex had a dangerous habit of letting his mouth say whatever it felt was funny without reference to his brain when he was drunk, but he also had enough sense to know when to shut the hell up if he was pushing someone too far. “What did you do? Did you get into a fight or…what?”

“I got caught in the men’s toilets with a gram of charlie.” Alex risked a glance at his wife. She was struck dumb in what would otherwise have been an amusingly “mouth hanging open” sort of a way before looking away from him. “It wasn’t even mine. Steve brought it, and I’d bought a line off of him so…look baby, I’m really sorry. I was pissed and I was stupid.” In a somewhat quieter yet unmistakably regretful tone, he unwisely added “I didn’t even get the line.”

(It would probably have been some consolation to Alex to know that Steve was not, in fact, in possession of “top class gear” but rather of some bastardised combination of a tiny amount of speed and a rather larger amount of baby laxative).

Fortunately for him, his wife was lost in her own world of astonishment. She was shaking her head, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Alex sat quietly next to her, waiting to see just how this was going to play out. He hoped it would proceed with the minimum of recriminations followed by an extended visit to bed for make-up sex and sleep (not necessarily in that order). His head was pounding and his brain had that “dipped in liquid nitrogen” feeling that accompanied the Tequila hangover. He understood that his wife was going to be upset by his night’s absence and the reason behind it. He just hoped that it would be the kind of sadness that would be expressed gently and with a minimum of shouting.

His hopes were then dashed at about 80 decibels.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING YOU STUPID SHIT?!” The colour had drained from Joanna’s face as she yelled into Alex’s. “Arrested for taking drugs? Alex, you could lose your job. Your job Alex!” Alex resumed his downcast stance on the sofa and began muttering platitudes of an “I know, I’m stupid and you’re right” tenor. Alas for his aching head, these were as much use as a Noct Immigration Request. “What were you thinking? Were you even thinking? Alex, what if your company find out about this? If you have a criminal record you’ll get sacked, you know that.”

“Jo, please calm down. Please. Look, I got a caution and that’s it. They only kept me in for the night because I was so drunk. I think they thought they were doing me a favour; I was a bit of a state truth be told. I’m not going to get sacked over a caution. Christ, Andrea will probably be laughing about it when I go in tomorrow.” The seeds of his attempt at levity fell on predictably stony ground.

“Yeah, but it’s not as simple as that is it Alex? Anything could’ve happened because you wanted to get high. I can’t believe you’d be so stupid! I know you hate your job but are you trying to get sacked?”

“What? No! Jesus, I don’t want to lose my job. I’m not that stupid Jo, I know we’ve got a mortgage to pay. I know we’ve got J-Accounts payments to keep up. I know I need to keep working and anyway, work has been getting better recently. I told you about the Vault-Tec stuff I’m working on?”

Joanna recognised the attempt at distraction. “What’s that got to do with anything?” Alex continued to try and throw her off this particular scent and onto the one labelled “Bedtime and a shag. Okay, maybe not a shag but definitely bed. And some paracetamol.”

“Well for one thing it’s about doing something I feel good about myself for doing. I’ve spent my working life pushing back nocts to whatever godforsaken hellhole they’re trying to escape from. Vault-Tec wants to start employing a lot of noct workers and I’m heading up the team working with them for that. I’m going to be doing something good Jo, and for the first time in my life I’m enjoying my job.”

Joanna remained resolutely unimpressed. “So that’s why you went out and did something stupid was it? You’re having such a good time at work that you decided to jeopardise your happiness there? Well done Alex, smooth move. I know I’ve been complaining about you working late so much but I don’t think I wanted you to make sure you’d be stuck at home permanently.”

And with that, Joanna uncorked the argument genie that had attending pretty much every one of their spats over the last month. Alex’s justification that his long hours meant more money toward a J-Account and the greater likelihood that they would both enjoy a much longer and happier life together which would more than make up for this lost time…well, it had grown very thin very quickly to Joanna. Curiously, despite the fact that such quarrelling was clearly borne from Joanna’s increasing sense of isolation from her husband and her desperation to keep alive their love for one another, Alex usually managed to completely fail to see things from Joanna’s point of view.

As a matter of fact, these disagreements of theirs were currently few and far between, but every single one of them eventually wound it’s way to Alex and the hours he insisted he had to work “to make things better for us.”. It frustrated Joanna to the point of wanting to scream. She had tried explaining that she didn’t care about a brighter, cloned future. That she wanted to have a husband in the here and now. And, unspoken by her thus far, that she didn’t want to watch the love she had for him whither and die in a succession of lonely nights whilst he toiled away slamming doors shut in the desperate faces of noct immigrants. They had only been married for a few years, but over the last 8 months she had begun to worry immensely for her husband and his mental health. He spoke less and less about his job; she knew he hated it and knew that every day destroyed him a little more. She thought that maybe the sensitive and caring man that she knew Alex to be was more haunted by the implications of his work than he ever let on to anyone, including her. But he steadfastly insisted that he could handle whatever his firm threw at him, and took on extra projects happily, almost hungrily. It was as if he wanted to prove to someone that he could master any task he was set. And if that meant taking on the Government contracts for Immigration work, so be it. If he had to fill his J-Account with noct blood, he would do so. And that, she thought sadly, was crushing the life out of this vibrant and compassionate man. It was as if he was dying slowly before her very eyes and it was becoming unbearable for her because whenever she tried to help, he shut her out.

She had tried to say all of this, but truth be told she rarely pursued these disputes to their logical conclusion because Alex…well, he frightened her when they clashed over work. It wasn’t that he was violent, or that he turned his sharp tongue on her. It was, she thought, silly to be scared of him when he was in what he later always referred to as his “big gay sulks”. And if she hadn’t been in his presence whilst they were happening, she would probably have laughed at herself for feeling any fear of the smiling eyed man that she married. He just seemed to slam shut emotionally whenever the subject of the hours he was working came up. And whether she harangued or cajoled, he wouldn’t respond. He just sat there, seemingly at the centre of a gathering storm cloud that he could will into exploding at her if the mood took him. Unlike the battering sarcasm he usually mustered when angry, he became silent and sullen. The features of his face were as those of a fresh corpse somehow given life and looking mightily pissed off to be in that situation, and the only sign of even listening that he gave came in the form of a few clipped words. Alex had protested when she first brought up her disquiet at his bouts of solemn fury, hugging and pleading with her to understand that, no matter what, he would never raise his hands to her. And she knew that to be true, felt horrified at herself for suggesting it and hating herself for the pain she caused her love by doing so. But she couldn’t entirely shake off the sense of danger that he emanated at times like that. And not the good “all the girls love a man with a dark side” kind of danger either. More the “husband and wife found dead in murder-suicide” brand of menace, and she braced herself for it’s creeping arrival.

But it did not materialise. Maybe it was because Alex was tired. Maybe it was that he admitted defeat in the face of Joanna’s undeniably valid point that he was idiotic to jeopardise the chance to actually do some work that he believed in. Had she asked, he would have told her that it was because the tequila hangover really was that unbearable and he would’ve gladly suffered any indignity in exchange for being allowed to stumble into bed, and to hell with the shagging. Once she had finished yelling at him for that, he might have let slip that he had also looked over a terrible precipice of guilt as he realised just how distraught his wife, his wonderful wife, must’ve been last night and just how much of an arsehole he thought himself for scaring her. And to Alex, this was the first time that he knew he really had scared her. He was aware that she had hinted at a fear of him previously, but had quickly dismissed this entirely. He would have been surprised at the depth of that fear, because to Alex’s mind, things between them were as they always had been.

Instead, he looked up and at Joanna. In that moment all thoughts of fearfulness left Joanna’s mind, chased away by the heartbreaking sight of her husband looking tired, broken, and more vulnerable than she could ever remember seeing him. He tried to tell her “I love you”, but the words stuck in a throat cracked with emotion, and his words formed noiselessly in his mouth like the silent miaow of a cat. A cat that stank of piss.

“Oh baby…” she took Alex in her arms and he sagged forward, breathing the heavy breath of a man determined not to cry. “Baby baby shhhh come on…it’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you it’s…I was worried about you Alex. I thought you were hurt or something had happened or…”

“No…no, it’s okay.” He sat up from her embrace and attempted a sheepish smile. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for Jo. You never have to apologise to me, not about anything. It’s me, it’s…I was stupid. You’re right, I was an idiot and I just…I just want to try and forget it.”

“I understand baby, I understand.” Joanna paused, some words clearly just having been bitten back. Alex recognised that something had gone unsaid. Being Alex, he wanted it cleared up to avoid any ambiguity.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry.”

“No, come on Jo. You can tell me. What is it?”

“Well…will you promise me something?”

“Baby, of course I will. Anything.”

“I want you to promise you’ll never take drugs again.”

There was an moment which lasted exactly enough time to become an awkward pause.

“What, any of them?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, come on Joanna! Look, I work hard and I need…”

Joanna decided to cut it off there. She was happy about their earlier escape from the choppy waters of dispute and had no wish to see her husband navigate them both back into a tidal wave. “Well, okay not weed.” Alex visibly untensed. “But no more class A stuff. No one gets arrested for weed any more but the other stuff…it frightens me Alex. It frightens me that we could lose everything over some fucking…powder.”

Alex was already nodding before she’d even finished. “Of course baby, anything you want. I promise. No more pills and powders.” He took her hands in his as he said this, and tried to smile a reassuring smile, kidding himself that his lip wasn’t wobbling as he did so.

Joanna embraced him once more and held him tightly. Alex hugged back and they sat like that for a few minutes. Joanne was just beginning to think to herself “This could be the watershed; this could be the point where 8 months of deepening gloom stop and I’ll get my laughing, charming husband back!” When she heard Alex snoring gently into her ear.

Army of Me: Fourth chapter

2007-07-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

Now

As Alex sat in his room packing his few belongings, he might have taken the time to acknowledge just how grateful he was that his Re-Orientation was finally over had he not been so overcome with the excitement of seeing his wife again. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the excellent food and luxurious accommodation or course. As a matter of fact, the Vault was better than pretty much every 5 star hotel in the land. Unfortunately, much like 5 star hotels, the clientele consisted almost exclusively of braying, mindless wankers who equated money with personality.

The past three days had been a hell of social manners for Alex. Whilst he recognised that the majority of the 9 other people who had been Revived on the same day as him as being of a higher class and wealthier than him, he had the nagging feeling that this in itself wasn’t enough to keep at bay the increasingly violent fantasies where he re-enacted their deaths with himself as the killer. He’d actually had a telling off on the second day, something that hadn’t happened to him since High School. He’d been sat eating his evening meal and chatting with the one Revivee who’s small talk didn’t make him want to puke blood through his eyeballs in order to provide an excuse for leaving the table. Ruth was a small framed and nervous looking lady in her mid 40s who had won the lottery some 3 years ago. Apparently one of her sons couldn’t wait for the inheritance and smashed her head in with a brick, hiding the body in a brilliant attempt to ensure his mother didn’t get revived. A superb scheme which he was fiercely proud of, it entirely failed to accommodate for the fact that her weekly D-NMA updates combined with her original DNA sample taken after winning were quite sufficient to bring her back. All things considered, Ruth was coping pretty well with the circumstances of her death. They were talking of their respective murders when, unannounced and uninvited, a nationally syndicated Radio show host plonked himself down beside Alex, and rode roughshod over the hesitant but friendly conversation that had been taking place.

“What about these Noct cunts bombing Paris again eh? Nasty little darkies eh? Dunno why we haven’t just conquered the NCT and kept the little buggers to do all our dirty job, eh?” His habit of seeking confirmation for his thought might have been endearing in other circumstance. However, judging by the lack of pauses in his flow of bile, the questions were merely implied rather than actually providing an opportunity for anyone else to talk. “Stand to reason really eh? No point in us sitting about waiting to get blown up and revived if we can just wade in and kill the bastards eh? Still, I suppose it keeps the herd thinned down eh? Country is too damn crowded anyway, maybe we should be thanking them for getting rid of some of our dead weight eh?” With that, the unpleasantly flabby man chuckled to himself and spent the next minute or so cramming a delicious and painstakingly prepared meal directly into his cavernous fat head. He did so in silence, with the chronically shy Ruth reverting to the silence it had taken Alex a day to penetrate, and Alex himself dumbstruck with the sheer charisn’tma that the man exuded with his every word.

His meal half disposed of, the vile man (who, Alex thought, resembled a volcanic red boil just prior to being lanced) let out a hearty belch and continued his one man show on the evils of Nocts and people poorer than himself. Alex wasn’t sure how long it continued for, and he’d planned to keep his head down and finish his meal so that he could get the hell away from him. This happy thought was interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from his unwanted dining companion. Evidently he’d realised that neither of them were actually listening to him, and the man’s ego demanded that restitution be made immediately.

“So, what happened to you then eh? Big business are you? Heart attack? Stroke? Too much hard work and not enough play I’ll bet eh?” He laughed rather too loudly at his own feeble joke. Even some of the more snootily inclined shitbags that Alex has studiously avoided were rolling their eyes by this point. Alex reluctantly turned from his dinner to face the human pustule next to him. “My parents set up a J-Account for me. I was murdered a couple of days ago.” He hoped the starkness of this information might embarrass the fat man into silence. He may as well have hoped for world peace whilst he was at it; that would at least have been the more realistic of the two wishes.

“Yeah? One of the herd got through the gates then eh? What about you?” As Alex was apparently not wealthy enough for him to talk to, he turned his loathsome gaze onto Ruth, who quietly replied “I’m a lottery winner, and…” She got no further. “Fucking Christ, am I sitting in the cattle pen here? Ask me, they’re letting any Tom Dick and Larry buy a clone these days eh?” The man stood, fixing both with the same expression seen on countless millions whenever they’ve stood on an unexpected dog turd and moved to leave. Absurdly, despite the prospect of imminent relief from the man, Alex found that his wounded pride was not happy at letting this ambulatory wart on the anus of humanity have the last word. He stood and took hold of the man by his shoulder, at which the man stopped and turned to face Alex.

“Well? What do you want eh?”

“What about you then? What vital and life changing work is that you do that places you on a higher plane of existence to the rest of us? A pioneering heart surgeon? A great philanthropist beloved of rich and poor alike? Or are you…aren’t you…well, aren’t you just a radio show host? In fact, aren’t you just another D list celeb who thinks high ratings give your life some sort of validation?”

The barb did its job. Such was his indignation that the man practically squealed “My ratings are number 4 in the country!”

“Oh, my apologies; number 4 in the country. It must be absolutely great to know that when the history books are written, you’ll be in there. Because all history books, well they don’t want to know about who the best is, do they? They don’t waste their time looking at the leaders in their field. No, they look in painstaking detail at those people who don’t even make the top 3. Why, every history book that ever there was just loves to spend time examining the also-rans, don’t they?”

Judging by the rising anger in his eyes and pounding vein in his temple, Alex was really hitting home. He would have left it there, but he noticed Ruth stifle a smile and that was permission to carry on in his book.

“I mean, just who the fuck do you think you are exactly? Here was me thinking you were a 10th rate shock jock whose revival was probably necessitated because of a chemical addiction to lard, but no. Apparently you’re the arbiter of world events and the worthiness of people. We should be as supplicants to your bilious teat as you squeeze endless moronic lactations for our delight.” He was getting wordy and arrogant again, a sure sign that Alex was actually quite ridiculously angry himself. “Well I’ve got news for you my friend. You’re a nothing. A no-one. No-one like you and no-one cares. Your studio figure it’s easier for you to eat and drink yourself to death then revive you later because it’s probably far less dangerous to them than trying to snatch a sandwich from your festering gob and keep your heart from bursting. Which, when it does, will probably generate the destructive energy of a nuclear fucking warhead. I mean for fuck’s sake man, is this undulating pile of flesh really you at your physical peak? You actually chose to get revived into a whale? Incredible. Now take your grand opinion of yourself and” Alex leant forward until he was nose to nose with the man who now looked deflated and upset. It lent him the appearance of a sagging skin bin bag filled with mince. “Just. Fuck. Off. Okay, eh?”

Alex had always had a talent for linguistic cruelty, and it was hugely satisfying to deploy it on so deserving a target. The man had shakily left the dining area, and later that evening Alex was treated to an informal chat in his quarters about the manners one should employ when speaking to such excellent clients as Mr Christopher, and would Alex mind awfully if he would stay away from Mr Christopher for the remainder of their Re-Orientation?

But none of that occupied his mind, which was full to the brim of thoughts of Joanna. Notions of packing to leave barely fitted into the few remaining nooks and crannies of his psyche. He found himself both excited and nervous. As far as he could recall, he’d last seen his wife over a year ago. He’d left her with promises that, no, he wouldn’t be out for a big session and yes, he’d be back by 11.30. And that was that; his last words to her were a lie. A white lie to be sure and a lie that allowed him to have an excellent night out, but a lie all the same.

But she wouldn’t remember that (or at least, he hoped not). What had happened in that year? Was she pregnant, or did they already have a squalling infant as their own? Alex rather hoped not; he had never been any good with babies. He’d always just thought of them as one might think of a pet dog that gradually learns how to talk. So it was probably a safe bet that his life would be child-free for now. But about Joanna herself? The image of her, her bobbed blonde hair and pale blue eyes, her smooth olive skin and rounded face, her body both pert and comforting to him…that image loomed large in Alex’s mind. Despite his existential angst about almost every thought that ever occurred to him, he couldn’t help but smile a big dopey grin as he thought of her. Whatever had happened in the last year, Joanna would tell him. And then they could continue to live as happily ever after as one could in a society where a person could count themselves fortunate to have more than 10 days paid holiday a year.

Not even the thought of work dislodged his grin. After all, Alex reasoned, he had 2 weeks before he had to return to work. This was a luxury that almost made it worth being killed and cloned on an annual basis had he the money.

He changed into the clothes that the Vault had provided him for on his release. They hadn’t returned the clothes he had been wearing on his death. Presumably because they had the good taste not to give Alex the knife-shredded clothing and expect him to wear it (although he mused that it could just as easily have been because red didn’t go with their walls). So he dressed himself in a plain (but reassuringly expensive) navy blue shirt, some jeans (also unremarkable and also out of his normal price range) and a pair of achingly fashionable shoes. They were the sort of shoes that had he seen anyone else wearing, he would’ve been unable to tell if they were an ultra-hip trendsetter, or one of the gays.

His briefcase and wallet, apparently having been stolen and ransacked then disposed of by his murderer, were absent. His mobile unit was there however, but as promised it had no power source. He put it in the pocket of the new jacket provided for him, quite ruining the cut of it by doing so. He’d have to remember to stop by a cash point once he was out. At least whoever had killed him hadn’t stolen his mobile; without that, he’d be unable to get money or make any transactions at all. Nor would he be able to phone anyone, or access the net, or just watch TV. He thanked heaven for such small mercies, rather ironically being as he’d have preferred the larger mercy of not having been horribly murdered.

All suited and booted, Alex took once last look at what had been a luxuriously appointed cell, and then left. He made straight for the lift and pressed the button to call it up to him. Grin still intact, he got into the lift and went down to the ground floor. Awaiting him at the front desk was the power cell for his mobile, which he gratefully took and fitted.

He then looked around the cavernous reception hall to find Joanna. He saw the throngs of people around some of the more major celebs that had been in his re-orientation. Apparently they felt their “Next of Kin” included the kind of entourage that acted as a walking advertisement of their employers’ wealth. Between three of his fellow revivees, he counted almost 70 people laughing and preening round them. They reminded him of buzzing flies round a particularly odious turd.

They also reminded Alex that he was not yet with Joanna. He walked around the hall but couldn’t see her anywhere. He did bump into Ruth who was enjoying a somewhat tense re-union with her daughter. Apparently Ruth was now rather more suspicious of her children than she had been previously, so where there should have been unfettered joy there was instead stilted conversation and defensiveness on both sides. She noticed Alex, and gave him a shy smile which Alex returned. He walked over to her and asked if she had seen Joanna at all.

Ruth frowned; “My height, blonde hair and dark skin, blue eyes, slim build you say? No…sorry Alex. Is it your sister you’re meeting?” A less pre-occupied man might have noticed the slightly hopeful note in Ruth’s voice. He would certainly have noticed her disappointment when he answered that Joanna was his wife. “Well…I hope you find her soon Alex.” A pause arose and became slightly more awkward as Alex tried to think of a way to leave mother and daughter to their private reunion. “Could I take your number?” Alex blurted out. Ruth looked dumbstruck. Her daughter merely smiled a cynical smile. “I’d like to meet up again sometime. It was really nice to meet you Ruth. I sometimes think I would’ve gone mad in Re-orientation if I didn’t have someone normal to talk to.”

Ruth, a sadder and more suspicious woman than she had been prior to her murder, had to struggle rather hard to hide her delight at the request. In the three days she’d spent in the Vault, Alex was the only one who didn’t treat her with ill-disguised snobbery due to her humble background. Although everyone was pretty much forbidden to talk about their outside life in much detail throughout re-orientation, she’d let slip to Alex that she was single. Come to think of it she’d let it slip 8 or 9 times. He was unfailingly courteous to her, and endlessly scathing about their companions. It was a combination that she’d found endearing to say the least.

“Yes, of course; have you got your mobile?” Alex nodded, and so Ruth took hers (one of the newer Nokia models), and pressed a couple of buttons. Alex switched on his (a rather older and less fashionable Sony), and saw that Ruth’s number had been added. He also noticed DS Marsh’s number as having been added a few days prior.

Alex thanked Ruth, promising that his wife and himself would definitely call her and meet for dinner sometime soon. He left the faintly perplexed Ruth to enjoy her reunion, made all the less tense by her daughter having something to tease her mother about, and continued to look for Joanna.

2 hours later, the hall was empty of everyone except Alex. He still hadn’t found her. He tried calling both their home and her mobile. There was no answer from either. In each case, the answermachine clicked in; “Hi, this is Joanna. I’m not here right now, please leave a message.”

He had checked outside the Vault main entrance a few times to see if she was waiting for him outside, but no; nothing. All he saw were the trudging, hollow eyed people making their way from work to whichever pub was their favoured locale for some serious brain cell annihilation, and later those same people whooping and cheering their way home to a drunken, black slumber.

Alex made his way to the reception desk of the Vault and asked confirmation for the fifth time that his wife had been told of his Revival. The response was the same (and just as courteously delivered as it had been the first time). Alas, Alex wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the first class customer service he was being treated to. He asked the receptionist to call him a cab to take him home.

Upset and preoccupied, for the second time in just a few days, Alex failed completely to notice the sallow faced and scowling man who had been watching him since his first brief, hopeful excursion from the Vault to the street outside. As Alex climbed into his cab, the man sighed and extinguished his 30th cigarette of the day. With a mutter of “About fucking time…” he hailed a cab of his own. To the very great regret of anyone who enjoys potboilers, he didn’t say “Follow that cab”. There was no need; he already knew Alex’s address.

Army of Me:Third chapter

2007-07-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

Re-Orientation Schedule for Mr Alexander John Atkinson

Welcome, Alexander, to your new life!

Here at Vault-Tec Ltd, we pride ourselves on a thorough and professional service that goes beyond mere cloning. We aim to provide each one of our clients with a full and personalised three day package which will assist you in your re-integration back into the society of your friends and family.

Over the next three days, you will enjoy a series of lectures and activities designed to fully re-orientate yourself back into the life you lead prior to your Revival, as well as inform you about cloning specific issues that you might like to know more about.

During this time, you’ll be housed in the Re-Orientation section of the London Vault, situated right here on The Isle of Dogs. You’ll find that your quarters are luxuriously appointed, and your meals will be of the highest standard. But don’t worry about the cost! Your J-Account has taken care of all of that!

Your first meal will be at 7pm this evening. Please note that all meals are carefully selected to provide the correct levels of nutrients for the recently revived. We have also taken every care to match the meals to your individual tastes.

Please take the time to look through your schedule. We strive to provide all the information that we believe you will need, but if there is anything missing from it then please don’t hesitate to let us know, and every effort will be made to accommodate you. Please also refer to the map of the facilities you will be using during your stay with us.

So then Alexander, just relax and enjoy your stay with us. This first evening will your own. You’ll note that there is no Screen in your room; this is so that you’re not overloaded with any information about the 384 days that have elapsed since your last Memory Specific DNA (D-NAM) update. Rest assured that all the information you need will be provided over the coming days. We’ve provided a number of books for your enjoyment; if you don’t find anything to your liking, please don’t hesitate to use the intercom and ask for the use of our well stocked library. Your Multimedia Unit will be returned to you upon your release.

Regards,

Matthew Moore

Head of Vault-Tec Revivals (London)

Day 1

0655: Alarm

0700: Breakfast in bed - Smoked Salmon and scrambled eggs, wholemeal toast, Olive oil spread, Darjeeling tea.

0730: Please use the next 30 minutes to attend to your toilet and hygiene needs.

0800: Lecture #1 – The Legalities of Your Revival

This lecture will address the more immediate questions that you may have concerning the aftermath of your revival. Topics covered will include Employment Law (specifically the 2 week “grace” period following your Revival which requires employers to hold open your post for 14 days should you wish to return to your job), Probate and the validity of your will (you will be given advice on the new will that you are required to draft), as well as general matters such as your Death Certificate and new National Insurance Number.

We request that you do not discuss your recent memories with fellow revivees. Staff will be enforcing this request.

Please note that there will be a break for refreshments at 1030.

Lecturer: Jon Holyoak Location: Eric Blair Memorial Lecture Hall

1130: Lecture 1 Q&A Session

1200: Lunch – Lunch will be served in your quarters. There will be a starter of Tomato Soup and wholemeal roll. The main course will be Chicken in a Balsamic jus with steamed vegetables. Dessert will be Fruit cocktail. Choice of beverages: Fresh Orange or Cranberry juice.

1300: Lecture #2 – Recent History

This lecture will be delivered to you solely and is tailored to cover the main events across the world since your D-NAM update. It is the first of three lectures. In this lecture, we will look specifically at events outside of The United Kingdom in the 384 days since your update. Please note that this lecture covers both events in The Cloned Territories (CTs) and Non Cloned Territories (NCTs).

Lecturer: Prof. Jane Miller Location: Your room

1430: Refreshment break. Please note that you are permitted to discuss recent memories pertaining to the previous lecture with your fellow Revivees.

1445: Lecture #3 – Faith and Revival

As an Atheist you may be wondering just how the world’s religions view you now that you have been revived. This lecture will discuss the attitudes of all major faiths towards the Revived. You will be happy to learn that, by and large, all faiths have shown great respect and tolerance toward the Revived. It will also discuss the impact of cloning upon faith, from the rules excluding the Revived from the Catholic Priesthood, to the enabling of a lasting peace in the Israeli-Palestine Allied Territories.

Please note that this lecture will not discuss the beliefs and activities of The Church Of The Immortal Soul. This topic will be discussed in a later lecture.

Lecturer: Dr Clive Runcie Location: Eric Blair Memorial Lecture Hall

1600: Lecture 3 Q&A Session

1630: Lecture # 4 – A Background to Cloning and Finance

This short lecture will discuss the setup of your new J-Account. It will also provide some history behind Cloning, the finance of cloning (such as how the name “ J-Account” legitimised the previously used colloquialism, “Joanne May Account” used by the major banking corporations), and a brief audit of your previous J-Account.

Lecturer: Andrew Powell Location: Your room

1700: End of days lectures. You will have an hour to rest from the day’s activities. During this hour you will have access to the Leisure floor of the Vault, located on floor 38.

1800: Evening Meal which will be served in the main dining hall (please refer to map for location). There will be a starter of Grilled goat’s cheese with Mediterranean Vegetables. The main course will be Venison Forestier with Mustard Mashed Potatoes and steamed Green Beans. Dessert will be a selection of cheeses from our board. Coffee to follow dessert.

1930: You will have 2 and a half hours in which to make use of our Leisure facilities.

2200: We request that you return to your room to prepare for bed. Please note that all revivees must return to their own rooms .

2230: Lights out.

Day 2

0655: Alarm

0700: Breakfast in bed – Choice of Cereals, wholemeal toast, Olive oil spread, Darjeeling tea.

0730: Please use the next 30 minutes to attend to your toilet and hygiene needs.

0800: Lecture #1 – Cloning and Crime

This lecture will look at the distinct strand of jurisprudence concerning what has come to be known as “Cloning Crime”. We will discuss the main cloning crimes; destruction of client DNA and Gene Splicing. In addition, we shall also consider the penalties for Cloning Crimes (deportation to an NCT-located Penal colony being the most common),the use of cloning as a judicial tool (primarily in the Revival of witnesses to a Capital Crime), as well as some of the limitations on the cloning process (such as the impossibility of cloning from dead tissue)

Please note that there will be a break for refreshments at 1000.

Lecturer: Prof Robert Sayer Location: The Huxley Lecture Theatre

1030: Lecture 1 Q&A Session

1100: Lecture #2 – Recent History

This lecture will be delivered to you solely and is tailored to cover the main events across the world since your D-NAM update. It is the second of three lectures. In this lecture, we will look specifically at events within The United Kingdom in the 384 days since your update. The focus will be on any major social and political changes, though we shall also discuss any matters relating specifically to you, your career, and your social life.

Please note that after this lecture, we will be notifying your next of kin of the end date and time of your Re-Orientation. If you wish, we will also pass on any messages that you may wish to give to your loved ones in advance of your release from The Vault.

Lecturer: Prof. Jane Miller Location: Your room

1300: Lunch – Lunch will be served in the dining hall. There will be a starter of Shredded Aromatic Duck. The main course will be Penne Arabiatta. Dessert will be steamed Toffee Pudding. Choice of beverages: Fresh Orange or Cranberry juice.

1400: Lecture #3 – The Church of the Immortal Soul

Although this is your first Revival, you will doubtless have heard of the activities of The Church of The Immortal Soul. The lecture will examine the background to this cult, from their initial formation by an inter-faith group of clerics unhappy with their respective Church’s stance on cloning, to their spread throughout both CT and NCT alike, and finally to their current status as a banned organisation in CT.

We will also be discussing simple and affordable safety measures that you can take to avoid the unwelcome attentions of these fanatics. Whilst it is only the more extreme members of “The Immortals” who have murdered or attempted to murder Revivees in recent years, their prejudice against Revivees has regrettably infected the public domain.

This lecture will end with a Q&A session with a former Immortal, and for your convenience and safety we will also be providing you with a list of suspected Immortals in your local area.

Lecturer: Jamie Bell Location: Eric Blair Memorial Lecture Hall

1600: Refreshment break. Please note that you are permitted to talk freely with your fellow Revivees.

1630: Tour of Vault Facilities

Your day will end with a full tour of the Vault facilities. You will be shown the research labs where the D-NAM and DNA are combined prior to Revival, and taken round the many offices which comprise the bulk of the Vault facility and where our Corporate Division does most of it’s work. The tour will climax with a visit to the Underground Storage Chambers. Here you will be afforded an unparalleled opportunity to look at the chambers from whence you so recently came.

The chambers, all heavily fortified after the Indian and Pakistani launched their joint nuclear attack on Tokyo and Osaka in an attempt to force their way onto the CT Council of Nations, are rarely seen by the general public. Even media access has been halted since the attempted assault on the Manhattan Island Vault by a cell of Immortals. Once you’ve gone through the security screening, you will be rewarded with an experience that few can ever hope to see; you will witness the Revival of one of our clients!

We will also discuss some of the science behind cloning as well as some of it’s benefits and limitations (for example, the impossibility of cloning from dead tissue).

The tour will be conducted by Dr Roberta Wilson.

1800: End of days lectures. You will have an hour to rest from the day’s activities. During this hour you will have access to the Leisure floor of the Vault, located on floor 38.

1900: Evening Meal which will be served in the main dining hall (please refer to map for location). There will be a starter of Leek and Potato soup. The main course will be Monkfish served with seasonal vegetables. Dessert will be tiramisu. Coffee to follow dessert.

2030: You will have 2 hours in which to make use of our Leisure facilities.

2230: We request that you return to your room to prepare for bed. Please note once more that all revivees must return to their own rooms .

2300: Lights out.

Day 3

0655: Alarm

0700: Breakfast in bed – Full English Breakfast, wholemeal toast, butter, Darjeeling tea.

0730: Please use the next 30 minutes to attend to your toilet and hygiene needs.

0800: Lecture #1 – NCT Relations

This lecture will address the social anxiety that attended the split in the United Nations between Cloned and Non Cloned Territories. It will examine some of the reasons behind the withholding of Vault Technology from NCT (made up of the entirety of the African, South American, and Central American continental nations plus Asia with the exceptions of the Russian Free Trade State and China) and how the subsequent series of CT-NCT border wars grew into the Nuclear devastation that was unleashed upon Japan by two NCT nations.

The lecture will also look at current CT attitudes towards NCT and its citizens. Whilst the various CT Immigration laws have removed almost all contact between CT and NCT peoples, this has not stopped a uniformly anti-NCT attitude becoming prevalent among the CT citizens (for example, the growth in popularity of the derogatory name for NCT citizens, Nocts, across CT).

Lecturer: Dr Phillip Naut Location: Huxley Lecture Theatre

1000: Refreshment break

1030: Lecture 1 Q&A Session

1100: Lecture #2 – Recent History

This lecture will be delivered to you solely and is tailored to cover the main events across the world since your D-NAM update. It is the third of three lectures. In this lecture, we will discuss any matters that you are curious about that have arisen from the previous lectures. We will also provide an inventory of items on your person prior to your Revival and would be grateful if you could confirm its accuracy. These items will be returned to you at the end of your Re-Orientation.

Lecturer: Prof. Jane Miller Location: Your room

1230: Lunch – Lunch will be served in the dining hall. There will be a starter of Baked Feta and Pita bread. The main course will be cold roast meats with potato salad and crusty bread. Dessert will be a selection of Ice Cream. Choice of beverages: Fresh Orange or Cranberry juice.

1330: Lecture #3 – Politics and Society in the CT

This lecture will detail the political and social background to the creation of the CT. It will discuss the changes in the political landscape as well as the more solid social foundations that cloning has enabled. In particular, we will examine the CT Council, universally recognised as the finest system of Government in the long history of humanity.

We will examine the effect that cloning has had on our armed services and the laws surrounding cloning of military and certain civilian personnel and conditions for their revival (which are, broadly speaking, only activated if the person is Killed In Action).

As you have a career in Immigration Law, we will also spend the final hour with you in a 121 setting whereupon we will endeavour to update you as to any legislative and procedural changes that may affect your work. Please note that this 121 will be preceded by a refreshment break

Lecturer: David Carlton Location: Eric Blair Memorial Lecture Hall

121 Session: Derek Nairn Location: Your room

1630: Lecture 3 Q&A Session

1730: All items confirmed as yours earlier today will be returned to you. You will be afforded the opportunity to pack and prepare for your release this evening. Your Multimedia Unit will also be returned, although please note that its power supply will be returned to you upon your release.

1800: Evening Meal which will be served in the main dining hall (please refer to map for location). There will be a starter of Prawn Cocktail. The main course will be Medallions of Beef in a Red wine sauce with Creamed Sweet Potato. Dessert will be a selection of cheeses from our board. Coffee to follow dessert.

1900: Lecture # 4 – General Q&A

This short Q&A session will provide you with the opportunity to ask any other questions that have arisen over the previous three days. Should you have any questions outstanding at the end of the session, please feel free to stay and talk to our Re-Orientation staff.

Lecturer: All Re-Orientation Staff Location: Eric Blair Memorial Lecture Hall

2000: Please return to your room and collect your belongings. From there you will be escorted to the main entrance hall. Your Multi-Media Unit power source will be returned, and your next of kin will be there to greet you.

Congratulations Alexander Atkinson! You are ready to begin life anew!

Army of Me:Second chapter

2007-07-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

Now

As he slowly made his way back toward consciousness, Alex became aware of a few things. Firstly, that he was not in his own bed. Secondly, that wherever he was, it was bloody cold. Thirdly, that he was naked. And finally, there were other voices, at least one of which was a woman, and 2 distinct male voices. Both men sounded like Londoners, with a rough Middle class twang to one of them. The other sounded rather more hesitant, leaping on the comments of the lead man as if he didn’t have the confidence to make any of his own. The woman’s voice sounded cold and clipped, businesslike. Alex became aware that if, as he was beginning to suspect, he was waking up after a serious drinking session, then he had possibly spent his money on an unremembered 3-way with a hard-nosed whore and 2 strangers. It was time to take a deep breath (which turned out to be a bad idea as he inhaled an exhilarating mix of stale cigarette smoke and antiseptic), open his eyes, and prepare the excuses. Longer term, it was probably also a good time to cut back on the tequila.

Alex hesitantly opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing; the lights were just too bright, and he let out an involuntary gasp as he quickly clamped his eyes shut again. That little gasp was enough to alert the woman to his awakened state, and he immediately heard her voice by his ear.

“Alex. Alex, are you awake now? Can you hear me Alex?”

The more confident sounding of the two men joined in; “Will he be able to remember anything doctor?”

“Doctor?” Alex mused to himself. Right; it’s definitely time to cut back on the tequila. Shards and fragments of the previous evening were starting to come back to him now. He’d been on a night out with Simon, Claire, Rob, and Andy and a few of the others from work. He had a dim recollection of telling his wife, Joanna, that he’d be back by midnight and that it was going to be a quiet one. Mind you, he also had a dim recollection of being hunched over a toilet in a club and feeling a meaty hand on his shoulder, being spun round, and coming face to face with a bored-looking bouncer enquiring about the provenance of the white powder arranged into 2 neat little lines on the toilet cistern.

Alex assumed he must’ve been arrested, and he thought he could recall being driven in a cramped van by 2 policemen (who, he deduced, must be the two men here now) to the station. He didn’t remember a damn thing after that though. “Presumably I’ve been arrested for drunk and disorderly too. Must’ve been a right state if they’ve had to call the doctor out. Aw Jesus, I’ve been a drunken prick again…” Alex was so busy reflecting on this that he failed to notice, as he cautiously re-opened his eyes, his total absence of hangover.

Prepared for the glare of the lights, he opened his eyes and squinted at the 3 figures gathered round him. As his eyes became accustomed to the halogen blaze, he took in some details of his surroundings. The 3 people were exactly as he had heard; a woman and 2 men. The woman was wearing a white lab coat, carrying a clipboard, wore some very expensive looking glasses, and was slim with long dark hair and, Alex noticed as she opened her mouth to say “Are you alright?” terrible teeth arranged brown and battlement-like in an otherwise kissable mouth. Standing further back from her, on either side of his…bed? Alex was dimly aware that it was more of a gurney than a bed. On either side of whatever it was stood the two policemen. Both were in plain clothes, and both had a bored expression on their faces. The one to the left was in his mid 40s, with lank brown hair, a paunch that indicated a love of cheap and plentiful food, and a roundness of face that indicated the same love of cheap and plentiful lager. He was the source of the days-old tobacco stench, and he chewed on what Alex could only hope was industrial strength mint chewing gum in what the whole room could tell was a vain effort to keep his breath fresh.

The second of the two was younger, perhaps only half the age of the first. He wore his reddish hair rather long and matched it with the faint traces of a beard that one can only imagine was the man’s pride and joy, because there was no other excuse for inflicting such a scarcity of downy fluff on one’s face in the name of having a beard. He was trying to match the other man’s gruff aloofness, though it was pretty easy to tell that, underneath that thin veneer, he was pretty excited to be here. Which worried Alex; why the hell would anyone be excited to wake a drunk and disorderly? Why was he in hospital? Had he choked, rock star-like, on his own vomit through the night? Had he provoked a fight and came out on the losing side? Had the police decided to take out a little anger and frustration on a gibbering drunk?

As Alex ran through those possibilities in his mind, he ruled them out one by one. He couldn’t have choked on vomit, because he didn’t even feel as if he had a hangover, let alone spent the early part of last night drinking a lake of cocktails. And he couldn’t have been beaten up because, sensitive eyes and the stench of someone else’s cig smoke aside, he felt physically fine. Better than ever in fact. Come to think of it, he felt in the best shape he had done for a while. But here he was in a hospital room wearing a pristine blue gown and a puzzled expression. What the hell had happened to put him in hospital?

“Alex, can you tell me what day it is?”

The doctor, now satisfied that Alex was indeed awake and could hear her perfectly well, looked at him expectantly and not unkindly. She had a pen poised over her clipboard as her eyes remained focused on Alex.

“I…well, uhh…well yesterday was Saturday 12th January so I guess today must be Sunday 13th. Look, am I in trouble here?”

As he gave the date, the doctor gave a satisfied little smile and made a little tick on her clipboard. The older of the two policemen rolled his eyes, and the younger was quick to follow him with a tutting noise. Some of the excitement dimmed from his eyes.

“What year Alex? You’ve said its Sunday 13th. What year are we in?”

This was a question that would normally have puzzled Alex. “What year are we in? Jesus, how drunk was I?” he would like to have thought. Instead that question came at about the same time that Alex realised he was not in a hospital. The room he was in was sterile, but the décor wasn’t exactly cheap hospital green and white. The look of the room was functional, yet deliberately expensive; the fittings and furniture were a chrome-and-wood mix. The gurney he was on lay parallel to a man-sized glass box which was strewn with wires and covered in display readouts. The room was windowless, and the air was recycled so he guessed they were also underground. Alex began to scan around the room looking for the confirmation that he didn’t want to find, and found it in the slow and deliberate voice of the younger policemen.

“’Ere, boss. I think he’s figured it out. Looks like ee’s shitting himself.”

The indelicate observation ended with a snorting laugh from both policemen and a look of supreme irritation from the doctor.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind! Awakening clients are always in a state of emotional tenderness, and he can do without crude jokes at his expense right now, so will you please be quiet!”

The doctor, or whoever she was, certainly had the bedside manner to go with the teeth. She turned back to Alex and favoured him with an open smile that he rather wished she hadn’t bothered with, and asked him the question again.

Alex answered. The policemen both sighed. The doctor’s smile remained. Under normal circumstances, this would have pleased Alex.

“Alex, do you know where you are?”

Alex looked round at all 3 of them, and reluctantly nodded.

“I think so…is this the Vault?”

The older policeman clapped his hands and exclaimed “Excellent deduction young man! Give that fella a coconut!” This time the doctor rolled her eyes, but was careful to keep her back to the policemen. She took a breath before she answered.

“Yes Alex, you’re in the UK Vault. We’ve just revived your clone, and it’s now Friday 18th April. Alex, its 15 months later than you think it is. That’s because the most recent D-NAM update that we could find dated from last January. Actually, it was the police who provided the D-NAM for us to…”

Alex received the news with a darkening expression and a tightening in his gut. There was pretty much only one reason that he’d find himself in this situation. Quietly he spoke, interrupting the doctor’s explanation.

“I’m dead, aren’t I? I mean…well, the real me.”

The doctor gave another of what she probably thought were her soothing open-mouthed smiles.

“Well, to all intents and purposes Alex, this is the real you. But yes Alex. The original you died 2 days ago. Look, this will all come as a shock to you right now; that’s perfectly normal for any revived clone. You’re bound to feel a sense of confusion and dislocation. Don’t worry; you’ll spend a couple of days here until we’ve got you adjusted back to today’s world.”

“And we will be spending a few hours finding out just why you were adjusted out of it in the first place.” The elder of the two policemen had obviously decided that it was time for him to stamp his authority onto proceedings.

Alex, still bewildered and frightened by this turn of events looked quizzically at the elder policeman. “Wh…what do you mean?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I must’ve been to a dozen of these revivals and you lot never get any less irritating, d’you know that? I mean you got murdered y’daft bastard. And me and Chris” he indicated the younger policeman, who acknowledged Alex with a mildly embarrassed nod, “are the lucky fellas who get to see if you know who and why.”

Alex shot a panicked look at the doctor. “But…look, I don’t remember what happened 2 days ago. This is…this is some kind of joke. Am I being set up here? Have those bastards at work done this? I don’t have enough money for a clone! This can’t be real…”

The last words came out mixed with the kind of laugh that, had it been anyone other than him producing it, Alex would have filed under “Mental”. Still, he gripped onto the slender hope that he was the target of that special brand of prank involving enormous emotional cruelty that had been so popular in TV shows for the last 50 years.

The elder policeman leant forward and put his face in Alex’s, who made a mental note to remind him to change his brand of chewing gum. “Don’t be so fucking stupid. This is not a game, and we’re not having a laugh. Do you see me smiling? No. Chris isn’t rolling around on the floor in a fit of mirth. Dr Wilson here isn’t mugging to some non-existent bloody camera. You died. The sooner you can deal with that, the sooner me and Chris can talk to you, and the sooner we can get the hell out of here and deal with something other than nursemaiding an open-and-shut case. Are we clear?”

Without waiting for an answer he back away and spoke to Dr Wilson. “Right, we’ll get one of your private rooms set up for interview. We’ll be ready in 10 minutes, by which time I’d like you to have the boy from Brazil here in a more lucid state.” Aware that he was now the focus of three equally quizzical stares, the policeman hesitated for a moment. “What? It was classic film night on BBC4 last night. Come on Chris.” With that, the two men left the room, leaving an irritated Dr Wilson and a bewildered Alex behind them.

“I’m sorry about that Alex. It’s not standard protocol to have anyone other than a doctor present at a revival, but as the police were the ones who provided the D-NAM they insisted. I understand that this is going to be extremely difficult for you. An unexpected death and such a long gap between D-NAM update and revival is pretty unusual these days. But we will be working with you to make sure that you’re ready to be re-introduced into your life, and it’ll be like you never went away.” Dr Wilson offered another of what she probably honestly believed were soothing open mouthed smiles.

“Now then,” she began. Alex recognised that sort of “Now then.” It was the sort of medical phrase that presaged a sensible talking to so that the patient would feel bludgeoned with the feeling that, if they didn’t get better, it was probably due to their own lack of moral fibre. They should also pay attention as there may be a test later. In return, the doctor got the chance to lord it over lesser mortals with their vast reservoirs of knowledge. “You mentioned that you weren’t able to afford a clone. That is perfectly correct. However, there was a provision in your father’s will for a secret trust containing a savings fund. This fund was put towards the purchase of a clone.” She looked up from her notes, “At this point I’m supposed to read out this” she held up a pamphlet “to explain what a secret trust is, but you’re a solicitor I believe, so would we be okay to dispense with that?”

Alex nodded his assent. It appeared that his legal training was very much intact, though the deepening tension fuelled knot forming in his stomach made a tentative suggestion that his emotional state was not all it could have been. The legal training prissily ignored such unpleasantness, and reminded Alex that a secret trust fund was a fund much like any other trust. It was run for the benefit of, well, the beneficiary. The only difference was that, aside from a document lodged with the solicitor or trustee confirming the basic details, there was nothing else to indicate its existence. No probate was involved (which, in these days of cloning technology, was a relief; probate law had gotten rather tricky when faced with the problem of sons suing their fathers for, essentially, not having had the decency to stay dead and allow them time to grieve in peace with their inheritance). And the trustee didn’t even have to notify the beneficiary. This had obviously been the case here.

“Fortunately for you Alex, the fund matured a little less than 1 week ago. The trustee transferred the money from the fund to a “J” Account 3 days ago. You really are a very lucky man Alex.” Lucky. Right. He’d been murdered and he was lucky.

Of course he was.

The gut-knot exploded. Alex snapped his head up from its post-revival loll, eyes blazing at the doctor, whose smile (thankfully) faltered and fell.

“So I’m lucky, is that correct? Tell me doctor; is that a medical definition of ‘luck’? Hm? Some definition that I’ve hitherto been unaware of, where one finds a shit in one’s drink and remarks on ones good fortune? Are you using an archaic term perhaps? Where one can consider to have truly been blessed with good fortune by the gods and shall be henceforth have shreds of ones robe torn away by pilgrims desperate to share in some of that divine favour, because you caught the fucking plague!?”

He should have left it there. Alex could always tell when he was losing his temper because legalese and volume crept into his speech patterns. But, fuck it; he’d been awake scarcely more than a few minutes and had found he had been murdered and resurrected, and was apparently missing a year of his life. He was understandably rather grumpy. And Dr Wilson was the only available target.

“This might be another day in the office to you, but call me old fashioned if I don’t consider being murdered and brought back to life the dictionary definition of ‘lucky’! I died, don’t you get that? Does that mean nothing to you? Have you given up on bothering with empathy? Is it as much trouble as brushing your teeth?! I died! I…I died.”

All of the conflicting powerful emotions that Alex had tried to use up by shouting were bubbling their way out as tears by this point. At the last word Alex spoke, his lungs decided to get in on the action by adding sobs that wracked his whole body. He bowed his head again and wept.

He had died. Someone, for whatever reason, had killed him. That he had no memory of his death was neither here nor there; someone had stolen his life from him. Literally had stolen it; he was apparently now living a year later than his last memories, and although he doubted much of any substance could happen in the space of a year, that was still one year of his life that was gone. Who knows what he and his wife had shared during that time. Had he experienced life-changing events, only to have that taken from him by the most life changing event of all? Would the world be the same?

Dr Wilson sat by his bed, though did not offer a comforting hand or soothing words as he wept. It could be that this was because she was a typical Vault doctor; as professional and efficient and compassionate as a thrown knife. Or it could be that she hadn’t appreciated Alex’s comment about her teeth. Either way though, she remained quiet for a while until the worst of Alex’s sobs had subsided.

“Alex” she began quietly, “It’s alright. It’s alright to cry; you’re experiencing PRS and Post Revival Stress affects every clone to a greater of lesser degree. This is nothing to be ashamed of, so just…just let it all out.”

Maybe she meant well, but the words sounded so stilted coming out of her mouth. Like the sort of thing she had learned by rote for this situation, and chanted as a mantra against crying patients. The lack of empathy in her words only seemed to drive Alex to a fresh bout of tears. Dr Wilson looked on awkwardly, aware that this was her patient but clearly uncomfortable in the midst of such emotion.

At this point the door was flung open to reveal the entirely unwelcome sight of the older of the two policemen.

“I said have him ready in 10 minutes. Sooner we get started, sooner we can finish and the sooner we’ll go.” Seeing Alex slumped on the bed in tears, the policeman rolled his eyes. “Oh for fu…look, doctor; is there anything you can give him to shut him up with that wailing? Me and Chris are due off in a half hour, and we ‘aven’t got a bleedin’ chance of any overtime, so…”

Dr Wilson stood. “Detective Sergeant Marsh. I think you’ll find that the Vault has been most accommodating with your demands so far. Most accommodating. Despite it being against Revival Protocol, we’ve allowed you and your colleague access to Mr Atkinson and we’re allowing you the opportunity to interview him in order to close of the case and allow you to, as you’ve repeatedly put it, ‘Get on with some real work’. However, I am NOT here to be swept aside by silly little men playing silly little games Detective Sergeant! You are a guest in our facility, and things will go at our pace.” She had moved towards DS Marsh during this, and was now face to face with him. Somewhat quieter, but with no less clipped venom, she hissed “Mr Atkinson is extremely upset; he’s going through a lot of stress which is exactly what we would expect from anyone in his situation, and I am not about to allow 2 grubby little legal journeymen make things any worse just so they can get to whatever squalid pub they like to waste their lives in. DO I make myself clear?”

The whole room jumped at the first word of the last sentence, yelled as it was at something like four times the volume of anything else she’d uttered. DS Marsh regarded her calmly. Whether she had lost her temper out of frustration at being in an emotionally charged situation that made her uncomfortable, or whether she was simply looking after the best interests of her patient, she had made it clear that it was her who was in charge of Alex’s immediate destiny. And bearing in mind their location, it looked like DS Marsh had been made undeniably aware of this too.

He looked over at the tear sodden wreck on the bed, sighed, and nodded. “Okay doctor, have it your way. I doubt he’s in the right mood anyway. Me and Chris will wait outside. Come and tell us when you’re done, and we can take him through for interview.” He paused, glanced over at Alex again, and then continued in a surprisingly soft tone “It won’t take long Mr Atkinson; 5 minutes tops, and then we’ll be out of your life and you can get back to living it, okay?” Alex looked up and through blurry vision saw Marsh standing by his bed, and didn’t see the smile he had offered. He nodded, and bowed his head in what was a rather belated effort to hide both tears and shame at his emotional state from the policeman.

“We’ll be a couple of hours here Detective Sergeant” said Dr Wilson, who had moved to the door and was gesturing for Marsh to leave as she spoke. “Alex will be ready when he’s ready, and not before.” Marsh left, and the doctor closed the door behind him.

“Sorry about that Alex. Now then, where were we?”

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As it was, Alex spent three hours with Dr Wilson. She went through the chronology of what had happened to him; the secret trust set up by his father was expanded upon. His murder was, to her knowledge, random and motiveless though the two policemen would doubtless tell him more later. His revival was put into doubt for a day as he hadn’t made any D-NAM contributions to the Vault, but their access to pretty much every database that both the company and the government use dug out his DNA swab taken during his inglorious arrest. Despite having already experienced the not altogether wonderful news of having been murdered, Alex had rather hoped that his memory of a squalid little arrest for bunging half a gram of cocaine and Harpic up his nose was as illusory as his death had turned out to be. Whilst he had began to accept the implications of his cloning, he had a harder time reconciling himself to whatever impulses had led him to almost risk his career on a weekend drugs binge.

Throughout the hours, Alex grew gradually calmer and less likely to burst into tears at subjects as diverse as the immortality of the human soul, and what kind of cereal he would be getting served during his few days of re-orientation. The former stemmed from Dr Wilson’s brief mention of The Church of the Immortal Soul, or The Immortals as they called themselves. They were regarded by damned near every faith on the planet as a fringe cult, yet Alex vaguely remembered reading something about how they had attracted members who had professed Mohammed, Moses, and Jesus Christ as their prophets. He had never really concerned himself too much with them, being as they were a cult that had started and spread with the advent of cloning. He couldn’t remember a huge amount concerning their faith, but made a mental note to pay really close attention to the re-orientation lecture on the subject. What he could remember involved less of the “Coffee mornings and biscuits” school of religion and more of the “Anyone standing in the way of God’s unstoppable Will shall find themselves dead in the name of His love” college of thinking.

Even as Dr Wilson delivered what was effectively a well delivered monologue punctuated with sobs, Alex’s mind had decided that enough was enough, and he needed to pull himself together and snap out of it! This was a way of thinking that was a gift from his mother. As he busied himself on snapping out of it he didn’t really have time to stop and think that it was his parents who were helping him survive his death and resurrection with their legacy apiece of a cloned body thanks to one and almost infinite self loathing because of the other. Of course, even if he’d had the time he wouldn’t have bothered. Alex rarely thought about his parents (and, he guessed, nothing would have really happened in a year to change that. Except for the clone of course). On the occasions that he did, he thought of a father who loved him in his fashion and a mother whom Alex hated in pretty much every other fashion. And then he started to feel like storm clouds were gathering in his brain, so he moved onto other subjects that made him feel less like dealing with the conflicting emotions in him by shouting at someone, and more like having a couple of drinks with Joanna and letting the day slide off him.

Alex asked about Joanna about 20 minutes into Dr Wilson’s mini-lecture. Thoughts of his wife had first occurred to him about 10 minutes in, but he spent the other 10 dealing with the guilt of not having thought of her immediately. Dr Wilson banished a momentary look of discomfort (which Alex took to mean that this was indeed a lecture she’d delivered many times before, and was probably on autopilot before the interruption) and explained that as his next of kin, his wife had already been informed of the revival. However, protocol dictated that they could not see one another until his reorientation was complete. Alex asked whom else had been informed of his revival, and was met with the answer that only next of kin are informed of revivals. “After all,” she explained, “what with the possibility of lawsuits from disappointed offspring, the Immortals, and the amount of money usually involved when a clone is revived,” Alex could’ve sworn she had enunciated ‘usually’ more than he’d have liked. “then it’s no surprise that our clients prefer some privacy.”

She offered another smile, natural for her but incongruous to Alex who could really have done without such a blunt assessment of the new and exciting hazards his life as a clone might face. After that, Alex offered few interruptions and allowed Dr Wilson to continue uninterrupted save for a few awkward pauses as the last of Alex’s emotional trauma was tearfully and tightly packaged away and consigned to the “Do NOT touch!” section of his psyche. By the time three hours had passed, Alex no longer felt he and his sense of what was happening to him were undergoing a minute-by-minute assault. Instead, he was simply numb. Numbness accentuated by spiky motes of anger. Someone had taken his life from him. Then he’d had a year taken from him. It was just too huge to take in, and he felt the mental defences snap into place to protect him from the impact. The numbness began to give way to calculation. “Take yourself out of the equation Alex. Find out why you were murdered. Find out what has happened in that year. You’ll not have lost a thing then, and you can deal with this once you’re ready and armed with everything you need.” It was the same cold rationality that had always insulated him from the implications of his work, and now it was keeping him safe from himself. He needed to know just what had happened, and Dr Wilson’s filled in some blanks on the events of the last year, with the promise of more to come in re-orientation. What he had almost no information on was his death, and he wasn’t going to get any of that from her.

Her talk having drawn to a close, Dr Wilson re-focused her beaming brown smile onto Alex and asked “Have you any questions Alex?” Alex composed himself, and climbed up from the gurney. He sat, legs hanging over the side of it, and looked Dr Wilson in the eye. “Yes Doctor. Could you tell me when I can talk to DS Marsh please?”

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As he sat in the cramped and bare room that VaultTec had given the police to use for getting his statement, Alex was aware of a certain atmosphere. He recalled DS Marsh making some allusion to babysitting him. He’d watched enough piss-poor cop shows on TV to know that this meant that DS Marsh and his young colleague were on what they would doubtless feel to be a rather demeaning task. Alex felt proud that, only a few hours on from being returned from the dead, his brain was already keeping him up to date on the subtext of the situation that he was in. Of course, his brain was helped in this by DS Marsh glowering at Alex like he was a smear of radioactive dogshit as Chris prepared his police-issue mobile phone for the taking of Alex’s statement, but nevertheless, Alex was pleased by his mental alacrity.

He attempted some small talk to try and lighten the oppressive mood within the room. “So,” Alex began, “Do you have to interview many corpses in your line of work then?” Not the most impressive opening gambit, but a one to which Chris responded eagerly. “God no! This is a first for us, innit Sarge? Midweek we’d usually be catching up on bloody paperwork. We jumped at this, didn’t we Sarge?” DS Marsh malignantly regarded Chris from his seat. “The sooner you get that fucking phone ready, the sooner we can start, and the sooner we can get back to some proper work.” Marsh flicked a glance to Alex, as if defying him to mention the contradiction between Chris’ account of how they came to be here, and his own theatrically expressed distaste for having to interview him.

Chris, chastened by his superior’s swift dismissal of his excitement, clumsily fiddled with the buttons on the phone for another half minute which was punctuated with the occasional curse and a quite spectacularly angry “For FUCK’S sake Chris!” from Marsh toward the 30 second mark. Chris meekly sat by Marsh and quietly announced “Ok Sarge, ready when you are.” Marsh nodded to Chris, who pressed a button on the small phone that sat unobtrusively on the side of the small table across which Alex faced the two policemen. A red light blinked to indicate that the audio and visual recording had begun.

“This is DS 4340 Marsh interviewing the newly revived Alexander John Atkinson. Also present is DC 7658 Smith,” Chris gave a nervous smile and a quiet hello at the mention of his name “Interview is being conducted in the offices of the London Vault, the time is now,” Marsh consulted his watch and furrowed his brow as he studied it. “Fuck me; we’ve been here nigh on 4 hours Chris! The time is now 1451 hours. Okay then Mr Atkinson. Do you know why you’re here?”

Alex almost burst out laughing. He held himself back from doing so as he realised that giggling in the face of an almost supernaturally unhappy policeman and his idiot man-child companion was possibly not the best way to get information out of them both as to what happened. Instead, he said “Is this a philosophical question Sergeant? Are you anxious to plumb my newly acquired knowledge about the afterlife? Or should I just enjoy the irony of what you’ve just said and relax?”

Then he burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it; the look on Chris’ face was too much, and Alex had always been exactly the kind of smartarse who enjoyed proving his superior intellect.

Rather than the explosion he had expected, Marsh greeted Alex’s slightly hysterical giggling fit with a long and baleful stare. Alex’s laughter died away, and Chris shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The laugh was replaced with stony silence, broken after what seemed like forever by Marsh.

“Chris, I owe you a fiver.” Chris smiled at this, and now it was Alex’s turn to look unsure. “He said you’d laugh first. I said you’d cry. Actually I said you’d wail like a mouse getting raped by an Alsatian. Shall we continue Mr Atkinson?” A suitably chastised Alex nodded.

“Okay then Mr Atkinson, I’ll repeat the question; do you know why you’re here?”

“Well…yes. I mean, I was murdered wasn’t I? A year from now. Well…not from now. From 2 days ago. Sorry; this is a bit confusing for me.”

Marsh maintained his glare. “Yes Mr Atkinson,” he spat, before lying. “I can sympathise with how difficult this all must be for you. Yes, you were murdered 2 days ago in Paki Alley.” Alex winced a little at the casual racism; both his job and his circle of friends demanded an avoidance of bluntly unpleasant racial language. The former because professionalism was required at all times when dealing with the thorny legal topics of keeping Nocts out of the country at all costs. The latter was more to do with the upper-middle class aspirations of pretty much everyone he know.

Marsh noted the wince and continued. “We’ve been able to piece together your movements over the hours leading up to your murder. It seems you left the office in a somewhat downcast mood, although our witness notes that this is ‘nothing special from him’. Marsh looked up from the statement he’d read from. “Probably you were so bloody miserable ‘cos of that rubbish you stuff up your nose. I hope to fucking Christ you got off that stuff this year young man, because if there’s one thing that boils my piss these days it’s watching young bloody idiots using ‘Oh, there’s no real hope for poor lowly us in the future’ as an excuse to sit around and take drugs and do bugger all with their lives.” Curiously, rather than the crescendo of righteous anger that Alex would’ve expected to accompany such a diversion, Marsh dropped his tone and spoke in a just-as-harsh but somehow more conciliatory tone.
“From the office, you proceeded to Tottenham Court Road tube station. You presumably got off at Hendon. Now, at this point most sensible people in London head home via Prothero Gardens, but not you Mr Atkinson. You took a detour through an area renowned for its lack of friendly white faces. What led you to the Alley on your way home? Stopped to buy more drugs?”

“What? No! Look, just what…” Alex was cut off by Chris. “Hey, if your memory is a year old, how d’you know that you weren’t going to buy drugs, eh?” And with that, Chris leant back with the satisfied look of a geek completing computer games on Heroic Setting and basked in the warm glow of his pertinent question. Alex’s voice began to gain in volume as he answered. “I know because that’s the same route I always walk home from work. Every day. Without fail. What time was my body found?”

Chris manfully hid his disappointment as he answered “We got a call at 1933 hours from a Mr Sanjay Singh saying that a white male had been stabbed in the street by another white male. Officers arrived on the scene at 1942 hours. Mr Singh was arrested on suspicion of your murder at 1944 hours, and forensics arrived at 2002 hours. You were identified as the deceased by your wife at 2145”

Jesus…poor Joanna had had to identify his body? He felt a burst of anguish as his imagination forcibly conjured the image of his sobbing wife seeing his broken, dead body. “So…so you’ve got the man that did it then? So…what d’you need me for? You’ve got your man; my last memories are from a year ago. What exactly am I doing here Sergeant?” Marsh, who had been watching Alex’s face throughout his exchange with Chris, leant forward to speak. “So can you confirm, Mr Atkinson that you have no memory of your final moments? You don’t have any information that could help us?”

“I…well, no. Sorry.” Alex held Marsh’s stare for a few moments, and then looked down. “Do you think he did it? The bloke they’ve arrested?” Marsh continued to stare at Alex. “So you don’t have any enemies then Mr Atkinson? You’ve not worked on a deportation that might’ve come back to bite you on the arse? Been involved in some shady dealings? Not shagged anyone’s wife have you?”

The explosion of temper that Alex had expected to happen since he walked into the room finally happened. Except that Alex had expected it to be Marsh shouting at him, not the other way around.

“Listen you jumped up fat fuck! Who the bloody the hell d’you think you are making accusations like that? Does your sordid little mind just conjure these up, or does Police school teach you how to act like an arsehole? No, Detective Sergeant, I haven’t deported any gangsters! Despite what you might think of me, I haven’t done any shady dealings. I didn’t go there to buy drugs, and I have not shagged anyone’s wife other than my own! Now if it’s all the same to you I think I’d like to end the interview right now!”

Alex was on his feet by this time, getting his face right into that of Marsh as he yelled at him. Satisfyingly, at one point a fleck of saliva flew from Alex’s mouth and spattered against the Marsh’s cheek. He ended his rant, eyes wild and cheeks flushed. Chris had shrunk back in his seat and was regarding the scene as a very self aware rabbit might regard a fight between 2 wolves.

After a moment, Marsh snorted an unexpected little laugh. “Okay, I am satisfied that Mr Atkinson has no information that is of use to us in the investigation of his murder. DC Smith, do you concur?” Chris was startled out of his timidity, and answered with a hesitant “Uh…yeah. Yeah.”

“In that case, I am terminating this interview at, oh let’s call it ten past 3 eh?” And with that surprisingly jovial tone, Marsh switched off the phone’s recorder. “So,” he asked Alex. “Was that the truth then?”

Alex, still standing, sat back in his seat and began to unwind from his unseemly show of anger. He quietly and shamefacedly answered “Yes.”

“Right, well…shame, but there y’go. Chris, get this bloody phone will you?” Marsh rose from his seat and took his coat from the back of it. “We’re sorry to have wasted your time Mr Atkinson. D’you wanna walk with me to the front desk, and we can leave to your re-orientation.” Chris picked up the phone from the small table and put it into his inside jacket pocket, whilst Marsh put his jacket on and then went to the door and opened it.

Alex was a little puzzled by the sudden warmth from Marsh, so he was a little hesitant before joining him outside. Chris followed, and the three of them began their walk through the maze of corridors in the Vault. Alex could see they were on the 28th floor (it was the big number 28 painted at regular intervals along the corridors that tipped him off to this), so they were presumably headed for a lift and then to the ground. From there…well, truth be known Alex wasn’t sure what would happen. He had to go through a few days re-orientation, whatever that entailed. He was also thinking more and more of Joanna; the sooner he can start his re-orientation, the sooner he can finish it and be with her again. Although in his own mind, he’d been away from her for less than 24 hours; it was days since she’d seen him.

“What must she be thinking right now?” were the general thrust of Alex’s aching thoughts of her. She’d seen her husband’s body, had a day or so to grieve, and now she’s been told I’m alive but she can’t see me for a few days? Jesus, this must be awful for her.” Whatever Alex’s many other faults, he loved his wife blindly, unconditionally, and with a depth that always felt unbreakable to them both.

Whilst working himself into the depths of misery by proxy, he hadn’t noticed that they had arrived at a lift. “Here we go. Well? C’mon Chris, press the bloody button!” He turned and smiled at Alex. “And how are we feeling Mr Atkinson? Getting back to reality yet?”

As Marsh asked the question, the section of Alex’s brain that had been screaming at him to pay attention for the past couple of minutes finally made itself heard. “Hang on…Sergeant, why is it a shame that I don’t have any information for you? You’ve got the man who did it, haven’t you?”

Marsh stared hard at Alex. There was an uncomfortable and brooding silence, which deserved better than to be broken by the cheery “ping!” that announced the lift’s arrival. Marsh walked into the lift, still looking at Alex. “C’mon then you two. Are you coming?”

Alex and Chris looked at one another, then joined Marsh in the lift. As the doors closed, Marsh began to speak.

“I’ve been a copper for 20 years now. I love this city y’know? And I want to keep it as clean as we can manage. Checks and balances, that’s how it works. I’ve been a DS for 12 years, and before that I spent 8 on the beat. Heh. That’s why Chris and I got the job of interviewing you. Paki Alley was on my beat for every one of those 8 years, and I know without even looking that you’re rolling your eyes at that, aren’t you? What’s the matter? Don’t get much coarse language in your day to day then? Doth the tongue of the fat fuck offend thee Alex? Heh,” Marsh waved away the beginnings of an apology from Alex. “Yeah, I know Paki Alley. I know that most of the people living there have got roots in India and Bangladesh, so I know how stupid that grubby little name sounds n’all. I know you weren’t going there to buy drugs because I know that every soul who lives where you died is a decent, law abiding citizen. And regardless of whatever kind of racist you might think me to be, I don’t believe for one second that Mr Singh killed you. And it’s a shame, Mr Atkinson, that you can’t give me any more help because with the way things are, helpful and law abiding Mr Singh will shortly be serving at His Majesties Pleasure for your murder.”

“Ping!”

Marsh sighed “So that makes you pretty much useless to me.” The doors opened and the three men stepped out. “Look Alex, I’ll get my number put onto your mobile. Call me if you do remember anything that might be useful. Something about this stinks and it’s not your breath. Come on Chris.”

With that, the two policemen made off down the main corridor to the front security desk leaving Alex in a rather stunned silence. His death, it seemed, had not been the cut and dried affair he’d thought it would be. So what was it?

He stood by the lift in a reverie for some minutes, until a middle aged and moustachioed man in a security uniform approached him. “Ah! The sergeant said you’d be by the lift Mr Atkinson. Would you like to come with me? I’ll take you to your room. There’s a full rundown of your re-orientation and there’ll be a meal in a couple of hours. Would you like to step this way sir?”

Alex, frowning at the interruption in his train of thought, gave a sigh. He wasn’t going to be able to get any more information about why he had been murdered until he could catch up on what had happened in the last year. And for that he would need to speak with Joanna, his friends, and his colleagues at work. For now, he had to endure his re-orientation and put his questions to the back of his mind.

Army of Me: First chapter

2007-07-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

Hello there.

The reason for the lack of updates recently is that I dun been writing a book. I'll put the first four chapters up for your consumption. This is my first real foray into fiction, and as I'm very much a nonfiction writer I know this is probably going to be a bit...well, shit. They're all very much first drafts, so any criticism or suggestions is entirely welcome.

Two days ago

Alex Atkinson had spent the last year watching the tiny kernel of hate that he felt for his job blossom and grow into an all-pervading sense of moral sickness and utter despair. That being the case, it was probably of very little consolation to him that his job was about to get him killed.

To the casual observer of course, there was no hint that they were looking at the features of a doomed man. Quite the opposite, Alex was a tall and strapping fellow in his mid-30s, and one might have thought that the worst care in the world that one could detect on that seemingly open, honest face of his was his receding blonde hairline and thinning scalp. His dark blue eyes were, as is the case in London, watching everything and seeing nothing. No eye contact was made with anyone in the tube carriage. It was full of people who would look at anything except the face of the person near them, although unless they’d brought a newspaper then there would be very little of value to look at, and even then…

Alex was hot and uncomfortable as he stood in the crowded carriage, and it was only the knowledge that he was 3 stops away from home that helped him suppress an irritated sigh as a plump, elderly man forced his way onto the tube at Brent Cross. The TV screens in the carriage continued its usual babble; breathless airheads discussing the minutiae of whichever recycled soap opera plot was currently occupying the hearts and minds of the chav classes. There were human interest stories, which usually consisted of a Z-list celeb (who’d probably begged and pleaded to get the job, hoping to add to their no doubt hopelessly under funded CT Savings Scheme) giving a hushed and reverent narrative over footage of Humanitarian teams picking over the irradiated rubble of Tokyo or Osaka. The shooting of the occasional disfigured survivor always raised a smile from even a jaded audience of tube passengers, so these were on a heavy rotation on the TV screens. And, of course, the ever present and always-shrill public service reminders about Noct Immigrants provided everything a man could want, as long as all he wanted was hysterical hyperbole and fear.

The latest anti-Noct reminder had only started showing a couple of days ago, and so there was more interest than was usual from the passengers. It started out with a shot of a woman’s face, an attractive redhead and probably not even out of her teens. She began talking about how all she wanted was a job. Her voice was joined by another, speaking in a foreign language. Alex could tell that most people on the carriage were unaware that it was Albanian, and that it was echoing the girl’s words. However, the sneers that appeared on the majority of faces at the sound of this second voice indicated firstly that everyone was aware that it was a Noct voice, and secondly that the reaction was the sort of thing that Pavlov would have been deeply impressed with.

The second voice was added to by another, then another and so on. After 20 seconds, one had to struggle to pick out the girl’s voice against a growing roar of different voices and different languages; Alex thought he heard Kiswahili dialects and Urdu mixed up in there, and wondered idly whether or not his own language skills (picked up from 9 years of stilted conversations with sad-eyed Noct Immigrants in pidgin-English and hand gestures) might be enough to get him this sort of work. God knows, there were few enough speakers of Noct languages left in the UK, so there were bound to be at least some jobs going, right? He made a mental note to look into it; if he carried on doing the kind of work he’d been doing over the last 8 or 9 months then he was headed for a nervous breakdown and who knows how many weeks or months out of work and with no financial support. To say nothing of the fact that his job would have gone to someone else if he was absent for more than a week.

The cacophony of voices from the screen increased in pitch and urgency until they were almost unbearable, then just as suddenly died away to leave the girl’s voice loud and clear; “All I want is to work. It’s my right. My birthright. Please, help me find a job.” The girl smiled a comforting, sincere smile whilst looking directly at the camera. Her smiling face filled the screen as an altogether sterner northern male voice added “A job is the birthright of every British citizen. Every job given to a Noct Immigrant robs someone of that right. It could be your wife. Your son. Your sister. Your father. You. Help us to help Britain to stay strong.” By now the smiling face had faded from the screen to be replaced by a telephone number for reporting illegal Nocts that most people knew by heart anyway.

Alex, lost in a daydream where he’d resigned from his current job in the Immigration Law section of Frost, Hutton and Peacock solicitors and was now a well paid and anonymous Noct voiceover in Government announcements barely even registered the end of the announcement and the beginning of the 6 o clock news. He had time to catch the newsreader’s grave tones greet the viewer with news of yet another bombing by Noct terrorists (it had been Paris today) before the tube pulled in to his stop. He pushed his way through the throng of dull-eyed humanity toward the exit, stepped on to the platform, and walked briskly from the station.

As he made his way home from the offices of the law firm where he had worked for just over 9 years, he was lost in a maelstrom of his own thoughts. None of these thoughts were what you might call cheery; he thought about his tattered marriage. He thought about the work colleagues whom he once called friends. He thought about the Anti-Noct rally that was taking place outside Westminster tomorrow that would doubtless see people with whom he could once share a drink and a laugh burning his effigy along with dummies of all the other “Noct lovers” working with or for the UK Vault company. He even thought about just how arrogant that last thought must make him. But mostly he thought about the crushing sense of helplessness and powerlessness that seemed to have consumed his life. It’s a shame that Alex was so intent on his self-indulgent navel-gazing, because if he hadn’t have been, he might have thought a little bit more about the gentleman who had been following him since before he had even caught the tube home.

It was a 15 minute walk from the station to his Flat in North London, but with a shortcut through what had colloquially and mockingly become know as “the Paki maze”, he would be home in 5. His work in Immigration meant that he didn’t have the fear of dark skin and accents that most people in London affected these days. The mockery in the name came from the size of this area of London; less than a few streets large, the maze was a shambolic collection of homes that housed those few people of Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi descent who had been able to either convince Immigration officials that they and their parents were British born, or who had been able to bribe them to overlook that they weren’t. It was neglected, overgrown, and occasionally firebombed by thugs agitating for either the British Conservatives or National Labour parties. It made very little difference to the occupants as to who it was. Suffice to say that they had become steadily ghettoised over the previous years, to the extent that they didn’t even notice Alex as he walked through the estate. Noticing people meant that they might notice you, and no-one in the ghetto wanted to be noticed by a white man. You never knew if they might notice your existence and notice that they wanted to make it more difficult.

Alex strode through the quiet streets. There were no children playing; doubtless their parents had dragged them in on seeing his approach. Or maybe they’d all learned his routine, and knew to stay off the street at about 6pm. For all Alex knew, maybe their parents told stories about the white Boogeyman, who patrolled the streets looking for naughty children whom he’d send off to their NCT Homeland where they would be poor(er) and hungry(er) for the rest of their short lives. For whatever reason, there was (as always) no one else on the streets as he walked.

It was to his great surprise, then, that he became aware of another set of footsteps behind him as he walked. This was something completely out of the ordinary; had someone else decided to use his shortcut, emboldened against the deeply held fear of the ghetto’s inhabitants by his presence? After all, 2 white people would surely be safe together against any Asiatic horde (that, at least, was the kind of mindset prevalent these days). The quickening pace of the footsteps trying to catch up to him before he turned the penultimate corner in the ghetto confirmed this in Alex’s mind; whomever it was didn’t want to be out of sight of a countryman in a place like this. A bitter smile formed on his face, but was wiped away quickly as he turned to see which fine example of English Xenophobia was his companion on this daily journey home; an easy one for him, but no doubt clouded with danger in the mind of the average bigot.

He was unsurprised to see that the man approaching him was a picture of uncertainty and nebulous fear. The man stopped momentarily when Alex turned to glance at him, and began to blush slightly beneath his rather waxy looking face. Alex offered him a brief smile, and then turned to continue his journey home. Presumably the smile had comforted and calmed the man a little, as his pace slowed and he merely kept pace with Alex. He indulged himself in another bitter smile; this was what passed for compassion these days. A calming smile to a stranger in fear of a non-existent threat manufactured to keep people distracted and frightened. He shook his head and quietly chuckled at the ludicrousness of it all. The man behind him had picked up his pace once again. Alex guessed that he’d lost his nerve near the end of the estate, and was now making a panicked run for freedom.

“By the end of the evening,” Alex thought “that stupid frightened soul will be telling all of his friends of his close escape from the Paki Maze. Fucker will probably dine out on that story for weeks…”

It was only the sudden and literally breathtaking impact in his lower left back that indicated to Alex that maybe he had guessed wrong about the man losing nerve. He dropped his briefcase in shock, and tried to turn to face the man. His back suddenly radiated an explosive pain as he half turned and saw the man, eyes wild and waxy face flushed and sweating with terror, twist the knife that he’d just thumped into Alex’s back.

Alex reached out and tried to shove the man away from him. The knife was twisted further still and Alex offered a brief and wordless pained contortion of his features as it did so. He dropped to his knees, and the knife was yanked free. With its withdrawal, Alex began to get his breath back. He fell forward and, on all fours, began panting and crying in pain. He again tried to look at his assailant, hoping to plead with him. By now the man’s face had hardened from the panic he had seen earlier, into the wild cast of a man resolved to see an unpleasant task through. The man’s earlier fear had matured into a terrified determination.

Despite the pain it caused him, Alex threw up his hands to try and protect his face as the man closed in and began slashing at Alex’s face. The only effect that had was to irritate the man, and what might have been a quick and relatively easy death for Alex became a minutes-long ordeal of blood, punctured organs, and pain. By the time the man cried out in a mixture of anger and triumph, he had mutilated Alex’s hands to cracked stumps. His face was an eyeless gaping mess of crimson. As he drew his last breath, as the knife hammered through his ribcage and into his heart in what had become a frenzied orgy of stabbing, his lungs were already filling with blood.

As Alex was hacked to death by a stranger on a warm spring evening under a beautiful blue sky, a few frightened people watched uncertainly from behind their drawn curtains. They shrunk back as the killer gave his triumphant bellow. A lifetime of not being seen stood those watching in good stead, for the eyes of the killer didn’t notice any of the figures peeking through windows at the red tableau that he had created. The killer removed a mobile phone from his jacket and, hands shaking, dialled a number. Less than 2 minutes later, a small blue car had arrived. It drove slowly and deliberately to the man who had remained standing by Alex’s body. An observer who’d had the luxury of observing earlier might have noticed his fidgeting refusal to meet the eyes (or approximation thereof) of person nearest to him, and perhaps commented on how it was remarkably similar to Alex’s when on the tube. The car drew to a close and the passenger door was opened. The driver called out to the man, who jumped slightly as if he hadn’t even noticed its arrival. He paused and looked down at Alex’s body, as if the knowledge that he was imminently leaving the scene gave him the courage to do so. He paused like that for a few more moments until his wordless reverie was interrupted by another shout from the driver. At that, the man climbed in, and the car drove off.

It was over an hour before one of the people living in the ghetto called the police. For his troubles, he was immediately arrested as the prime suspect.

Conspiracy Theory and Lunacy

2007-03-20T05:20:00.000-07:00

Something that has been occupying my thoughts of late is the endless lunacy of those special people who believe that there is a vast, all-encompassing and all powerful conspiracy of shadowy figures that run the world. I've talked about them before and termed them "conspiracy theorists". Last time out I was rather scathing about that broadly defined group. But a few conversations that I've had recently (that, and the excellent program "the conspiracy files") have got me thinking about conspiracy theorists again. Specifically, do any of them actually have a point? And was I wrong to dismiss them en masse?

I'll explain; someone asked me what conspiracies I actually believed in. And I found myself stating that I didn't believe in the official government line about the current Iraq occupation (which, as near as I can make out, is a mish-mash of "it's part of the War on Terror", "It was to stop Saddam getting weapons of Mass Destruction", and "we're improving the life of the people of Iraq"; depending on what day it is, you'll hear a different answer vomiting from the lips of an uncomfortable looking government spokesman) as evidence that I don't unquestioningly believe whatever the official version of events happens to be. I was a little surprised to be told that this shouldn't count as a conspiracy theory because "everyone knows that the Government version is a lie".

Up until then, I'd defined a conspiracy theory as something that differed from an official governmental version of events, and went on to provide it's own explanation of what "really" happened. So if we take the Iraqi land grab as an example, the most commonly accepted conspiracy theory surrounding that one is that the US used 9/11 as an excuse to invade Iraq in order to secure their oil reserves. However, apparently this is not a conspiracy theory and the only reason given for that is because, apparently, everyone knows it. Does that mean then that a conspiracy theory has to be something known only to a select few? Does it have to be something that is rejected by the mainstream in order to qualify? And if that is the case, doesn't that mean I'm entirely correct in dismissing conspiracy theorists as a bunch of burnt out failures who conjure up elaborate fantasies about the way the world works in order to re-assure themselves that they actually have an important part in it?

It took a conversation with a fully fledged conspiracy theorist to demonstrate to me that, in fact, I'd been going about this all wrong. What defines a conspiracy theorist isn't so much their theory, but the way they feel about it. For example, I know of people who believe that JFK was not killed by Lee Harvey Oswald (and I count myself among those people). We all have our different theories about how he was killed and who killed him, and we all have differing degrees of evidence to back up our theories. What we don't have is conclusive proof and (most importantly) we acknowledge this. Oh, we can present a case in a convincing manner but the simple fact is that our belief that Oswald didn't kill JFK is just that; a belief. An article of faith. We’ll ask questions of the official version, but we don't try to tell someone that our belief is 100% incontrovertible fact, and it's there that the main difference lies.

In this same conversation, the conspiracy theorist put forward his belief that the world was being run by a group of Occultists who simultaneously had their roots in both the Nazi movement and ancient history. One of the starting points of his rather bizarre belief was that "the Nazis wanted to rule the world and set up a world government". Now this statement rang alarm bells with me (as opposed to his initial belief, which really should have triggered my "this man is a foaming idiot" bell), because being a bit of a History buff, I was under the impression that the Nazis actually opposed any sort of World Government as it was a "Jewish" concept. Basically, a forged document called the Elder Protocols of Zion together with a long-lived conspiracy theory about a mythical group called "The Illuminati" led many anti-Semites to take the view that any world government would be an organisation secretly run by the Jews.

Not only that, but Hitler himself had gone on record as saying that the Reich he wanted to create would be an organisation much like the British Empire. In other words, it would be the dominant influence on global politics, but not the sole influence. Yes, he wanted to dominate Europe, but he and the rest of the Nazi movement saw that European Empire as something to rival the British Empire. So I asked him to provide some evidence for his assertion that the Nazis wanted a world government.

(At this point I should mention that, having read the last 2 paragraphs back to myself, it sounds like I was conversing with someone who is more than a few bricks short of a load. And I would absolutely agree with that assessment.)

He could provide none. And that's fair enough; as I've mentioned, I can't provide huge swathes of evidence for my belief about JFK being killed by someone other than Oswald. So I asked him to confirm that his assertion about Nazis and world government was an article of faith. And he refused. Not in a "I can't do that, and here is some evidence as to why not" way, but in a "I'm going to stamp my feet and hold my breath until I turn blue unless you believe me lalalalalalalalalalaI’mnotlisteninglalalalalalala!" sort of manner.

Obviously, that is just one example from a wide range of conspiracy theorists, and I hope you see the point I'm trying to make. If not, I'll make it explicit; the gentlemen I was talking to was trying to pass off a belief of his as a stone cold, copper-bottomed fact. The only evidence he was able to produce was "because I say so". And it's this feature of conspiracy theory that caused me to view the whole damned lot of them with suspicion.

They claim to be tellers of truth and guardians of the sacred flame of honesty. They claim that they oppose "them", the ones who are lying to you and trying to make you believe lies, and who condemn any who do not swallow their bullshit. Yet when one presses them for evidence, or even simply asks them a question about their pet theory, they will be evasive and dishonest. They will lie to you, try to make you believe their lie, and condemn you if you don't accept it. Worryingly, they don’t seem to see the irony in this.

This is in stark contrast to the type of conspiracy theorist who is actually interested in debate, and who is as honest about the flaws in their theory as they are its strengths. So I've started to differentiate between the two. Those people who will lie to you to try and convince you of their belief, I now term "Conspiraloons". It's a handy term, an accurate one, and it stops me from unfairly lumping in conspiracy theorists with them.

Of course, I say "condemn you". 9 times out of 10, their condemnation takes the form of the kind of insults one heard at school before one actually learned how to debate; "you're so naïve" is a popular retort by the conspiraloon on the back foot. As is "You're one of THEM!", and (for those conspiraloons who are also Bill Hicks fans) "Go back to bed [insert name here]. You just don't know what's really going on". Hardly the scathing wit and rapier-like intellect of someone who has somehow managed to find out the deepest secrets of a pervasive and omnipresent evil conspiracy and share that truth with the world at a risk to his own life and liberty. More the petulance of someone angry that his or her belief isn’t being unquestioningly accepted. And, I would suspect, the bitterness of one who has seen their life turn out rather worse than they were expecting, and wants to blame someone else for it (preferably a worldwide organisation so that they can also feel important) rather than take responsibility for their own poor decisions in life.

I think one of the reasons that I despise these conspiraloons so much is the same one that I abhor organised religion; they claim to be something they're not, and as such they are liars and hypocrites. Actually, conspiraloons share a lot of traits with evangelical Christians; both want everyone to believe what they do, both view their beliefs and faith as something self-evidently factual, both will go to any lengths to avoid honest debate, and both throw monstrous hissy fits whenever one points out a flaw in their statements.

However, the main reason that I have such a problem with them is their effect on honest debate. It's incredibly easy for any government to dismiss any questioning of their official versions, because that questioning is quickly co-opted by conspiraloons and used as part of the basis for their self-important flights of fancy masquerading as fact. Therefore most people, who may have quite reasonable reservations about just how honest their government is, will not take those doubts any further because it will seem to them that the alternative is a belief that the government are actually an secret cult of Sun Worshippers who want to rule in the name of the Elder Gods (a quick side note; every conspiraloon I have ever talked to, without exception, has a belief structure that reads like an HP Lovecraft or Grant Morrison story. Might I suggest these people look up the definitions of "fact" and "fiction"). And who in their right mind wants to believe that?

I think what I'm trying to say (in amongst all the faintly rationalised bile) is that I made a mistake in dismissing any and all people who could be termed "conspiracy theorists", and I would exhort you all to not make that same mistake. Don't dismiss a conspiracy theory out of hand just because of what it is, but treat with disdain those burnouts and failures who want you to accept their beliefs as fact purely to provide some sort of validation for their empty and wasted lives.

Where are your manners?

2007-02-21T05:15:00.000-08:00

One can always tell when one has begun to grow older. Birthdays stop being days of fun and happiness and gradually take on a pervading sense of creeping doom. Christmas becomes the one day of the year you’re not allowed to sleep off your hangover. You start to have to CHOOSE between Friday or Saturday for your big night out. And ones unguarded thoughts and reactions begin to resemble the front page of the Daily Mail.

Take, for example, take my reaction yesterday to a couple of students with no comprehension of “personal space”, “manners” or “blimey, that bloke is starting to look really really pissed off”. I was sat with my wife at a concert hall (and just the beginning of that sentence alone makes me feel like my dad…), and the 4 gentlemen sat in front of me recognised the one sat behind me. So the first one in front leaned across me to shake the hand of the one behind. A little irritating of course, but nothing too troubling. His friend chose to go one step further. The little shit leant across me and offered a very urban hand slap to his friend. Right next to my fucking ear. It sounded like a fleshy gunshot, and my brain immediately clicked into the “young people today, no manners, no manners at all” gear that one seems to get issued with upon hitting 30.

Anyway, after a couple of minutes of silent fuming (another feature of the over 30s, particularly the English I think), I caught myself and realised that my thoughts were churning over in exactly the same way as the blue-rinsed cockwasps that I despise. The main focus of my ire centred around manners. And it does seem these days that we’re subjected to an endless litany of complaints that the manners of people in general today are not nearly as good as the manners of those in the past. And that got me thinking, is this true? Or is it rose-tinted nostalgia? And if it is true, why is this?

I suppose that if we look at things like doffing ones cap to a lady, opening doors for someone, calling a man “sir” as a mode of address, and simple things like “please”, “thank you”, and “excuse me” then our manners compared to, say, 100 years ago are sorely lacking. But on the other hand, when it comes to mortality rates, life expectancy, and instances of repressed men visiting child brothels, we’re somewhat in advance of our forebears.

So whilst the bigger things (lifespan, general health, standard of living) have improved in the UK, it would seem that the smaller things, manners, have taken a hammering. Is there a reason for this? I would say that there is. I think that the use of what we understand as manners has began to decay in this country for a couple of reasons, and the most obvious one of these is fear.

Fear always, always, re-enforced the use of manners. It used to start at school with the liberal use of corporal punishment. Didn’t call your elders “sir” at school? Then you can win, free of charge, a beating from your teacher. Displayed insolence to one of your peers? Then it’s an all-expenses paid beating for you! Didn’t stand whenever a lady (be a teacher, a nurse, or one of the teachers wives) entered the room? Then allow us to present you with the free gift of a beating.

It continued in ones working and social environment (which, being as many children didn’t even get to school, meant that the same social conditioning to good manners occurred no matter where one grew up). Complaining about poor working conditions and wages? Say goodbye to your job and HELLO to destitution and even more abject poverty. Posterity abounds with tales of the lower classes being treated appallingly by the growing middle classes. And if one goes back further, and we look to times when a Lord literally had the power of life and death over his serfs...well, one is much less likely to be singled out for rough treatment if one is unfailingly polite to the Lord and his representatives.

Even if we look at the societies today that are praised for their excellent manners, they are as well mannered due to fear. Singapore and Malaysia are two nations that are routinely praised by tiresome and reactionary old fucks for having beautifully polite young men and women who don’t spit, don’t chew gum, and don’t listen to loud music in public whilst wearing hoodies. And this is true; they don’t. Mainly because of the Draconian laws that fine, imprison, and generally threaten everyone who deviates from these standards of good manners.

(I should interject on my own behalf here; I’m not trying to say that they people should be free to act and behave like Junior Clockwork Oranges. I feel very strongly that manners have a place in society, and an important place at that. However, when I hear all these reedy-voiced horsefuckers saying that we “need to instil some manners into people!”, I can’t help thinking “what, so you want to make people afraid of you? Wow…how very grown up of you.”)

I guess that a big part of the reason that we don’t feel the sense of fear that gave us our manners is the class system, or lack thereof. We no longer feel that we automatically have to show manners to someone for no reason other than they come from a higher social class than us. The class structure of Britain informed a huge part of British life, and whilst I’m not naïve enough to think that it’s died altogether, its stranglehold has gone and with it have gone the good manners and fear so beloved of wrinkled moaners.

(Another brief interjection; I’m inclined to think that the Internet has also contributed to the death of manners. It would be hypocritical in the extreme of me to lament poor manners without acknowledging that I regularly get involved in the kind of petty, vicious, pointless, and hugely satisfying arguments over the internet that would make polite society shit it’s collective nappy in horror. I’m not sure whether the bitchiness that the anonymity of the net has brought about is also affecting the rest of society, but I know that the Internet is no respecter of status or class, and that this equality tends to mean that everyone is fair game in an argument. Despite the efforts of those few laughable brain donors who try to threaten physical violence to the writer of words on a screen.)

So where does that leave us? Well, I do want to see a better mannered society, but I don’t want it to be done by means of keeping the masses afraid of the few. It strikes me that manners should be about mutual respect. Having enough respect for ones fellow man that one automatically treats them with good manners unless one is given reason not to. What’s more, a society where people respect one another would mean that we’d see less crime, fewer headlines claiming that immigrants are going to ruin the country, and a greater sense of personal happiness and sense of security.

As to how this sense of mutual respect can be created…well, I don’t claim to know exactly how that can be done. All I do know is that as long as we have media headlines encouraging us to fear whichever group in society currently have pariah status, and as long as Governments keep trying to maintain their own personal position at the expense of any genuine advances, and as long as war is waged and then justified using religion, and as long as we all remain totally unwilling to take any responsibility for our own lives and actually try to make a difference, then this society will be either scared or ill-mannered or both.

An etiquette guide

2007-02-06T12:23:00.000-08:00

For some time now, I have been pressed by a number of my correspondents to put the definitive guide to slinging shit around the dinner table. It was only after the dinner party hosted by Lord Dangleberry last April that I saw the need for such a document. The party ended somewhat shambolically after Miss Rowena Trackmark indulged in rectal digging before the soup course had been finished, and Sir Timothy Lilyjuice continued hurling his (somewhat sloppy) faeces at guests long after the meal was over.

So then, I am faced with the task of trawling through the various regional variations of shit throwing to put together a unified British etiquette to this much loved and ancient practice. I am indebted to my two young researchers, a Miss Louise Ankelspunk and a Miss Hilary Zeitguest for their efforts in tracking down and collating the various references to shit throwing that are left with us from antiquity.

Before I go further, I should point out that I have decided not to make reference to any of the continental variations of shit throwing. Whilst I have the greatest of respect for the customs of our foreign cousins, I can see no value in their inclusion. It would be impossible, for example, to reconcile the Italian tradition of an after dessert free for all with the more staid (and dare I say it, more proper) Russian stance, whereby only the four most senior guests along with the host are permitted to throw shit, and then only after the final course.

So then, onwards we must go. Firstly, I shall address the point of who may sling their shit. The correct approach is to wait for the host to throw a log before indulging. However, should the host not have flung a turd by the end of dessert, it is acceptable for the gentleman to the right of the host to throw a shit at whoever is sitting to the left of the host.
As to the remainder of the guests, one must of course deal with the thorny subject of female throwing. A number of counties do not allow the fairer sex to enjoy throwing shit, whilst others set a part of the meal aside specifically for the women guests. In order to try and achieve some sort of compromise between all viewpoints, I would suggest that women be allowed to start throwing shit only after their escort flings one of his own. Unescorted ladies (should one be the sort of chap to invite such ladies to a party) must wait until all other ladies and gentlemen present have let loose.

So then, the order of play is to be host, followed by gentlemen, followed by their good ladies, and finally unescorted “ladies”. I must stress that children should not be permitted under any circumstances to join in the flinging. I find that the children (especially the younger boys) produce quite the most horrific stench from their shit and this simply will not do.

We must next address the problem of when in the proceedings the first mud can be thrown. If one divides a party into the arrival and imbibing of a light drink, the soup course, the starter, a refilling of ones drink, the first main course, another refill, the second main course, dessert, coffees, and finally brandy and cigars, then we can have an agreed structure in which to work with. Should ones party not follow such a course, then I hope that this guide is flexible enough for one to make the necessary adjustments.

I would say that it is not proper to throw shit at all until at least the end of the soup course. I realise that in saying this I will cause consternation the length and breadth of Cornwall, but picking shit out of ones soup really is a most unpleasant experience. So the first flinging should most properly be done after the soup. Should the host be serving a fruit starter, then the initial throwing should wait until after the course has been finished by all (not, as is the practice in Norfolk, once the host has finished) and before the plates are cleared away. If a non-fruit starter is chosen, shit may be thrown at any time after grace is said. At this early stage however, the throwing should be restrained to a single log per guest, and the throw should be light and playful rather than with ones full force.

I must interject once more at this point in order to clarify the procedure when drinks are being refilled. One must not under any circumstances throw shit at this point. It really is very bad form to do so as it may unnecessarily cover the butler in waste. As it is universally agreed that this is the one person who should remain untouched by shit, one can see why one must not indulge during refills.

We now move on to the main courses. By this time, I would expect a dinner party to be in full swing and ones guests should have relaxed completely. One should be on ones guard at letting matters degenerate at this point! I recently attended a party in Lanarkshire where the first shit was flung before I had taken a mouthful of my (quite delicious) Venison Foristier, with guests throwing their faeces at each other continually until the second course was cleared away. Whilst I make no direct criticism of this (everyone involved had a marvellous time) such wild abandon is not to everyone’s tastes.

I would therefore propose the following; Flinging should recommence after the host has finished his first course and is satisfied that everyone present is aware of this fact. At this point the main body of shit throwing should commence, but must only last until the last guest has finished eating! At this point everyone should be seated until the second course is served whereupon the shit throwing should resume. Upon finishing the second course, guests should once again be seated until the end of dessert.

I must be very firm about the following point; absolutely no shit should be thrown during dessert. This is a tradition that dates back to the time of William of Orange, when the Catholic populace expressed their silent hopes of rebellion by throwing shit during a dessert in which the Orange fruit featured heavily.

After dessert in concluded, I would suggest a short recess during which guests can use the bowls of warm water provided by the host in conjunction with their napkins to remove the thickest of the shit from their hands. Finally we have the brandy and cigars. By this point, all ladies present will have adjourned to the lounge, leaving the gentlemen to scrape their colons clean of the last of their waste product. This should be smeared in the face of the gentleman to the left (in deference to George II) and upon concluding, the evenings shit throwing is complete.

In finishing, I would like to say that I hope that this guide will be of use for all those thinking of hosting a dinner party and thank you all for your gentle encouragement.

I Love 1984

2006-11-29T08:27:00.000-08:00

Does everyone have a favourite book? A book that they read and re-read year in year out? That is spiritually and emotionally nourishing and rewarding, and that provides fresh insights every time into both oneself and the world around? In news that will come as a surprise to precisely no one who knows me and my endlessly paranoid mindset, my favourite book of all time is 1984 by George Orwell. And yesterday, I finished reading it for something like the 13th or 14th time. I've read it once a year since I was a precocious and arrogant teen. It remained my annual treat as I grew into a pretentious and arrogant student. My development into a pompous and arrogant twentysomething was accompanied with readings once every 12 months. And now, as a presumptuous and arrogant thirtysomething, it's still my bible when it comes to informing my thought processes. But is the book, written as a post-war warning about a totalitarian menace long since discredited and dismantled, and set in a future that is now our past, still in any way relevant? Or is my constant referral and re-referral to it just so much pseudo-highbrow headwank?

For those (hopefully few) of you who don't know, 1984 concerns itself with the life and thoughts of Winston Smith. He is a citizen of Oceana, a totalitarian state ruled by The Party. He lives in London, the chief city of what is now referred to as Airstrip One. A lot of language now in everyday use has its roots in 1984. Big Brother, for example, was created by Orwell (along with the phrase "Big Brother is watching you"). The Thought Police receive their debut mention in terminology in 1984. Somewhat more worryingly, the idea of a controlled reality created by a select few and imposed on the majority was discussed in unflinching detail here. Why disturbing? Well, compare the words of O'Brien in 1984;

"O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control reality because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation -- anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it."

With the comment that a senior aide to that lovable scamp Dubya made to Ron Suskind, a journalist for the New York Times, in 2004;

"We're an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality - judiciously, as you will - we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do."

To me, those words read as something alarmingly similar to the triumphant insanity that is shat into Winston Smith's brain by O'Brien This alone would seem to serve as proof of the relevance of 1984; that those in power can say, without a hint of irony or self awareness, things that Orwell wrote pretty much for the shock value of having an authoritarian figure say them. Does that mean then that we are living in a similar state to the bleak hell that Winston is eventually destroyed by?

Another major feature of the society that Winston Smith finds himself in is the lack of accountability, and the habitual falsification of figures to prove that those in power are unerringly correct about everything at all times. Indeed, Winston's job is (despite his growing hatred of The Party, and the almost unconscious desire to rebel) to falsify information that has appeared in the media. Now, I will freely admit that we are perhaps not quite at that stage yet; in 1984, there is no one to offer up any opposition to or disbelief of the figures that are continually changed. In our society, whenever the Government produces figures about immigration to say that hardly anyone is entering the country, it can be guaranteed that some faintly right-wing group will produce utterly different figures proving that our nation is overrun with dirty foreigners who want to have sex with our roadsigns. Whenever a New Labour drone tries to triumphantly claim that the NHS is in great shape, we invariably hear from the Unions that the NHS is being stripped and raped by profit-hungry Public-Private partnerships.

So we can see that our leaders don't quite get away with making up bullshit figures and facts to prove that they're perfect. However…am I really the only person who is disturbed at how often they still try? We have become so used to those in government telling us lies, damned lies, and statistics that we are now conditioned to treat whatever pronouncement made in much the same way as one would treat a crippled Jimmy Carr; something to be laughed at and then ignored. Although the methods used to achieve it differ from those in 1984, I would argue that our government has gone out of their way to ensure that they don't have to answer to those who elect them. The continual use of smoke and mirrors to present their figures in such a way to make them seem correct, and our subsequent lack of interest in what we assume to be their lies has already meant that they can do pretty much what they want because we just don't care, and don't feel we can make a difference. You don't agree? Look at what happens on those rare occasions that an issue arises that does excite public interest. The Iraq war was opposed by hundreds of thousands of people, and there were protests all over the country. And what happened? They were given a collective pat on the head, told they didn't understand, and why didn't they all go home and leave the important work to the grownups?

And what has this lack of accountability done to the government? Well…ask yourself this; when was the last time that you can think of something done by the government that wasn't either a knee-jerk reaction pandering to a frightened and ignorant middle England, or something that was an out-and-out attempt to enrich themselves? I genuinely can only think of one piece of legislation in the last 5 years that was for the benefit of the majority rather than something to curtail freedoms and benefit the ruling class (for the record, it's the increase in Statutory Maternity and Adoption Pay periods; new mothers and those who adopt now get an extra 3 paid months off). Any government elected in this country seems to now have the maintenance of their power as their first priority, and they have no fear of answering to an electorate in their efforts to do so.

However, there is more to the continual relevance of 1984 than mere commentary on what power does to the soul of those who wield it. For instance, the book makes reference to the media (such as it is). It talks of tatty tabloids pumping out sport, lottery numbers, and gossip for the benefit of the Proles. The Proles are the lumpen majority of people who are kept docile and satisfied by a conscious effort to keep them ignorant. I would contend that this view of the Proles is exactly the same view that most in the mainstream media have of their audience. How else can one explain the continued existence of Heat magazine? If ever there was a magazine that encouraged its readership to become obsessed with banalities and nonentities then this is it.

My hatred for scandal rags aside, the implicit suggestion in 1984 is that the media are complicit in keeping the Party in power. Whilst the Party falsify the information that really does matter a damn (news of the war, political figures, statistics on everything from immigration to production), the media ensure that this falsification goes pretty much unnoticed anyway, because it bombards it's readership with fluff (at this point I have to make clear that I swear I'm not as humourless as this probably makes me sound. As my vast expenditure on ladmags will prove, I think there is a place in the media for fluff. It's just that…well, does it have to be the dominating and overriding concern?).

As an example of this, I'd return to opposition to the Iraq war for a moment; I've already mentioned the strength of Anti-War feeling, and how completely it has been ignored by the government. Yet we do have anti-war elements in the mainstream media, and they will all go out of their way to report on anything that would bolster their cause, right? Right?

Then how come in Chicago a gentleman named Malachi Ritscher was, on 3rd November, able to douse himself in petrol and turn himself into a patiently-sitting human fireball in protest against the war? You've not heard of him? Not really surprising; you'll have to scour the media for mention of his name (even in supposedly Anti-War media outlets such as the BBC, the Guardian, the Mirror etc). However, if you want to find out who was evicted from I'm a Celebrity last night, or if you're keen to know some of the details behind Pamela Anderson's divorce from Kid Rock…well, it's not exactly difficult to come by that information, is it?

The final point I'd like to make in this increasingly frantic and mildly outlandish attempt to make everyone as paranoid as I am concerns the fate of Winston Smith himself. I've talked of how parallels can be drawn between the corrupting influence of power as described in 1984, along with the role of the media in keeping the Proles in their rightful place as doughfaced, mouthbreathing brain donors who clap with glee at the sight of a Z-list celebrity being humiliated on live TV. But what about the parallels between the actual human beings in 1984 and the likes of you and I today?

At the end of 1984, Winston has been utterly broken by the tortures inflicted on him. However, although the Party are triumphant, the only thing they have achieved is complete dominance over a washed out old drunk, a man who obliterates himself with gin and who sits unthinkingly and unquestioningly at his unimportant desk in an unimportant job doing unimportant things to keep the despair at bay. It's quite difficult not to recognise a lot of ourselves in that if we're completely honest. There is a reason that we in the UK drink more than pretty much any other nation, and take more drugs than almost every other country. It's because we rarely feel in charge of our own destinies, or that we have any effective control over our own lives. Successive governments since the 60s have certainly succeeded in making themselves less accountable, but it's been at the expense of the gradual debasement of the very people they want to have power over. More than any other comparison between 1984 and today’s world, I find that the one between the fate of Winston and our own fates in a world that has done it's best to remove all hope that we can ever make a difference to be the most pertinent and the most frightening.

Anyway, if I've depressed the hell out of you with this rant then please console yourself with a thought; it'll be at least a year before I read 1984 again, which means 12 more months until I inflict something like this one you.

Welcome to Lights Out

2006-11-29T04:53:00.000-08:00

Hola,

I've been writing rants about whatever my kitten-like attention span has been able to focus on for about 5 years now. For some reason (definitely not sloth...) I've never got round to blogging 'em. This is my first tentative step in remedying that.

I'll be posting up all of the rants I've written over the coming weeks. I'll also add a few notes of commentary; looking back at some of the things I've written, I find myself wondering what the hell I was thinking.

I hope you enjoy what is to come!

Cheers,
Light

Ideals and Idealism

2006-10-23T08:27:00.000-07:00

I admit it; this whole rant was an overlong and rather bizarre love letter to my wife.

It should come as no surprise to any of you that I’ve always thought of myself as an idealist. Throughout my life, I’ve sought a cause to identify myself with. I’ve wanted, as the song says, something good to die for to make it beautiful to live. I’ve also been of the opinion that such idealism is invariably a good thing. As such, I’ve ranted and argued for my beliefs to a truly ridiculous and more than slightly obsessive degree. But I’ve never found one unifying cause that I could 100% identify with. However, I’ve had cause recently to think about just what my motivation is for such romanticism. Is my idealistic viewpoint due to a genuine desire to do what is right and to make a difference? Or is it (like an awful lot of my motivation) down to having an ego the size of a solar system?

One of the things that set me thinking along this path has been the stunningly inept morass of death and failure that constitutes the occupation of Iraq. When this invasion took place, if one were being charitable to the Neo-Conservative advocates of the war, it did so as a result of boundless idealism. In this case, the ideal was to free the people of Iraq from an indisputable goatrimmer of a dictator and to bring democracy and freedom to an area of the world that is littered with totalitarian regimes.

So much for the idealism. What has actually happened is that a vast army blundered it’s way from one disaster to the next. Misery upon misery has heaped upon the Iraqi people, and the optimistic justification behind the invasion now sounds more and more like a fig leaf trying and failing to hide the big fat cock of failure.

In this instance it would seem that idealism, something we are all taught can only lead to good things, has led to disaster. Rather than making realistic decisions about what needed to be done to ensure stability in Iraq, idealism has blinded those in a position to make those decisions. “The people of Iraq will be so happy to get their freedom that they will welcome us with open arms! We won’t need to keep the Iraqi army, or guard facilities rammed full of explosives; there won’t be many Iraqis who want to do anything other than celebrate their newfound freedom!” This view persisted in the face of a fast growing unease (and faster growing body count) about the stability of the country. It’s only in the last week or two that a sense of pragmatism seems to have been injected into considerations on Iraq.

That said, I’m not going to simply dismiss idealism as blinkered conceit on the basis of an unholy balls-up caused by a man who can’t be relied on to chew and swallow without assistance. When one looks throughout history, it is littered with examples of the idealism of a few changing the world for the better; the abolition of slavery for example, or the creation of the National Health Service. The Emancipation Proclamation, and the Civil Rights Movement, or the advancement of Women’s Rights; all of these things were given momentum against the opposition and indifference of the many thanks to the idealism of a few.

It’s just that I cannot shake the notion that, to many of the idealists responsible for these great things, the motivation of “I want to change the world for the better” is inextricably bound up with “I want everyone to know that it was me who made this change”. What’s more, I’m still undecided as to whether that egotism is a bad thing; does the result, the ideal that one is fighting for, matter so much that the fact that it’s being done for reasons of self-aggrandisement become irrelevant?

Another example springs to mind at this point; The 1916 Dublin Uprising. Patrick Pearse, one of the leaders of the rebellion, was determined to free Ireland from British rule. He wanted freedom for his people, and you may well agree that there is nothing wrong with that. Yet his method of achieving this was to begin a rebellion that, by his own admission, had absolutely no hope whatsoever of success. He told outright lies in order to get the Irish Volunteers to assemble for the uprising, and he got well over a 1000 of them killed. This was idealism splattered with blood and dripping with gore, and there are those who say that he did it entirely because he wanted to be seen as the martyr who won Ireland it’s freedom. If that is why he orchestrated the uprising, then my own view is that he was romantic fool who was happy to sacrifice anyone on the altar of his own ego and who would have been equally as happy had Ireland never been freed. Just so long as people remembered him.

I would contend that this example, as with that of Iraq, is a situation where the idealism that provided the driving force was gradually eclipsed by ego. Whereas in the case of, say, Martin Luther King, the ego was the engine behind the idealism and never obscured the whole point of the ideal.

That’s not to discount the possibility of living humbly for a cause rather than dying nobly in it’s furtherance. There are countless people out there working quietly and effectively in the furtherance of causes both good and bad. That said, one shouldn’t discount ego being a driving factor there. One may only want to lord it over ones friends and colleagues or simply feel smug about ones own innate goodness rather than assure themselves of a place in history, but it is ego that drives them to do this (at least partially).

So what am I driving at? Well, in the main I’m trying to say that ego is almost always a big factor behind ones pursuit of an ideal. And in itself that is not a bad thing. The problem only arises when the ego that drove the idealism in the first place becomes more important than the ideal itself. In other words, as can be seen from the examples of Iraq and the Dublin uprising, idealism can lead to one become blinkered to the actual facts of a situation and, far from improving it, can actually make it a lot worse. Thus, idealism can lead to bigotry (when one is idealistic about ones own country or culture and blind to any of it’s failings), or to ignorance (such as when people who are adamant that multiculturalism will work do their best to ignore the issues that stop it from doing so, such as people’s natural unease about that which is different). In that respect, we should beware idealism and ensure that we don’t ruin our lives to become its slave. After all, it can also lead to one becoming a lonely and friendless person who has driven ones friends away because they’ve failed to live up to the ideal that drives that person on.

That last one is most pertinent to me. If I could be allowed to wallow in sentimentality for a moment, I’ve spent my life searching in vain for something good to die for. And to the annoyance of pretty much all of my friends, I tackled all of those things with equal vehemence. I’ve lost count of the number of people who have patiently sat through whatever I was haranguing them about, and I’m astonished at the number of people who have subsequently remained my friend. It never occurred to me that maybe I could find the cause I was searching for to complete my life in the form of a person. Since getting married, I’ve come to realise that I have someone good to die for and it truly is beautiful to live.

You may all begin vomiting now…

Hezbollah Town vs Israel United

2006-08-01T05:11:00.000-07:00

After comparatively quiet and peaceful times in the Middle East (presumably they were all pre-occupied with watching the World Cup), the good folk of Israel and Hezbollah have gone back to competing in their favourite sport; savagely murdering one another. And, as with every other bout of brutality in the Middle East, the rest of the world have watched with a mixture of media sanctioned outrage and of rooting for their chosen side in the conflict. I'll just repeat that last part; the killings of innocent Israeli and Lebanese people is being treated as a scoreboard where pro-Israel and pro-Hezbollah commentators can tally up who is winning.

Am I getting overly sensitive here, or has everyone else become so jaded about the killing of innocents that we can best deal with it by picking a side in a conflict and supporting them in the same way I support Newcastle United? Every single comment or opinion I've read about the current tit-for-tat atrocities being committed seems to have a "My Team; right or wrong" aura to it. For example, whilst discussing the matter briefly with a left wing friend of mine, I made the point that although he was condemning the bombing of Lebanese civilian targets by Israeli planes, he made absolutely no comment or criticism of the launching of rockets at Israeli civilian targets by Hezbollah. This was because, apparently, there is "no moral equivalence between the two."

Words actually failed me when I tried to articulate just what a vast pile of rapestained cocksludge that statement is. My friend, a man whose opinions I have a lot of time and respect for, was actually telling me that the murder of an Israeli citizen was completely excusable whereas the murder of a Lebanese citizen was a crime against humanity as a whole. What's more, a lot of people with similar opinions to him couldn't see that their mantra was no different or any more excusable than that of the pro-Israeli commentators (the ones who seem to make up the majority of the media, certainly in the US and UK). You know; the ones who make the rather laughable claim that any and all Lebanese deaths are the fault of Hezbollah because they're the ones who started it (am I the only one who reads these tissue thin justifications for murder as a variation on "Ooooh, miss…MISS…he started it miss, it wasn't me!"?)

Perhaps this is all a part of our desire for things to be simple and easy to classify; there is a conflict between two sides, so there must be a bad team and a good team. If that is the case, then what confuses and concerns me is that everyone is so fixated on the result and cares not a damn about how the game is being played. But what I do find rather bizarre are the tangled and sophistic lengths people will go to in order to convince everyone that THEIR team are in the right and EVERYTHING they do is justified.

For example, the supporters of Israel will point to the kidnap of 2 of their soldiers as the spark that ignited this particular shitstorm. Anything before then, they will tell you, is irrelevant. Whereas the pro-Hezbollah team prefer to concentrate on events such as the shelling of a Palestinian family on a Gaza beach by Israeli warships (allegedly; Israel deny responsibility), or Israel's continued occupation of parts of Southern Lebanon after their withdrawal from Beirut in 2000. These arguments have one thing in common; they are entirely arbitrary and are picked by the supporter only to show their team as the wronged victims in the conflict.

Fact is that the murders have been going on since Israel's creation. You could go back and blame Israel for taking land that was not theirs and displacing Palestinians whilst doing so. You could blame the various Arab states for attempting to wipe Israel from the map. You could blame Lord Balfour and the British for their cack-handed creation of Israel from the British Palestinian Protectorate. You could even blame blobs of sentient purple goo that have used Israel as an interdimensional toilet where they've mindshat negative emotions onto an unknowing populace (in fact I think I'd prefer it if you did; at least it'd be original). But to do any of these things would be pretty much pointless in any respect other than playing to your teams’ gallery. The current murder spree is much like all the ones that preceded it; an aggregate of decades of misinformation, mistrust, violence, and struggle for power. You can sum up every single heart wrenching set of murders in one phrase; Come on boys! Let's commit an atrocity in revenge for the atrocity that was recently committed against us".

It doesn't take a genius to realise that, as long as that phrase is the justification for every act of war committed by either side, then the bloodshed will continue. The only solutions would seem to be either lasting peace (which is impossible whilst both teams' cheerleaders insist that two wrongs equal a right, just so long as one of the wrongs is committed by/against Israel) or mass genocide (which won't happen for the rather unsentimental reason that there are simply too many people on either team for them to all be killed efficiently). Unfortunately, being as both sides' appetite and energy for murder seems undiminished, then innocent people will continue to endure atrocity after atrocity.

Which leads me onto my final point; just why is there such an appetite for this constant cycle of revenge in the Middle East? Vendettas take up a lot of time and energy to pursue; I used to think I was an Olympic Standard Grudge Bearer until I turned 30. Now I find it's just too much effort to maintain bloodcurdling hatred for any length of time. For instance, I was at a friends wedding recently and I found myself in the same room as a man I'd once sworn to emasculate with a rusty carving knife before kicking a petrol-soaked pineapple up his ringpiece and lighting it up. All of this wholly balanced ill feeling was due to something that happened 3 or 4 years ago now. And when I came face to face with him…well, he was civil to me and I to him. Why? Because to maintain a grudge with the distance of years between the reason for it was just too much effort. Neither he nor I could be bothered, and it was much less hassle to smile politely and try to forget we hated each other. By the end of the evening I think we were both pretty much neutral about one another (perhaps even quite pleased to no longer be wishing one another dead). We're now both free to expend our energy on more important things (such as brand new feuds with a wholly different set of greasy little mongfuckers).

I realise that a feud between two individuals cannot realistically be compared to a feud between two nations (or two different power blocs to pre-empt the ever-pedantic supporters of each team), but surely it's easy to see that if they're not spending their time trying to wipe one another from the map, they can perhaps concentrate on improving things for their own people? Well, I think that the reason why this isn't happening is because of something I briefly mentioned earlier; the struggle for power.

This struggle isn't for power over each respective team. It's about power over their own people. What credence would be given to the murderous old men who make up the leadership of either side if both sides were at peace? Why would anyone allow them to hold onto their positions of privilege if they stopped worrying about their demonic enemies and started to take a long, hard look at what their leaders have actually achieved other than lowering the average life expectancy of their people? And in the young generations of Israelis and Palestinians, you have a endlessly energetic and (most importantly) easily led resource to prosecute your needless and pointless wars for you. The easiest way for the leadership of each side to remain in authority is by ensuring that they ensure their people fear and hate their enemy. If they didn't…well, they may have to come up with some plans to actually improve the lives of those whom they lead. And whilst it's difficult to effectively plan and implement an coherent set of policies that will enhance the quality of life of ones people, it's a piece of piss to order a plane to bomb a village or a rocket to be launched at a city. As long as that is the case then not only will we not see peace in the Middle East, but we'll not see it anywhere.

Keep an Open Mind

2006-04-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

One of the things I’ve always prided myself on (apart from my dashing good looks, razor sharp wit, and gargantuan genitalia) is that I have an open mind. As I sat and snorted in contempt at the shower of curtain-twitching cockwasps who quake in fear as they read the latest “Be AFRAID!” headline in the Daily Mail, I felt the warm fuzzy feeling of the self-righteous; I wasn’t infected with prejudices that only exist to sell papers and elect governments. I made up my own mind, and did so with as little bias as possible.

Unfortunately, like most of things I’ve prided myself on over time, this has turned out to be gold-plated horseshit. Turns out that my mind is just as cluttered with prejudice, petty dislike, and entrenched hatreds as any blue rinsed battleaxe.

How did I reach this conclusion? Well, it was all thanks to the Austrian government. A couple of months ago, David Irving was sentenced to 3 years in prison for Holocaust denial, a crime in Austria (for obvious reasons really; having gifted both Adolf Hitler AND “Rock me Amadeus” to the universe, perhaps Austria feels they owe the world an apology). And my instant and unguarded reaction? I laughed. Just a little chuckle at first, but soon deepening into the kind of rich belly laugh that I reserve for headlines such as “Gary Glitter faces death sentence” or “Dubya repeatedly smashed in the face with a shovel”.

My next move was typical of news-obsessed nerds such as myself; I logged onto the Internet, went to a discussion board, and looked for other smug, counter-culture wannabes such as myself to share in my gloating. The reaction I actually got puzzled me.

Most people felt that the sentence was an utter disgrace. The idea of jailing a “prominent historian” simply for speaking his mind was akin to something from the very dictatorship Irving acts as apologist for. Not only that, but the law that jailed him was itself disgraceful and unnecessary. And even if he does believe that the holocaust never happened, so what? It’s his opinion, and where is the problem in that.

Now normally, when I get into an argument with someone over the Internet, I remember that wise adage “Arguing over the internet is like competing in the Special Olympics; even if you win, you’re still retarded”. In other words, I don’t take it too seriously. On this occasion though, I found myself having to go for a walk to calm down. I was furious with these people. The arguments they used about free speech were the very same arguments I’d seen applied to everyone from academics in the US (many of whom face the prospect of losing their job if they dare even imply any criticism of US foreign policy), to that odious orange arsehole Kilroy.

Anyway, once I’d calmed down, I started to ask myself a few questions. Principle among these was “Why have you just lost your temper at some words on a computer screen?” And after some discussion with the people whom I disagreed with, the answer seemed to be “Because you know more about Irving’s history than these people”. My perception of him is that he’s an unpleasant nazi who has spent his life constructing a transparent tissue of lies (that the holocaust never happened, and that Nazi Germany was a fluffy and lovely place where kittens and puppies lived an idyllic lifestyle) and passing it off as “History”. He also tried to sue an author who called him an anti-Semitic holocaust denier. He lost (I laughed then too).

Anyway, this didn’t seem to be common knowledge among those I was arguing with. And after I’d explained this…well, I’d love to say everyone bowed before my superior knowledge and offered me their firstborn children by way of an apology for having dared to disagree with me. This didn’t happen. In fact, one chap castigated me for “not having an open mind”. He then bragged about how he didn’t view the extreme right with hatred and fear, merely seeing them as people with their own opinions. Moreover, he boasted about how he, unlike me, had “a truly open mind”.

It was then that it hit me just how much of an annoying twerp I must’ve been whenever I made the same boast that this 6th form wonder had made. He obviously viewed “having an open mind” as meaning “accepting everything without judgement”. And there is no way, no way whatsoever, that I could claim that about myself. I had the opinions I expressed about Irving because of the prior knowledge I claimed. Therefore, there was no way I was going to view his imprisonment with an open mind; I was prejudiced in my opinion.

It seems to me that to have a mind as open as this gentleman claimed requires an almost Zen level of disinterest in the world around you. I’ve never failed to be moved by injustice, human suffering, and pictures of small animals. But on closer analysis, these things evoke a response in me because I despise the injustice that seems to permeate every level of human society. I abhor the fact that people suffer pain and depredation around the world. And I think small beasts are simply adorable (shut up). And I have all of these responses due to having made judgements on them.

It’s simply not possible to keep an open mind in all circumstances. And if you do, then you’re denying yourself that most human of things; an opinion. If one gathers information but has no opinion on it…well, what’s point of that? Isn’t that just dullardry of the first order? Imagine a conversation with him?

“Did you see this on the news?”
‘Yeah, saw it last night.’
“Shocking innit? I dunno how they can…”
‘Actually, I have no opinion on it.’
“Oh…well, what about the footba…”
‘No opinion on it.’
“Erm…how about the…”
‘NO OPINION!”

As a side note, I would say the chap was kidding himself; the fact that he castigated me for my opinions shows that his mind wasn’t as open as he would like everyone to believe, but I digress.

So what is the difference, then, between my opinions concerning nazi fuckwhales, and the opinions of a rabid bigot who want every tanned person in the UK to be dumped in the North Sea? Well…obviously I’m going to say that the difference is that I’m right, and the Daily Mail reading public is wrong. But then, I’m sure they’d say the same. Although my opinions differ from those of the blue-rinsed right, I can no longer use the excuse of open-mindedness to differentiate myself from them. On balance, I think that’s a good thing; for the reasons I’ve explained, although open-mindedness is an admirable quality I no longer feel that complete open-mindedness is either possible or desirable. Which means whenever I get into debates in the future, I’m actually going to need to work on cogent arguments to rebut right-wing arguments, instead of relying on my own righteousness.

And lets face it; anything that makes me less smug has to be a good thing.

Immigration

2006-01-23T08:20:00.000-08:00

Ever since the last election, I've found myself puzzling over why there is such a big screaming deal about Immigration. For the life of me, I couldn't understand why it was becoming a rallying cry for both the left and right; from the perma-tanned sociopaths who wanted anyone vaguely foreign kicked to death, to the well meaning wet lettuces who would have you believe that everyone from outside the UK is physically and morally incapable of committing any crime whatsoever. All of them seemed to be fervent in their belief that immigration was either the worst or the best thing that could ever happen to this country.

And I really don't understand why this should be. Personally, I have an attitude of "Who cares who lives on which particular bit of dirt on this planet?" Living in Newcastle means that I don't have the aversion to bizarre accents that some people cite as their reason for feeling uncomfortable around foreign types. That, along with having had the proverbial ripped from me mercilessly by a party full of Kenyans for my obvious discomfort at being surrounded by black people (hey, until I was 18, I'd never seen more than 2 black people in the same room before...) before pretty much dismantling all of the parochialism that caused my discomfort, means that I'm comfortable around people of any hue and sound. No matter whereabouts in the world someone originates from, they're just as capable of being personable. Or arrogant. Or charming. Or violent tempered. Or stupid. Or witty. In other words, I believe people are people, no matter what they sound or look like.

But apparently, I'm in the minority on this. During the election, I found myself embroiled in a ferocious argument with a chap who was absolutely adamant that all of the problems that this country faces are due to immigrants. NHS underfunding? Immigrants; their presence puts a strain on our Health Service that it wouldn't face otherwise.
Housing crisis? Immigrants; because they're here, it leads to an increased need for housing, which in turns sends prices up, which in turn makes it more difficult to buy a first home. Benefit fraud? Immigrants; they're all here to scam the Social Security fund, which means that the Government are cracking down on genuine claimants. Unemployment? Immigrants; despite the fact that they're all here to rip off benefits, the cunning little swine also simultaneously manage to steal all of our jobs.

Naturally, this is for the most part, uninformed and ignorant toss that Kilroy dreamt up during a particularly nasty psychotic episode (incidentally, I have a plan for capturing Osama bin Laden; ask the Islamic world to give him up to the West, and we'll give them Robert Kilroy-Silk to do with as they please in return). If one wants to find reasons for the NHS farting and dying, one could point the finger at the amount of money it is forced to spend patching up both the victims and perpetrators of alcohol fuelled mischief on a Friday and Saturday (approx 164 million back in 92; anyone care to bet that it hasn't gone up since then?). The housing crisis? There are between 150 and 300 thousand second homes in the UK. That's before we even consider the size of some of the estates owned by the great and good. The majority of us live on less than 10% of the UK's land. I'd be looking at these reasons before I started to blame people for being brown and sounding funny (plus, lets be honest; anyone already in the housing market is almost certainly sexually aroused at the rise and rise of their house price).

The benefit fraud complaint...well, no doubt some immigrants do indeed scam the service. As I said earlier; people are people, with all their failings. However, the only people I've ever met who actively boasted of ripping off the benefits system were very much white Anglo-Saxons (including my own dear and bloated former sister in law, who probably counts as 2 white Anglo Saxons). When I spoke to someone working for the Benefit fraud office, she said that the cases that grab people’s attention are the ones involving immigrants. People who were born and raised here commit the majority of the actual fraud they deal with. As to the idea that the Unemployment figures are due to immigrants, that strikes me as one of the more unpleasant side effects of globalisation. Don't blame the lady from Slovakia who has taken your job. Blame the businesses that are doing their best to keep profits high by using the cheapest labour available.

Of course, all of that only goes so far to assuage the fears of many in this country (whipped up by equal parts "tabloid frenzy" and "insular arrogance") that it is turning into an overcrowded, underfunded hellhole. Even when you mention the studies that show that immigrants give the UK a net profit of something like £2 billion in terms of taxes and general income, people tend to the view "Well, you can prove anything with statistics...".

Part of this fear seems to come from the general inability (or unwillingness) to differentiate between immigration, and illegal immigrants. However, even then I have a hard time believing that illegal immigrants are responsible for so many woes; if any of them escape from being enslaved by pimps, drowned in cockle beds, or worked half to death in sweatshops...well, good luck to 'em. As near as I can tell, illegal immigrants tend to be the ones who suffer the most in the whole sorry debacle. The only paid that the average Daily Mail reader would experience is an increased difficult in getting an English speaking prostitute to degrade on a Saturday night.

I also used to think that the British fear of immigrants was down to simple, old-fashioned racism. After all, the main objection to our immigrant population used to be based on colour; Enoch Powell and his Rivers of Blood speech exemplify this. It's an attitude I've always found someone idiotic; until recently, the majority of immigration into this country was from nations that used to form the Empire. Call me overly liberal if you like, but I don't see that we have the right to complain when, having invaded and subjugated half the world and told them all that Britannia is the greatest, some of them decide to follow us home.

I'm less sure of that now (or at least, less sure that's it's to do with the colour of people's skin). Mainly because I hear equal amount of grumbling that the biggest problem arising from immigration is the gangs of men originating from Eastern Europe who hang around various cities trying to either get work or beg for money. The main source of that complaint is women, who say that they feel uncomfortable when faced with a large group of men whom they don't understand. As you may have noticed, I'm not a woman, so I don't feel I can either dismiss or confirm that argument, but I present it to you for your consideration.

So where am I going with this? Basically, I'm saying that a large number of people in this country have a skewed view of both immigrants and immigration. And that is a problem, because both sides of the immigration debate are fairly polarised and almost totally unwilling to even consider the point of view of the opposition (weighing in on the Pro-immigration side myself, I'd love to simply dismiss all anti-immigration people as ignorant doughfaced bigots, but alas for me, that's just not the case). However, in my view there are 2 things that prevent any sort of reasoned debate from taking place. One is the media, particularly the tabloids. Whilst the Mail and the Sun insists on giving disproportionate acres of print to "the problem of immigrants", and whilst the Mirror and the Guardian do the same about how we should all feel guilty for not having the positive attitude and blameless lives of immigrants, there is no chance of a calm and rational debate. In addition, whilst the government fudge figures to show immigration is worse or better than we thought (depending entirely on which group of people they want to influence at the time), we cannot even point to any hard facts as a starting point.

Until we can have such a debate, then we can look forward to bigots continuing their bigotry, apologists continuing to apologise, and ignorance flourishing unchecked. Surely putting an end to that is worth it?

I'm right, whatever the cost

2005-07-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

This was a reaction to 7/7, and also reflects my growing unease that the majority of both left and right wing camps couldn't give a shit about the cost in human lives.

The last 7 days have been what might be euphemistically referred to as "Interesting Times". What with bombings in London, riots in Belfast, and the re-emergence of the Mullet as a fashion statement, it's almost like being in the 1980's again. All we need is for the country's 27 remaining miners to go on strike and get beaten to a bloody puddle by some overly zealous policemen, and the illusion will be complete.

Upon hearing of the bombings, I confess that my first reaction was "My word; the French Olympic Bid team really ARE bad losers aren't they?". Self-congratulatory sarcasm soon gave way to a somewhat despairing sense of helplessness; I go on at great length about the War on Terror, and it's destablising effect on the security of ordinary people like you and me. Yet here was something that was happening as a direct result of the WoT, and I couldn't do jack sh!t except talk about it. Did this prove that Dubya and Tony's little crusade does have a basis in reality? Or was it a case of proving my point for me; that the only reason a War on Terror is "necessary" is because that self same War has increased the likelihood of terrorism across the western world?

Before any of that though, I think it's worth making the following couple of points; firstly, in the aftermath of the bombs in London, the way that both the emergency services and ordinary Londoners dealt with it left me awestruck with admiration. The sense of calm, of stoicism, of a determination not to panic...I'm not going to try to claim these traits as part of any notion of national character. But I am going to say that, to a very large extent, they defeated the purpose of any such terrorism. I'm sure that the sense of anger and outrage will grow in the coming weeks, but as a knee-jerk reaction to a dreadful event, one cannot fault it.

Secondly, both Blair and Ken Livingstone (the mayor of London) struck exactly the right note in their responses. The former displayed his usual stage-managed affront and outrage, but his language was both temperate and soothing to the nation at large in my opinion. He displayed that nebulous quality called "statesmanship", and for all the gallons of vitriol I have in reserve for Blair, that was what was needed from a Prime Minister. Livingstone on the other hand cut through the bullsh!t and called the bombings exactly what they were; a cowardly and indiscriminate attack on ordinary people. The bombings would not make life more difficult for the people who make the decisions that generate the outrage that provides extremists with their recruits (if one is of an extremely paranoid mindset, one could make a case for it making their lives easier...). All it did was create a little pocket of misery, nothing more.

So then; what does last weeks bombing say about the War on Terror? Unsurprisingly, my conclusion is that the bombing indicates that the Iraqi land grab has made the world a far more dangerous place. I've found that a lot of the more Pro-war people whom I talk to with any regularity are claiming that the bombing proves that the Anti-Terror legislation brought in by the government was not just a tactic to keep people uncertain and afraid, but something that was desperately necessary. My response is always the same; how did that "duck and cover" style pamphlet of last year help prepare us for the bomb? And how could putting tanks in public places (as was done in the terror drill of not so long ago) made even the slightest of differences to the events of last Thursday? How would ID cards have prevented the bombs exploding?

The only planning that made any difference was the quiet preparations of the emergency services for terror attacks, and those plans pre-date the ludicrous and unwinnable WoT. Not one of the high profile "WOOOO....darkie terrorists will murder your budgie!! Vote for us and we'll keep you safe!" announcements made by the government made a blind bit of difference to the bombs going off.

I also think that the government's reaction to anyone who attempted to draw a link between the WoT and the bombing backs up what I'm trying to say. George Galloway expressed outrage at the bombs and the devastation to ordinary Londoners, but made it clear that it was an inevitable price of the WoT. And the government...launched the kind of ferocious and highly personal attack on him that they usual try to condemn when made by the likes of Galloway. Note, however, that they did not try to give any hard factual reasons why he was wrong. The LibDem leader Charles Kennedy made much the same point yesterday, and faced a similarly smear-heavy/fact-lite attack. Dear Lord, the speaker of the Iranian parliament (the Majlis) stated the obvious in his condemnation of the bombing; his words were presented by many news organisations in a "Look what the evil foreign man is saying" kind of fashion, but they couldn't present anything in the way of facts as to why he was wrong.

And the response of the pro war faction of politics? "Oh, it didn't take long for the 'I told you so' brigade to start crowing about this, did it?" Well...no, it didn't. Does that made them wrong, or do you simply hate to admit they have a point? Leaving aside this sour grapes on the part of those in favour of war, that did get me thinking about something else...

Amidst all the inevitable "He said, she said" bickering resulting from this bombing and the reasons that it happened, I've seen very little from either side talking about compassion for the poor sods who lost lives, limbs, and loves as a result of the bomb. The initial messages of "Christ, is everyone okay?" have given way to the apportioning of blame. In fact, the only mention of compassion I've read since the first 24 hours after this squalid little murder was on the website where the Extremist organisation claimed responsibility for the bombing. Apparently it was proof of Allah's mercy and compassion; clearly their definition of those words differ somewhat from mine.

But then again, should I be surprised? A lot of the talk about the Iraqi people suffering the equivalent of a daily London bombing (at least) is, although clearly well intentioned, usually the precursor to a political statement about how this PROVES that Dubya and Blair are pure, moronic evil. I'm just as guilty of doing that (in defence of that school of thought, I would say that at least we acknowledge the human cost of the land grab. The coalition refuses to even keep a count of how many Iraqi civilians are killed in the name of securing their freedom...), so I find myself rather shamefaced even as I make the criticism.

It seems that, in amongst all the partisan discussions that use loss of life or the threat of it that are used to fuel the pro and anti war ideologies, we very easily forget the important thing; the loss of life itself. I've seen people say that the bombing shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things because, hey, look at all the poor Iraqi's being murdered by the coalition bombing. By the same token, I also heard someone advance the charming opinion that Iraqi loss of life shouldn't be given as much weight as the loss of Western ones because their history means they don't place the same value on life as we do. Both of these arguments have their intellectual merits, but as statements of humanity and empathy they are about as worthwhile as a charity drive for Windsor family. What the hell happened to the very basic idea that killing people, for whatever reason, is a fundamentally bad thing to do?

But no; the deaths of 50+ people in London has, together with the deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, Bali, New York, Madrid, Sudan, Israel, Uzbekistan, Russia, Chechnya, (I could go on but you get the idea...), those deaths have become one more aspect of a cause for people who, if they're honest, care more about being proved right than about the death and misery. Be they the lunatic fringe of the left (one of whom claimed, within hours of the bombs going off, that it was clearly CIA who had planted them; had he been referring to the fact that Al-Quaida only exists because of the CIA, he would have had a point...), or the lunatic fringe of the right (Ann Coulter's claim that the whole War on Terror can be ended by "killing their leaders and converting the rest to Christianity" never fails to raise a chuckle and a cold sweat), or all points in between, we all seem to lose sight of the fact that people are dying for no reason than someone, somewhere, wants to be proved right.

Maybe I'm just mellowing in my old age and coupledom, but I don't think a human life is a fair price to pay for a group of people to say "HA! I KNEW I was right!". If ideas aren’t worth dying for (and I don't believe they are), then they're not worth killing for either. By all means, debate the rights and wrongs of the WoT (damn sure I'm still going to do so...), just try to keep in mind that some things are more important than our opinions, however justified we feel them to be.

Election Fever

2005-04-15T07:23:00.000-07:00

In just a few weeks, we in the UK will get to choose which group of egocentric, self-serving, utterly corrupt and venal suits full of fuck all will enrich themselves at our expense. Even as I write this, the various political leaders are trolling round the country, engaging in whatever piece of populist bullshit they think will dazzle the plebs enough to get them off their cellulite-ridden, Netto-fuelled arses and waddle to the nearest polling station to cack-handedly scrawl an X next to the liar of their choice. It's that most fabulous of times in the political calendar; it's the General Election.

I suppose the first thing that needs to be said from my point of view (aside from "Jesus Christ, have I REALLY been churning out vitriol for over 4 years? I've just re-read the rants I wrote leading up to the last election and...well, I was hoping I'd have grown less angry over the years. Not, as it would appear, more so...) is that in this coming election we at least have the illusion of greater choice. Last time round, it was a one horse race between Labour and nobody else. The Tories were being lead to national mediocrity by a smirking Yorkshire dwarf named Hague. The Libdems...well, let's be honest here; not many people either knew or cared what the Libdems were up to, and were only dimly aware that a plump, ginger Scots gentleman was quietly campaigning for people to vote for him. If you lived in Scotland, Northern Ireland, or Wales, you had the additional choice of that nation's Nationalist party. It was obvious that Labour would walk to victory, and as such it was difficult to care (though God knows, I tried to...).

This time round, things are looking somewhat different. The political map seems to have opened up a little; aside from the above mentioned parties (of whom more later) we also have the increasing influence of the various "Darkies are bad and evil and should all be deported before they rape your budgie and bomb your Gran" parties; UKIP, the BNP, and Kilory's Veritas (or Vanitas to give it it's more accurate name) form the vanguard of this movement. The net effect of all of these parties will almost certainly be to steal a chunk of the chav vote from the Tories and Labour. Whether or not they actually gain anything in terms of Parliamentary seats is another matter; I suspect not, as they're all squabbling for votes among the same target group. However, there is a good chance that they will steal Labour and the Tories' thunder on immigration by splitting the racist vote 4 ways and rendering it irrelevant. Which would make this the single only worthwhile thing that Kilroy has ever achieved in his thus far worthless life.

On the left of the spectrum, we have the Respect coalition. The most visible member of this group is the former Labour member and current MP, George Galloway. They are fighting on an anti-war, anti-Labour bullshit platform, and have the potential to do rather well in the London seats they're fighting. Despite his pandering to the (I suspect, imaginary) Pro-Life tendencies of the Moslems who make up the vast majority of Respect's target audience, I rather like Mr. Galloway. Unlike many current members of the Labour party, he purports to be a socialist. What's more, he's survived the barrage of mud slung his way as a result of his opposition to the Iraqi land grab and come out of it smelling more rose-like than at any other time in his career. Whilst I don't agree with all of his principles, the mere fact that he has any raises him a cut above most MP's.

The final element outside the big 3 (well...big 2 and a half) parties, is the rise of the Independent Candidate. Since Martin Bell's unseating of the Hamilton's from their fief, Independent Single-Issue candidates have started popping up and doing rather well. Dr Richard Taylor is currently the member for Wyre Forest, and was elected solely on the promise of fighting cuts to the local Kidderminster holiday. This time round, we have the likes of Reg Keys, standing against Tony Blair in Sedgefield. His campaign is based on debating the lies Blair told to take us to war. Also there is Demitrious Panton, who is standing against the Children's Minister (what the hell does a Children's Minister do? Visit schools in order to patronise children? Shout "Nyer Nyer, Michael Howard smells of wee!" in the Commons?) and basing his campaign on her failure to accept responsibility for an abuse scandal during her time as leader of Islington Council. These candidates are what I would call "wild cards". They may not get enough votes to win, but they will almost certainly take enough votes off the MP's they're standing against to cause a headache. As such, I find that I adore these people for no other reason than they inject a little uncertainty and (in a deeply boring way) some excitement into the election.

And so that leaves us with the main parties. The Tories, the Libdems, and Labour. To make things clear, I'm now a fully paid up member of the Libdems, so I suppose it's going to be pretty obvious where my sympathies lie. Even so, I still think it's worth having a look at all three in as objective a manner as a shouty and bilious man such as myself can manage.

Firstly we have the Tories. Well...it seems that, according to the polls, they've pulled their socks up and are now no longer the laughing stock they have been over the last 10 years. And how have they done this? Mainly by appointing a man to whom "scruples" is nothing more than a vaguely amusing parlor game from the 80's, as their election Guru. The gentleman in question is named Lynton Crosby. It was he who suggested that the "Pigs might Fly" poster produced by Labour was Anti-Semitic. Apparently, because Michael Howard is Jewish, portraying him as a pig is an act of Anti-Semitism. Obviously, this had to be explained to everyone, otherwise they might have missed what an inflammatory and racist poster it was. Needless to say, Crosby's entire campaign strategy is negative, and revolves around smearing all opponents with as many slurs as possible, whilst ratcheting up the populist rhetoric (i.e. shouting "Foreign Types are coming to steal your way of life!!" from the highest hills) in the meantime. As strategy goes, I personally find it repellant, but it seems to be working. It could almost make your forget about the doctored photographs, the admission that the Tories are lying about their spending plans, the budgetary sums that don't add up, the fact that Michael Howard is the man who was asked the same question for about 5 minutes on National TV and constantly evaded answering it, and the fact that Anne Widdecombe found him to be creepy (ANNE WIDDECOMBE for God's sake...).

Next up, the Libdems. They seem to have taken a rather odd step in their campaign to become worth noticing; they're campaigning on the basis of what they think the country needs, rather than what the opinion polls suggests the country wants. Naturally, in an age where self-interest and "What's in it for me?" have been raised to such a level that even Machiavelli would blush at having to praise it, this is political suicide. Or so it would seem. The Libdems can claim, with some justification, to be the only genuine opposition. When one looks at the policies and behaviour of Labour and the Tories these days....well, it's rather like the closing lines of Orwell's "Animal Farm;
"(they) looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which".
The Libdems are the only major party to have given any real opposition to Labour on taxation, the Iraqi Land Grab and subsequent whitewashes, Student Loans and Top up fees, Law and Order...the list goes on. What's more, they seem to genuinely care about doing the best for the country; they're still attempting the necessary evil of engaging with Big Business, but seem to be at least trying to do so in a way that will make some attempt to rein in the corruption that is rife in dealings between Business and Politics. Of course, I could be just being naive, and they'll turn out to be just as big a bunch of lying mongdongs as Labour and the Tories. ~shrug~ The only way we'll find out is by voting for them.

Finally, we have Labour. Nobody seems to trust Tony Blair these days. The fact that he dished up the biggest selection of lies since Hitler's post-Sudetenland "I have no further territorial claims to make" porky of 1938, in order to take us to war in Iraq seems to have played a large part in that. However, it doesn't seem to have played a big enough part. There seems to be an attitude of "Oh yeah, he lied to us about sending in our army to slaughter brown people by the thousand in order to remove a dictator who we kept in place for years until he stopped obeying orders...but I'm sure he can be trusted on more important things. Like our money.". They say that every man has his price. It would seem that our price is an extra 100 quid a year or thereabouts. In exchange for that, we'll cheerfully turn a blind eye to whatever act of genocide Blair wants to cheerlead for. In respect of our money, Gordon Brown is the biggest boon the Labour party could hope for. As a chancellor, I like him; he has the thankless task of pandering to Big Business whilst trying to introduce socially fair economic policies, and maintaining economic stability all the while. That he does this very well is worthy of respect (that he does so in a job so apocalyptically boring is also to his credit). But I can't help feeling rather sad at how mercenary we seem to be as a nation that we can be bought off giving a shit about human rights in exchange for a little bit of money.

One final note; every single party seems to be using fear as a cornerstone of it's campaign. I suppose it must be the post 9/11 effect, but it's strange to see Kilroy telling us to be scared of anyone brown (ironic when one considers his tan), Respect telling us to be scared of Labour's Totalitarianism, the Tories telling us to be scared because if Labour win then darkies will commit acts of murder in a funny accent, and Labour telling us to be scared that, if the Tories won, we'll all be killed in our sleep by Arab turrists. The only party who don't seem to be doing this so far are the LibDems. They're concentrating on the good that they can do. And that, more than anything else, probably ensures that they won't see government in my lifetime.

Of course, bearing in mind how utterly wrong I was about the last election when I ranted about it, this could all be complete cockrot. Time will tell.

Onward Christian Soldiers

2005-03-30T08:27:00.000-08:00

In common with almost every sentient being outside of America, I despise the Evangelical right. This was my attempt at a reasoned argument against the set of wankers.

Okay; it's now nearly April 2005. The US Presidential elections were held back in November 2004. I think I've just about calmed down enough to talk about what that unbelievably christawful result might now mean for the rest of us. Why did I need so long to cool my enflamed hate gland? Well, because the aspect of Dubya's election victory that I'm going to talk about is the increasing power of the Christian Right.

The first thing that needs to be said about the Christian Right (apart from the fact that they're a bunch of joyless f**ksocks with all the personal charm of a Nazi on a sightseeing tour of Israel...hey, I may have calmed down, but that doesn't mean I'm not still furious...) is that their name is...well, a lie. They're not very Christian, and they're never right.

So why do I so utterly despise these Evangelically minded morons, and am I insisting that they're about as far removed from the spirit of Christianity as it's possible to be without donning a horn and hoof ensemble, painting themselves red, and singing hymns to Mephistopheles? Probably because their actions since the election give them away for the totalitarian, freedom-hating, backward bigots that they are.

One of the biggest giveaways to this mindset is their approach to abortion. A woman's right to an abortion in the US is enshrined in the case of Roe vs. Wade, which was decided by the Supreme Court back in 1973. Ever since then (and particularly under the Republican regimes of the 80's), the Supreme Court has been packed with increasingly conservative judges, and Pro-Life lobbyists (almost without exception members of the Christian Right) have been pushing for the case to be reviewed and overhauled (and, if they had their way, burnt). However, as the recent Right To Die case of Terri Schiavo has shown, the US Judiciary has done a decent job of maintaining its independence from populist, rabble-rousing "moral issues". And so, Roe vs. Wade remains law.

And the reaction of the Christian Right? It's been very balanced. All they've done is encourage the murder of abortion doctors. And demonise any and every member of government and judiciary who isn't messianically opposed to abortion as a baby-killer. And demand that the church-dwelling chimp in the White House outlaws abortion altogether. And pretty much gone out of their way to dismiss any debate over this highly contentious issue, and demand that their view be accepted as the unvarnished truth and implemented without delay.

Is it just me, or is their attitude that of a spoilt brat who has thrown an epic huff at not being allowed to play with their favourite toy? I don't recall Jesus saying "Deliver unto Caesar that which belongs to Caesar. Unless you don't want to; in which case, stand like a placard-waving, glassy-eyed automaton chanting ill-conceived slogans and threats at anyone who doesn't go to the same church as you". Yet the Christian Right seem to have taken His message of humility, love, tolerance, and brotherhood, and turned it into "Love thy neighbour. Unless he's funny lookin'. And doesn't think exactly like you do." It's sweet that they assume that, if they say abortions shouldn't happen, then they won't. But when one bears in mind the number of backstreet abortionists who flourished back in the days when it was illegal (which also caused 15% of maternal deaths back in those happy-go-lucky days of prim insanity), I'm rather inclined to think that their prurient wishful thinking will lead to misery and pain for countless women.

It's not as if Evangelical churches don't have a good track record in using their influence to do make changes that benefit everyone; during the time of the British Empire, the Victorian Evangelical Churches campaigned fearlessly against slavery. They can take pretty much all of the credit for the abolition of this hideous practice which in turn enabled civilisation to genuinely lay claim to being civilised. What have the Christian Right spent their time campaigning against? The right of a woman to choose what to do with her body. Oh, and Spongebob Squarepants.

I'm serious; this mighty, monolithic collection of Holy Warriors has spent months campaigning against Spongebob Squarepants because "he's clearly gay". Apparently, because he holds the hand of his best friend in the cartoon, he encourages homosexuality amongst children. It takes a very special kind of mind to see homosexual propaganda in a kids show. In fact, it sounds like the sort of thing a stoned student would say at 3am (having once claimed that Mr. Benn was an allegory of the battle between Good and Evil, I know what I'm talking about...).

If anything shows that the Christian Right are an organisation interested in controlling the thoughts, words, and deeds of everyone, a mean-minded crusade against a cartoon character (a f**king CARTOON CHARACTER for f**ks sake...mind you, they tried to claim that one of the teletubbies was less than manly cos he carried a handbag, so...) should do it. I shudder to think how they'd react to the prospect of primary schoolkids holding hands when they go on a school trip.

What really concerns me is that, since the US Election was decided on "Moral issues", and since the President is a member of the Christian Right himself, the assumption is that it should be the Christian Right who set the moral agenda on all issues from now. After the downfall of televangelists such as Swaggart and Bakker in the 90's, it doesn't seem too much of a stretch of the imagination to realise that the US is trying to appoint a gang of hypocrites, liars, and thieves as their moral guardians.

What is even more worrying is that the arrogance of the Evangelists seems to be spreading here. 2 weeks ago, most people on the street couldn't have given the faintest hint of a damn about the 24-week limit on abortion. Thanks to the grinning charlatan living at Number 10 and his slithering insistence that he's a good Christian, we have church leaders trying to make it an election issue. Nothing too troubling in that, because everyone has the right to raise their concerns. But I'm never in favour of allowing Religious groups trying to set political agendas; as we can see in Iran, Afghanistan, America, and most recently in Iraq, it leads to a minority forcing their will on the majority. More than that, it leads to intolerance, and persecution of anyone who can't or won't conform with their will.

So then; the Christian Right of America, who constantly bray about how the freedoms of America are the best in the world, are trying to dictate how the law should develop. They're trying to say what is acceptable in culture. They're trying to subvert democratic process. They're trying to tell us all what we're allowed to do, what we're allowed to see, and how we're allowed to think. They're causing honest-to-God Christians to be viewed as equally intolerant and hateful as the Evangelicals. And they're doing all of this in the name of God.

The only other organisation I can think of that did this was the Taliban. And they were ostensibly ousted by the US Military for being an undemocratic organisation who sheltered terrorists. By my reckoning, the sh!theels who shoot doctors and bomb abortion clinics at the behest of the undemocratic Christian Right are terrorists. Might I suggest that, if Dubya is serious about spreading democracy, he declares his next war on them?

Blue Monday

2005-01-24T08:05:00.000-08:00

A generalised whine about the perils of rose-tinted glasses.

Today is January 24th. The most depressing day (according to scientists) of the most depressing month of the year. And to cap it all, it's a Monday too. January is like the longest Monday in history, so to actually be stuck in the middle of a January Monday is something akin to purgatory. So I need to do something to distract me from this christawful dog’s ringpiece of a day.

I suppose it's unfortunate for me that I have no enemies to distract me. That would be the best solution, as it would undoubtedly give me something to focus all my hatred on, and put my hopes and desires in that context too. Having someone whom I hate and fear with all of my heart would probably make the day seem much easier to deal with. Do you know what I mean? No? Well, if you can bear to stay with me on this one, you very soon will do.

Whilst reading through a magazine recently, I noticed that it referred to the years of the Cold War as a "golden age for peace in the western world". I re-read the piece, just to make sure it hadn't been soaked in some sort of invisible irony. Apparently the author was completely serious. He felt that the 40 odd years of cold-sweating fear of nuclear war constituted a golden age. I've mentioned this to one or two people, and it seems he's not alone in that opinion. An awful lot of people feel less secure now than they did then. Why?

Well, it's my belief that the reason for today's world being considered far more dangerous than that of 20 years ago is that we don't have a monolithic, seemingly unstoppable enemy to distract us from our everyday fears. During the Cold War, we all grew up and grew older on the understanding that the USSR was, at any moment, going to kill us all. They were, as far as I was concerned, plotting to take over the whole world (that's what happens when you get your early political theory from your mother...) and either enslave us all, or turn us to atomic dust. When one has all that on ones mind, it's sorta difficult to concentrate on the everyday existential ennui and torpor that is a feature of the post millennial western world.

But the cold war ended with the 80's. And did we all explode in happiness at the release of this nightmarish pressure? Did we hell. If one looks at the popular culture of the UK and (especially) the US through the 90's, one is struck by just how many disparate groups we were being told to be frightened of. It's as if, free of the burden of hate and fear at long last, all we wanted was something else to be scared of. Is it a coincidence that the most popular TV series of the decade was the X-Files, a show which told us that something was indeed out there, and given half a chance it was going to abduct and anal probe us with satanic glee? In fact there was something of a rash of shows that tried to convince America that they had to look to the skies to find their next enemy. However, pretty much every show through the 90's that did try to create a new enemy almost always fell back to the exact same plot; it was the government wot really did it.

To me, it seemed that we were engaging in a collective national introspection in both the UK and the US. And it doesn't appear that we like what we'd found. According to popular culture, our governments were part of epic, epoch-spanning conspiracies involving any and all semi-mythical bogeymen from Aliens to Aryans. Their only interest was in experimenting on us, or trading us on an intergalactic slave market, or turning us into unthinking consumerist drones. In other words, deprived of someone or something to concentrate our hate on, we all seem to go a little bit hysterical. It didn't matter how outlandish the enemy was (or at least, it didn't to David Icke). All that mattered was that we had one. And for some reason, we seem to need to know who our enemy is in order to feel happy. And if we don't actually have any enemies? Well, we can always rely on the TV to tell us whom we SHOULD be hating.

Of course, it's not just the TV networks who were kind enough to create enemies for us; Governments are pretty good at it too (as an aside, perhaps one of the more annoying things about the likes of David Icke, Alex Jones, and other self-serving conspiracy theorist out there is this; by insisting on ranting at length about how the government are made up of reptilian aliens who practice night-time rape rituals overseen by mythical owls, they make us automatically skeptical of anyone who tries to point out that perhaps those people who are our rulers might just be a bunch of money-hungry hypocrites. Thus it's impossible to call a government into question without being thought of as a little paranoid. Thanks guys.)

Look at the global hysteria about Al-Quaida. Here is a group whose membership numbers a few thousand (perhaps even a few hundred) individuals. They were concentrated mainly in a few camps in countries like Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, and Indonesia. But if you listened to the increasingly shrill briefings given by Blair and Bush, they're an evil organisation ran by a supergenius. They have their dark tendrils snaking across the world, ready to sink into and corrupt the purity of our wonderful western way of life (incidentally, has anyone stopped to think why Osama Bin Laden hasn't attacked Holland? After all, according to Dubya, he only hates us for our freedom...). They all have Einstein's intelligence, Hitlers evil, Hercules' strength, and Moses' fashion sense. And seemingly, the only way to beat them is to shoot or bomb everyone in the middle east who's skin is offensively brown whilst trilling mindlessly that anyone who disapproves of this approach "may as well be beheading hostages in Iraq".

It works both ways of course; the fun-loving criminals in Al-Quaida are doing their very best to convince the people of the Muslim world that the US and UK are the twin Luciferian nations of Gog and Magog (if those names aren't proof that the bloke who wrote the Revelations book of the Bible wasn't tripping, I'd like to know what is...) made reality. Both their worldview, and that of Dubya and his Neo-Conservative buddies is nothing more than fearmongering lies. But those lies have so far been persuasive enough to cause war. Why should that be the case when anyone with half a brain can tell that both sets of cockwits are lying?
Could it be because we're all so desperate for an enemy to focus our hate on that we're willing to be so blatantly lied to in order to get one? It's an unpleasant conclusion to come to, but unfortunately it's one that seems to make sense. Nothing unites people like a common enemy; Dubya's re-election would seem to prove that, as would the Labour governments insistence that anything other than an election victory for them will invite a terrorist attack. Maybe we need to remind ourselves that the "golden age" we lived in up to the end of the 80's was not much more than 40 years of holding our breath and waiting for oblivion. That hardly seems like an ideal scenario to go back to.

Foxhunters

2004-11-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

Foxhunters: A much maligned and victimised bunch of whining pricks, or spoilt and selfish cocksocks who excite all the public sympathy of a paedophile campaigning for access rights to his attractive, pert-bottomed 6 year old son?

I've been half-heartedly following the whole debate about banning foxhunting in this country, and I've found myself increasingly astounded at some of the things that the Countryside Alliance have been saying. At first I thought that their bleating about how banning foxhunting would lead to a breakdown in society, or how a ban would infringe their human rights, must have been a joke. You know, like when Hitler signed Neville Chamberlains Piece of Paper for Peace, and was afterwards heard to say "Well, he seemed like such a nice old gentleman. I thought I would give him my autograph."

But no, there was no hint of a smirk on their collective face. They were serious. Or at least, they wanted everyone to think that they were. So why are they so absolutely hellbent on preserving an archaic and bloodthirsty practice that even they agree is rife with cruelty? And why are we being bombarded with messages from the Alliance that this is the first step on the slide to a brutal and totalitarian government who ride roughshod over the rights of the people? Well, as is always the case in these matters, it's about money and priviledge. And, of course, politics.

On the side of the Pro-Hunt supporters, we have the Countryside Alliance. Supposedly a confederation of people who are concerned with the raw deal that rural folk are getting from the government, they claim to be fighting on behalf of Farmers, huntsmen, shepherds, Forestry commision workers; pretty much any and all issues relating to the countryside will be dealt with by the Alliance. On the Anti-Hunt side, we have pretty much the entire rest of the country.

If you were to believe the Alliance, the public have been lied to by the government when it comes to foxhunting. We're just ignorant and uninformed souls who don't understand their country ways, and why it's absolutely VITAL that foxes are chased down and slaughtered by braying Sloane's rather than shot or trapped by farm workers. And rather than interfere, we should just let them get on with the hunt. Because if they're shot, they'll suffer far more than they would if they were chased for hours before being torn to pieces by a pack of baying hounds, and we urban types are only concerned with cute ickle animals and we don't want anyfink nasty to happen to 'em, oo we?

Which is, of course, a remarkably patronising piece of nonsense on their part. I think the main objection that most people have to foxhunting is that it simply doesn't sit right with us that, in this day and age, a certain section of society are getting their kicks from an activity that is rooted in bloodthirst and deliberate cruelty. The whole attitude of the Alliance is one of condescending patronisation to anyone who doesn't hunt. And I'm rather glad about this as it means that they have no chance whatsoever of their various lies and half truths having any effect on the general public. Why am I so adamant that the Alliance has no case in favour of Fox hunting? Well, it's because the whole Countryside Alliance is a sham. It's a piece of sleight-of-hand to distract attention from the fact that this whole storm in a teacup is about nothing more than a tiny percentage of wealthy people fighting tooth and nail to preserve an ancient method of distinguishing themselves from the common herd.

And just what do I mean by that suspiciously rabble-rousing statement? Well, the Alliance claim to fight for all countryside issues. Yet the only thing you'll hear them scream loudest about is foxhunting. Has anyone heard any complaint that it will be illegal for farm workers to go Hare Coursing? Nope. Have you opened your morning paper to read a shrieking denounciation of the inevitable end of taking terriers out Ratting? Nuh uh. Yet both of these activities are covered by the ban on hunting with dogs. So why no hue and cry about them? Could it be because that these activities are the exclusive preserve of people at the lower end of the social spectrum (or "oiks" to give them their official Countryside Alliance title)?

And what about other rural issues? Why aren't the Alliance marching on London to demand that Supermarkets be forced to pay farmers the full value of their produce, rather than forcing them into a position where they sell their stock for peanuts and thus unable to eke out even a basic living? How about hearing them complain about the lot of the average sheep farmer who is forced to support himself and his family on an income of less than £5,000 per year? Strangely, the leading lights of the Alliance stay quiet about that, and I'm sure it's got absolutely NOTHING to do with their being shareholders (and in some cases, boardmembers) of the companies that profit out of this rural misery. Where are their frenzied demands for decent compensation for the farmers forced into utter despair because of the Foot and Mouth epidemic? Could it be because the Alliance leaders tend to be major landowners who have received ample government compensation and care not one bit for the (fewer and fewer) small landowning farmers and tenant farmers?

The simple fact is that these people don't give a shit about the countryside. They don't care about the job losses, the death knell of families' way of life, the hardship, or the human suffering caused by the Government. They care about keeping their social calender intact. Do you really think that Simon Hart, the head of the Countryside Alliance, will lose his livlihood and home when hunting with dogs is finally banned? Or will it be the people who work on the Hunt who are turfed out and left to fend for themselves? And were the Lords and MP's who opposed the compromise yesterday (a compromise which would have delayed the ban until 2006 to give huntsmen time to find other jobs) doing so in the interests of the people who will undoubtedly suffer as a result of the ban? Or by guaranteeing it will be banned in February 2005, were they just looking to cause problems for the government, who will now face civil disobedience and protests from those living in rural areas throughout the election campaign next year?

If we want evidence that our government are unrepresentative bullies, we need look no further than Blair's slithering denial of any blame for lying to us in the lead up to the gulf war. Or their refusal to acknowledge the fact that our pensions are screwed, and we'll need to work longer for a smaller pension whilst they retire wealthy and happy. Or that the NHS is dying a gradual death and all they can do is invite private industry to pick at it's corpse. I'm happy to fight for those rights that affect an overwhelming majority. But fighting for the right of a few to sate their bloodlust? Put it this way; if packs of chavs started hunting urban foxes with packs of rottweilers, does anyone seriously doubt that these same people demanding that their right to hunt be preserved would be screaming in Daily Mail-inspired fury at the behaviour of 'uncivilised ruffians'? There are more important government policies for us to be worried about, and more important rural issues to fight for. Let the hunt, and foxes, die a comparatively quick and painless death.

Golem

2004-09-03T05:29:00.000-07:00

Leaving aside the hopelessly optimistic sentiment at the end of this piece, I'm still rather proud of the comparison between Ariel Sharon and the Golem of legend.

It's that time of year when the damp, humid, and sweaty summer gradually turns into damp, cold, and freezing autumn. As we bid farewell for another year to the carefree months of rainstorms and floods and watch the days grow steadily shorter, it seems a good time to look at a land where life is hard. Where life can be so tough that, if the worst the people who live there had to complain about was the weather, they'd be so relieved that they might even forget to organise their regular atrocities. Once again, and to probable sighs of "Aw, not again...” I'm talking about Israel.

It's been fairly quiet in Israel recently. Until the double bomb attack on 2 Israeli buses in Beersheba this week, the leadership of Hamas et al had stopped trying to liberate their people by sending some of their people to blow themselves up. And because of that, the Israeli forces hadn't had much of an excuse to win more Palestinian hearts and minds by destroying terrorists structures such as water pipes, electricity mains, and sewage systems as well as shooting dead potential terrorists (as some of these 'potential terrorists' are children, does that mean we'll soon be seeing abortion doctors sent to Muslim nations as part of the war on terror?). So what's happening? Are these two peoples, of similar racial makeup and geographical origin, separated only by their respective faiths, finally learning to live with one another? Did the 5 months of relative peace preceding the bombs give us an indication that the end of the Palestine-Israeli conflict is in sight? Well, bearing in mind Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat are still the leaders of each gang, what do you think?

I suppose one of the reasons that we haven't been hearing much of the continuing story of "Our God is bigger than your God" from Israel is because we've had a glut of stories about bombings and shootings from Iraq. Why import stories about one group of Semitic people murdering another group of Semitic people in a city we've never heard of when one can read about decent, English speaking white folk being murdered by small Arabic men in a city we've never heard of? But another reason we've not heard about bombings and shootings is pretty much because there haven't been any. There are a quite a few reasons for this, but the biggest one is a wall (or to give its proper title, a "security fence").

Basically, that nice Mr. Sharon authorised the building of a wall to encircle the Palestinian Authority-controlled territory of Israel. This, it was reasoned, would go some way to stopping suicide bombers making their way into Israel itself in order to explode. Leaving aside for a moment the fact that this security fence has echoes of the ghettoisation that the Jews themselves suffered throughout most of their recent history, and the fact that it has been declared illegal by an International court, don't the facts speak for themselves? The wall is erected, and suicide bombs become a comparative rarity rather than a daily eventuality. Doesn't that mean that the wall is a good thing?

Although the answer to that is both yes and no, it's more no than yes. On the one hand the long-suffering Israeli people have every right to do whatever is necessary to guarantee their safety, and the condemnation of an International court probably means little to a people who are used to being condemned by gentiles for...well, for pretty much anything and everything. On the other hand, Ariel Sharon's approach of reducing the Palestinian controlled cities to rubble and then fencing them in to face poverty, disease, and a growing hatred of all things Israeli doesn't exactly seem to be the most far-sighted approach. In fact, it smacks of a short-term solution to guarantee short-term electibility at a time when hard-line Jewish politicians are making life difficult for him. At the moment, there is a plan in place for Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza Strip. However, the hardliners oppose this. As Sharon relies on the hardliners to shore up his increasingly blood-soaked regime, he has to be seen to be doing something to ensure that any withdrawal will not compromise national security. Hence the wall.

It seems pretty obvious to my mind that keeping a bunch of people poor, hungry, and angry is not the best way to guarantee that you'll be able to live in peace with them. Surely, even through the entirely understandable siege mentality of the Israeli's, the same thing must have occurred to them? Why have they put a man who has done more for anti-Semitism than Hitler in charge of their security and their future?

The whole scenario reminds me of a famous story in Jewish folklore; the Golem. The story, in a nutshell, runs as follows;

The Jews of 16th Century Prague need to protect themselves from the occasionally murderous anti Semitism of their neighbours. So a wise Jewish Cabbalist, Rabbi Judah Loew, created the Golem to protect the Jews. This golem was an enormous clay Frankenstein's monster-like automaton, brought to life by mystical incantations and the word "Emet" (meaning 'Truth') on its forehead.

However, as the Golem gained experience of the world, it became a menace to the public safety it was supposed to be protecting; the power it wielded went to it's head, and it threatened innocent lives supposedly in the name of protecting the Jews. Rabbi Loew saw that the actions of the Golem reflected badly on the Jewish people of Prague, and realised that the Golem was no longer protecting the people but, through it's violent actions, putting them at risk. So he removed the first letter E from the word on the Golem's forehead (Met means "Death" in Hebrew), and the Golem died.

I believe that, in Ariel Sharon, the people of Israel have created a latter-day Golem. He is supposed to be their protector, and yet all he does is incite hatred and violence by his actions. After stopping the Golem, Rabbi Loew warned the Jews of Prague that strength itself could be dangerous when used indiscriminately, and he cautioned that the strong mustn't abuse their power in order to dominate and crush anything weak that is within their reach.

As a closing point, I became aware of a curious coincidence when writing this; the wise Rabbi Loew was a real man, and lived in Prague in the 16th century. It took his wisdom and bravery to show the Jews of Prague that a defender that creates more enemies is far more dangerous to their safety than anything their enemies could do. It seems that the Democratic candidate for the presidency, John Kerry, is a descendent of Rabbi Loew. Will he be able to convince the Jews of Israel that their leader is amplifying the danger that he is supposed to be protecting them from? And perhaps also convince the Palestinians that they will never know peace whilst Arafat continues to stumble along as their lame-duck leader? As ever, time will tell.

Fahrenheit 9/11

2004-07-21T08:11:00.000-07:00

So then; Fahrenheit 9/11. As pretty much anyone with in an interest in either films or politics will know, this is Michael Moore's latest documentary. His documentary films tend to get peoples attention; he won an Oscar for Bowling for Columbine, and he's won the Palme D'Or for this one, so his film are now pretty mainstream. They're certainly available for everyone to watch; I watched it last night at a multiplex cinema. It's not so long ago that Moore would have been dismissed as a cranky, left wing conspiracy theorist. Now he's an award winning documentary maker, so that accusation becomes a little difficult to justify.

Anyway, the basics for the film for anyone who for whatever reason hasn't heard much about it; it looks at the Dubya presidency from start to (hopefully) finish. It looks at how he stole the election (giving us numerous reasons to doubt the result), followed by a brief look at how Dubya spent the first part of his presidency (on holiday), then his reaction to 9/11. Aside from that, we are shown just how easy it is to link all the president's men to some VERY wealthy Saudi Arabians, to the extent that American interests come second to those of the multi-billionaire Saudis. And if that weren't enough, we're also treated to seeing the raw deal given to both the Iraqi's, and to the US soldiers who are being killed daily in order to secure the enormous amount of money being made by Dubya's friends in business.

That's a very rushed synopsis of what you can expect from Fahrenheit 9/1. What's that you say? It sounds incredibly biased? It sounds like Moore is gunning for Dubya and will throw absolutely anything and everything onscreen in order to besmirch his reputation and make him seem like an appalling President? Well...yeah. Yeah it is. Your point being?

Whilst the criticisms of this film emanating from the Right wing of the political spectrum (ranging from "it's unfair to show such a political film in the run-up to an election", to "Michael Moore is fat and ugly") are fairly predictable and easily dismissed, what has surprised me is the slew of anger emerging from the political Left about the film. The central criticism of the left seems to go as follows;

"The film is too sentimental and mawkish, and relies on an emotional connection when it should present the facts in a clearer manner and with more honesty. Not only that, but Moore comes across as partisan and biased"

This seems to be a very odd criticism to make. Relying on an emotional connection? Well, I thought that's what a film was meant to do; give the viewer a catharsis. Sentimental? A big part of the film's message is that Dubya is sending US troops to die unnecessarily. If we're going to show sentiment about something, a rich man sending poor people to die in order to make his friends richer seems like a pretty damned good reason to get more than sentimental; it's a reason to get angry. When a man responded to the worst attack on American soil in a way that was designed to keep a foreign interest happy, shouldn't we be biased against him?

So bearing in mind that this film is doing more to damage Dubya's re-election hopes than anything the Democrats have thrown at him, why are so many of the political Left (supposedly who the Democrats represent) heaping criticism on the film, and on Moore personally?

Probably because they suffer from the major handicap of the Left; they're not capable of relating to the average man on the street. I've debated with people on both sides of the political spectrum, and generally speaking I find those on the Left far more intellectually gifted than those on the Right. However, those on the Right seem to have a better sense of what will get a positive reaction from the group loosely termed "the people".

This is a cause of much frustration among the Left; they can present a clear argument with evidence supporting it that cannot be faulted intellectually speaking. Then a Right wing person makes a few rabble-rousing (and usually inaccurate) statements, and the majority of people tend to gravitate toward that point of view. Which is, understandably, annoying. However, generally no effort is made to make Left wing arguments accessible; another criticism of the Left is that, in general, they love to show off how clever they are (and I hold my hands up to this one as well...). If you're looking for long words (I almost wrote "polysyllabic words", which sorta proves my own point for me), and obscure cultural references, then the political Left is for you! If however you're looking for something that is simple, direct, and doesn't cause confusion, then look no further than the political Right.

Michael Moore is the first man to successfully break that mould; he presents Left-wing arguments, but he does it without showing off the extent of his vocabulary. He appeals to people on an emotional, gut level. And yes, he does this at the expense of giving a full explanation of all the issues involved (in other words, he keeps it simple and accessible). He doesn't tell lies, but he does present evidence in a way biased toward his point of view. This seems to be his great crime in the eyes of some on the Left; he's not being intellectually rigorous enough for their liking.

Maybe it's just me, but I find that to be an incredibly selfish criticism. Basically they're saying "Well, it's too simplistic for me personally, ergo it's wrong." What kind of ego must one have to have to demand that everything be pitched at your particular level? Isn't that as elitist as Dubya and his Neo-Conservative government are accused of being? This in itself is another point that is worth addressing; most of the Left have a habit of referring to the general public as "the mob", "the rabble", "the herd", etc. Of course, so do the Right, but at least they're sensible enough to do it in private. The Left, an altogether more honest bunch, tend not to be so shy about their disdain. The reason for this condescension? Well, because the public have been swayed time and time again by the lies and half-truths of the Right, and have failed to grasp the significance of the arguments of the Left. Therefore, any difficulties the world faces today that were caused by Dubya, are the fault of the people for being easily swayed and easily led (because it CAN'T be the fault of those on the Left for presenting a self-congratulatory and convoluted argument that plays brilliantly to anyone else immersed in Left wing politics, but reads like treacle to anyone who isn't). It's worth making clear that this attitude simply has to stop; would you vote for a group who look down on you and will treat you as morons if you cannot instantly grasp the thrust of what they are saying? No? Neither would I. No-one likes to be made to feel stupid, and the Left in general need to stop giving in to this sense of petulant unfairness that their arguments are not being accepted.

Also, the simple fact of political debate these days is that it's polarised; no effort is made by the Right wing to give a balanced argument. Yet some on the Left wing seem to think that an argument is only pure if gives absolutely all of the evidence both for and against it. Neither wonder the Right wing are in the ascendant in the US and UK; all they have to do is wait for the political Left to bore the senses out of the general public, then they come in with a handy scapegoat for all of life’s problems (usually some brand of foreigner or other) and a soundbite or two, and voila; the Right have popular support whilst the Left sit fuming impotently.

Moore has done nothing more than tailor the presentation of his arguments so that they're better received by the general public. For the first time, the left can be sure that the general public will actually give due consideration to their arguments. For too long, it has been easy to dismiss the Left as being preachy, whining, boring, dryly intellectual elitists. Michael Moore gives the Left a voice that appeals to the public, and they would be foolish in the extreme to try and silence it.

Evil Ronnie

2004-06-08T05:57:00.000-07:00

Ronnie Reagan died over the weekend. To give you some sort of clue as to how that event made me feel, my friends and I played a song in his honour after we read the news. The song was called "Lake of Fire" and it is a heartwarming little tale of going to Hell and suffering for all eternity.

Now that may seem rather spiteful in spirit. After all, we're talking about Ronnie! The harmless dope who made "Well, I uh...I don't recall" a catchphrase. The good-natured buffoon who bumbled his way through every episode of Spitting Image. Not only that but he'd spent the last 10 years watching his brain slowly going soggy thanks to the onset of Alzheimer’s disease (we'll draw a discreet veil over the fact that he almost certainly started to develop the illness in the last years of his Presidency; bearing in mind the Pope is another victim of dementia, yet is still allowed to issue edicts that affect Catholics worldwide, having a 'confused' US President seems almost reasonable). So why, bearing in mind that the death of another person isn't really something one should be celebrating, did my friends and I react with a little whoop of joy and "he's finally dead" sentiments?

Well, because the cuddly image of a genial old buffer who had made it his business to wipe out the menace of Communism to secure freedom for future generations is, to be blunt, a lie. Much eulogising has already been done about how Ronnie "oversaw the defeat of Communism"; He made a speech whilst President that described the USSR as 'an evil empire'. That speech has been reprinted as his finest moment. If we are to listen to the tributes that pour in, we'd think that ol' Ronnie was the last of the Cowboys; a brave and noble soul who fought the bad guys at high noon and sent them packing. But it's horseshit. Why? Well...

Firstly, because there was a lot more to the Ronnie Regime than the end of Communism. I actually don't really dispute that it was his presidency that saw the cracks in the Soviet Union become chasms. However, those cracks had been on their way for a while; the Soviet leadership had concentrated pretty much entirely on the Arms Race with the US, and so had neglected its infrastructure and agriculture. So one was left with a cluster of countries with top-notch weapons, but where food rotted uncollected in the fields. Unsurprisingly, this led to a certain amount of unhappiness. Mikhail Gorbachev capitalised on that feeling to start the dismantling of the Single Party State. In other words, it was already happening before Ronnie and his Movie Star Speeches. To give him credit for the end of Communism is like giving a father credit at the birth of a child; sure, he was there at the time. But in the long run he had very little to do with it.

Mainly however, it's the rank stench of hypocrisy (that gives off a pungent odour not unlike one of his Presidential nappies that were a feature of the last years of his life) that bothers me about him. Throughout his reign, he made speeches that had two fundamental pillars to them; that the USSR was an Empire and therefore evil, and that he was using his presidency to guarantee truth, justice, and the American way.

Let's deal with the latter first of all. To listen to Ronnie speak, you'd think that he was turning the US into the Superhero of the world. Under his auspices, poverty and hunger would be eliminated and everyone would be able to sleep soundly in their beds. But if that's the case, why did his policies include deliberate Genocide? No, I'm not making this up; that nice Mr. Reagan gave his approval to a policy that explicitly ordered the Genocide of the people of El Salvador and Nicaragua. Not all of them of course; no, only those troublesome left wing people. Because we don't want no dirty commies on our doorstep, no sirree (I think someone must have told him that Cuba had disappeared or something like that as it was pretty much left alone under a screen of sanctions). So he gave his authorisation for the CIA to train up some of the most brutal torturers in world history and let them loose on the peoples of other nations.

Now maybe I'm being naive (and after seeing how the US military and CIA treat their prisoners in Iraq, I almost certainly am), but encouraging mass murder doesn't really sound very All-American to me. Nor does propping up the various dictatorships in South America. Or arming and encouraging rebels in African states (or governments, depending whether the left or right wing were in power) to commit ever more savage acts of butchery in the name of 'defeating communism'. To me, it sounds like he was advocating and spreading terrorism to a far greater degree than the sandal wearing defectives in Al-Quaida. And, for the most part, he's gotten clean away with it; the American people saw little of this. All they knew was that the Soviet Union had fell, and they were getting some seriously good quality cocaine at low prices (didn't I mention that the right wing governments in South and Central America had no problem using drugs to get additional funds? And that the CIA were perhaps the biggest drug runners of them all?) so who cares if some little brown men get carved up in front of their families. Or if a bunch of street kids get kicked to death by police 'hit squads'.

Of course, now America is reaping what it has sown in terms of the terror it engendered throughout the world. And is it the likes of Reagan and his echelon of money whores who supported him that are suffering? Of course it isn't. It's the ordinary people of America who are having their freedoms curtailed, being told to be afraid of anyone different, and (if you're poor enough) being pretty much forced into the army to serve in the 3rd Brigade (Cannon Fodder Division) in Iraq or Afghanistan. In the meantime, an equally unpleasant and even more astonishingly hypocritical President continues the work of spreading terror (Dubya said his favourite philosopher was Jesus; at which point in the Bible exactly did Jesus say "And lo, thou shalt launch a pre-emptive strike on thine enemies"?) and thus pretty much guarantee that the good people of America will be the most hated and fearful folks in the world. It seems to me that Americans shouldn't be mourning this man; they should be cursing him for leaving them a world of hate, fear, and terror. Good ol' Ronnie gave America the world it lives in today. But hey, who cares? He got rid of the evil empire.

A closing note about the end of the USSR; which Imperial power has now replaced the Soviets? Well, the US maintains military bases in roughly 100 different countries. Iraq is being turned into a client state where the 'sovereign' Iraqi government will have to keep the large number of US and UK troops in the country. Afghanistan is being discarded now that it's been invaded. It seems we have a new Evil Empire, with a chimpanzee as their Emperor. Thanks Ronnie; this is your legacy.

Won't someone please think of the children?

2004-06-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

I can't stand our national obsession with forcing people into the unwanted position of role model, then criticising them for failing to live up to it.

We in the UK have a defining national characteristic that confuses the hell out of me. It's something that we're all aware of and that we all partake in, and I can't decide if it means that we're an embittered nation, or that we simply refuse to respect those whom we are assured are our betters. I'm referring to our great national pastime of building up our heroes before knocking them right back down again.

Oddly it was the Beckham 'scandal' about his allegedly naughty behavior with his PA, Rebecca Loos that got me thinking about this. Once I'd calmed down from my standard "we're living in a world run by a powerful and greedy elite who are making war without any consideration for how it affects ordinary people, yet we're content to let ourselves be diverted by THIS sloppy panda poo of a story?!" position that I always take about frivolous news items (a position which, although I still agree with, sort of indicates just how much I needed to lighten up), I actually started to feel rather sorry for Goldenballs.

I should qualify that; the man has basically consented to be used as a market brand and, although it's making him obscene amounts of cash, it's making his sponsors and advertisers rather more. He's handed over his life to the public domain, and if you live by the sword you die by the sword when it comes to publicity and selling yourself via the media. However, even with all that in mind I was more than a little sympathetic towards him. Why? Well, because the main tone taken by tabloid journalists was that Beckham had let down the people (mainly the children) who idolise and look up to him.
Now maybe this is just me, but how exactly did he let anyone down? By rutting with a bisexual nymphomaniac with a filthy mind and highly developed bedroom skills? Who did he let down by doing that, because surely that's a class above emptying himself up a talentless, vain, bulimic babyprovider with a face like Dutch elm disease. As near as I can tell, he was being criticised for setting a bad example to the precious children of the world. Apparently "millions of kids look up to Beckham; what kind of lesson does it teach them when their hero cheats on his wife?" (although one could say he's teaching them not to marry a Prada-bedecked ghost train skeleton).

So then; that's the answer to the soaring divorce rate in the UK. It's all the fault of David Beckham. Glad we've got that one cleared up. I confidently expect to find that, if he puts on a few pounds, he'll be to blame for the rise in obesity in children. Doubtless Labour’ll soon blame him for increasing voter apathy in elections. Maybe we'll see him cited as the reason for domestic violence next (of course, if he does take it into his head to batter his wife into a bloody smear on the wall, he'd almost certainly get a knighthood).

This is, of course, complete and utter camelbollocks. I don't deny that Beckham is an idol to millions, but to say that his actions will be reflected by his legion of admirers is rather like saying that we're a society so devoid of individuality and ideas that we're content to try and turn our children into clones of anodyne, soulless clones of supposedly perfect people. Unfortunately, it seems that that's exactly what this society is doing.

What do I mean by that? Well, firstly I want to look at how we view heroes in the first place. This little scandal seemed to me to say that if someone is a hero to millions, then those millions should try and emulate that person exactly. They should give up any vestiges of their own personality and identity in order to try and become their hero (and alas, with the number of brainbubblingly poor girlbands that make up the pop industry these days, anyone who knows their way around a football pitch will probably consider a member of Liberty X as their birthright). Then the same tabloids that criticise Beckham for having "let down his fans" run a story about the "evil freak" that is stalking Britney/Xtina/{Insert name of Pop Tart here}.

Even leaving aside the standard media hypocrisy of encouraging people to worship celebrities whilst demonising those whose lives are so empty that they stalk the object of their obsessions, it seems to me that we've got our treatment of heroes all wrong. Yes, a hero is someone to look up to and emulate. But a hero is not someone whom we should expect absolute perfection in every conceivable way from; they're simply someone who sets an example to us to live our life in a particular way. OUR life, not a bland Xeroxed copy of the hero's life. So, for example, my biggest hero in life is Bill Hicks and I try to emulate him in key areas of my life. However, I don't share his philosophy on relationships for example. Nor do I allow my adulation of him to dictate exactly what my opinions are; unlike him, I don't believe that a UFO will come down and rescue me from planet earth to educate and enlighten me about our place in the cosmos (by the way, Hicks did an extraordinary amount of hallucinogens which I think sort of explains his UFO beliefs...).

What my hero-worship of Hicks amounts to is that I'm compelled to speak my mind, tell the truth, and stand up for my beliefs. Beckham is a footballer, so why should anyone’s adulation of him go beyond "I want to be a good footballer"? Why in the name of Mary's minge should he be a role model for the perfect family life? He's a multi millionaire; who can reasonably expect to have a family life involving shopping trips to Milan, villas in 5 countries, and a disposable income so vast that looks like it should be stated as a physics? No-one is criticising him for setting a bad example by giving people false hope of impossible dreams, so why criticise him for something done by depressingly large numbers of people anyway?

Well, because we'll criticise anything and anyone if it means we don't have to acknowledge that the society in which we live has some major flaws in it. Don't want to acknowledge our hypocrisy in marketing youth and young women as being sexually attractive whilst jumping up and down in a frenzied rage about paedophiles? (Of which the finest example has to be the Daily Mail running an article on 15-year-old Charlotte Church having a nice ass, whilst on the opposite page an article about protecting our kids from Paedogeddon screamed out at us) Simple; just blame pornography. Upset that house prices are rising and wages are still low? Then blame immigrants. Don't fancy acknowledging that the failure of the model of an ideal family is losing relevance in the modern western world? No problem, just blame celebrities and say that their infidelity is bringing down western civilisation.

If we want our oh-so-valuable children to grow up to be good footballers, Beckham is as good a role model as any. If we want them to be angry and paranoid middle class white men, Bill Hicks is your chap. If we want them to grow up to be faithful to their partners, tolerant of differences in others, determined, hard working, compassionate, brave, and decent then maybe we should look at ourselves and start closer to home. After all, we can't blame celebrities for everything. However amusing it is to do so.

How to Hate

2004-06-02T05:17:00.000-07:00

Good moods always seem to lead to ruminations on bad things with me. Christ knows why. Whatever it is, it's doubtless Freudian.

It's been a while since I sat down to vent my spleen into one of these rants. A new lady in my life has meant that I'm full to bursting with the milk of human kindness; I'm so obscenely in love that most of my friends are convinced that they're seeing the first stages of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. And so, my mind being the fun-packed, "Glass half full" thing that it is, it seems entirely appropriate that I spend a little time considering the nature of hate. Because, y'know, I'm Iike that.

Hate is rather an odd emotion. We will frequently hear the old wives saying that it is nothing more than the flip side of the coin to love. We may also be informed that to hate someone, you must have loved him or her first. But is there anything to back up these sayings? And regardless of whether there is or is not, is hate always the negative thing that we think it is? Or are there any circumstances where hate is acceptable? Or even desirable? And what exactly defines hatred anyway?

So is hate just love in reverse gear? Well, to a certain extent I think it is. If one is in love with someone, then one is willing to do anything at all for that person (although it seems that anal is not included in that criteria, and God knows I've tried...) to the extent that one will put ones own hopes and desires on the backburner in the name of doing whatever it is your loved one desires. If one hates someone then one is equally willing to do anything at all to hurt or damage that person in some way, to the point of ruining one's own life if it means causing pain to the object of your hate. Love and Hate are two very extreme emotions, and the actions they inspire are equally as extreme.

But the thing is, how can we tell if we hate someone? I'm sure you've talked to friends who have agonised over whether they really love a particular partner. Maybe you've done so yourself. Yet we don't seem to have any difficulty in knowing whom we hate. You'll hear the phrase "I hate him/her" FAR more often than you will "I love him/her". Does that mean that we're an emotionally bankrupt bunch of hatemongers? Or are we confusing Hate with mere Dislike?

In an unusually optimistic move, I'm going to say it's the latter and I'm going to do so for a reason of personal bias. Despite being a worryingly good example of a bilious and generally vitriolic chap, I can count on one finger the number of people that I truly hate. On the other hand, I'd need more digits that the decimal value of Pi to count the number of people and things that I dislike (and did I really just make a maths joke?). Whilst we all seem to recognise the value of Love and are sparing in committing to just who and what we do love, the distinction between fiery hatred and lukewarm dislike is much less distinct in our heads.

It's worth diverting our attention for a moment to consider something else; does hate just apply to individuals? It's seems entirely possible to hate a group of people, or an organisation (as that happy-go-lucky cluster of ignorance known as the BNP proves rather well). Is this the same as the Hate one may have for an individual? Hating a group of people is, without any exceptions, an example of unthinking, blind hatred. However, as one can be unthinkingly and blindly in love with someone, this doesn't really work as a distinction.
However, you rarely (if ever; I know I can't think of an example of this) hear of someone being in love with a group of people (despite what some unfaithful partners might protest!). So if we agree that Hate and Love are opposites, we cannot define this group hatred as being Hate in the truest sense. It could be an educated and considered dislike (something only appropriate for hatred of organisations, e.g. an animal lovers hatred of vivisectionists, a Labour activists hatred of the Tories, everyone's hatred of Manchester United, etc), or it could be an empty headed loathing of a racial group (anti-Semitism, the Gunmen who attacked foreigners in Saudi over the weekend, and xenophobic hatred of asylum seekers being the best examples here).

So then; we can perhaps accept that Love and Hate are indeed opposite sides of the same coin. So does that mean that one has to have loved someone to hate then? Absolutely not; if we accept this logic than that would mean that it's only possible to truly love someone if you've hated him or her first, and that is ludicrous. It is of course possible to hate someone whom you've previously loved, and vice versa (the chap who is the object of my hatred is a former friend for example) but it's not exactly compulsory.
Just as love is, to an extent, indefinable then so is hate; you may find yourself thinking that the person or people in your life whom you love have 'a certain something' about them that you love, as well as all the doubtless huge number of more concrete reasons for your warm feelings toward them. By exactly the same token, although we may have good reason to hate the object of our ire, there will almost certainly be 'a certain something' about them that makes you want to smash them in the face with a shovel. These two different types of 'something' are completely independent of each other, and so there is no reason to suppose that we must have one to have the other (though I do accept that perhaps you have to have experienced one to fully appreciate the other).

So having looked at what Hate is and it's relative relation with Love, can we find any circumstances where it is a positive thing? To be blunt, no. If one is, as per my earlier definition of hate, willing to destroy ones own life just to hurt someone, then this is surely not a good thing. I've even found myself working on trying to downgrade my venomous loathing of the lucky chap that I hate to some sort of simmering discontent on the basis that I don't want to ruin my life over that cockwasp. Both Love and Hate are selfish emotions, but whilst an expression of love is designed to make someone else happy as well as making yourself feel good, that selfishness is entirely forgivable. Hate has no such get out clause.

I can, however, see circumstances where the hatred of organisations could be seen as positive (and I'd best tread carefully here; can we all assume that I believe any form of racism is a particularly awful thing so as to forestall the cries of "You're a fascist!"? We can? Jolly good...). Some types of group hatred stem from the following assumption;

"This group is trying to destroy something good. I do not want it destroyed, and will fight to protect it".

I would contend that this type of hatred is a good thing in theory, if not always in practice. If someone hates injustice, then one is naturally inclined to try and fight it. We can accept that as a good thing. That said, I suppose whether or not you consider it a good thing will depend on your own views and outlook; I hate the current US Government for their blatant greed in launching the land grab in Iraq. Others would disagree, and say that they hate the defeatist and appeasing attitude of people opposed to a war that was fully justified. But then, the world would be a boring place if we all had the same opinions, and some of the most interesting discussions I've ever had have been with people who's hatreds are diametrically opposed to mine. I don't hate these people, and I'm pretty sure they don't hate me. The trouble with this form of hatred only arises when we confuse it with hatred of an individual whose beliefs differ to yours. When that happens, we're back to being unpleasant bigots and that is the kind of thinking that I never want to be guilty of.

And that, in a long and rambling nutshell, is what I think of hate. I shall now return to being a doe-eyed and gooey lump of blissed out happiness and think loving and lustful thoughts about the wonderful lady in my life. If that sentence doesn't make you all hate me, nothing will.

Free Speech

2004-01-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

Though I think the points raised about Free Speech are valid, the reason behind this rant was simple; I fucking HATE Kilroy-Silk.

You may have seen over the weekend that Robert Kilroy-Silk has quit his job as the Most Annoying Little Smear of Dogturd on British Television, saying, "the time is right for me to go" (though personally I felt that 1976 was the right time for him to go, preferably into an oversized mincing machine). I'm sure that the fact that the BBC scored an extra million viewers in the slot where his program was before it was suspended did nothing at all to convince the arrogant dollop of rectal bacteria that maybe the public DIDN'T share his belief that he could walk on water, and maybe cure lepers of their ailment. And I'm especially sure that the uproar over his column in the Sunday Express branding all Arab people as barbaric, suicide bombing, women abusing limb amputators had no bearing at all on his long overdue decision.

Anyway, I've just about stopped laughing at the downfall of this abhorrent little man now, so I now find myself looking back over the couple of weeks since his initial racist faux pas. There are two things about it that really interest me. One is the response of Kilroy to the swathes of people who were offended by what he wrote. The other is the somewhat surprising defence used by his apologists; that he was simply exercising freedom of speech.

So then; what did the silver haired simpleton say in his defence? Well, firstly he said that he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. To a certain extent, he actually has a point; the column was a reprint that had been published earlier in 2003 with not a squeak of protest being raised. He then went on to apologise for causing offence whilst, at the same time, standing by what he'd said. This is a quite stultifying piece of arrogance on his part; he seemed to be implying that, as what he said is sparkling with universal truth, it must therefore be the fault of those oversensitive suicide bombers that they got offended. As he was magnanimous enough to forgive them for that and say sorry, he assumed it would sooth their angry, tea towel encased heads.

Even the fact that he stood by what he said should indicate that Kilroy thought he was hosting an edition of his program. Only this time, he was unable to shout down or ignore guests who disagreed with his ill-informed bigotry. He couldn't fake the face of a sensitive listener before closing the program with a semi-retarded stream of clichés that belittled whichever poor sod he'd just been patronising, whilst trying to bolster his own hype of a straight talking man of the people. No, this time he found that he was on the defensive. And faced with the task of justifying how "Arabs have never contributed anything to civilisation" is a valid statement (all the science, mathematics, medicine, and astronomy that we got from Arabic and Persian worlds mustn't count in his world; I'll make the differentiated between Arabs and Persians, even if Kilroy didn't know or care about it), he decided to tuck his tail between his legs and resign. Though he didn't actually withdraw his remarks. He didn't even spend much time trying to qualify them; had he been pointing the finger at one or two Middle Eastern governments, I daresay that he wouldn't have come in for so much, or any, flak. So, not only has the BBC lost a bullying, arrogant egotist, but a cowardly one to boot.

And it would have ended there, were it not for the multitude of people who were willing to defend Kilroy for braying this jingoistic headspew. When I read about the BBC's decision to suspend him from his job because of the comments made I, perhaps naively, expected the reaction of the overwhelming majority to be the same as mine; hate-filled, mocking laughter. Instead, there was a chorus of cries that Kilroy was being picked on for his "courageous stance on free speech" and that his suspension was "political correctness gone mad".

This was a reaction that took me entirely by surprise; Kilroy had made some pretty hateful comments; had he replaced the word 'Arab' with the word 'Jew' or 'Black', then there would have been a race to Kilroy's house, with the lucky winner getting to change him from an annoying minor celebrity into about 200 pounds of rapidly cooling meat. Should we really be talking about protecting bigotry under the heading of free speech? Does that mean I can start ranting about wogs, spiks, kikes, poofs, slags, ragheads, and so on and so forth, and claim the same justification? Of course it doesn't.

So what about the charge that the BBC are pandering to the politically correct by suspending him? Well, there is a certain amount of logic to that argument; why the hell wasn't he suspended when the article was first published? But beyond that, there is no real case for the BBC to answer. There are laws against inciting racial hatred in this country, and Kilroy has fallen foul of them by pretty much anybody's definition. His employer has every right to suspend him for his public declaration of racism. Would you expect to still have a job if you marched into work offering a cheery "Sieg Heil" to all of your colleagues? If you wrote a newspaper article stating that all Black people are worthless as a race, would you really be surprised to find a P45 waiting for you in your day job? Personally, I find it far more offensive that he got away with these remarks earlier. If I were to complain about anything in this incident, it would be that the media are only against racism when it's newsworthy.

Finally, as we reached the last desperate dregs of humanity who attempted to stand up on behalf of Kilroy, we had that old favourite; "There wouldn't have been as much fuss if it had been a non-white making these comments". I always enjoy seeing racists whining that they're not allowed to be as bigoted as those goddamn pesky blacks. Well, much though I hate to sprinkle foul-smelling urine on their parade, they're talking complete and utter asshat. If this is a case of de poor ol' white man getting victimised, how come he had to publish the bilious cack twice before anyone raised an objection? And if non-whites do get away with more bigotry than whites, how come Abu Hamza (the London based Moslem cleric/James Bond villain wannabe with the hook for a hand) was barred from preaching at his Finsbury Park Mosque for his racist, anti-Semitic nonsense?

All in all, I find myself wondering whether these apologists would have been quite as vehement in defending an Arab making negative comments about English culture? If it's all about free speech, then those same people are presumably equally irate at Hamza being silenced. Except that they're not. The majority of these people are arguing for the same right that Kilroy seems to have dedicated his life and career too; the right to remain ignorant racists. If stopping someone in the public eye from encouraging hatred of another person based on nothing more than race is "Political Correctness gone mad", then pass me the straitjacket.

Oh, and if anyone reading this actually sympathised with Kilroy and gets offended at being called racist, relax; it's just me exercising my right of free speech.

I want the truth

2004-01-07T05:47:00.000-08:00

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" Anyone with a passing familiarity with the legal system as seen in the world of film and TV will recognise those words as one of the cornerstones of a trial (when I first head them spoken in a real trial I had to stifle a giggle; I was half expecting the defendant to bark "You can't handle the truth" at the court clerk...). It's a ritual formula that assumes there is a definitive story behind whatever chain of events led to some poor b*stard standing in the dock. I've always assumed the same; that most events in life have a clear beginning, middle, and an end. And there is always one version of the story that is the pure, unvarnished truth. But now I'm not so sure. I've just finished a relationship that, although it was unquestionably the right thing to do, I didn't hugely want to end. I did so because of my obsession with knowing 'the truth'. So this seems as good a time as any to ask if there really is any such thing as a universal truth.

For example, think of any event witnessed by yourself and some of your friends. If I were to ask each and every one of you what happened at that event, would your stories be exactly the same? Of course they wouldn't; unless you'd had time to get your stories straight then everyone would give a slightly different version (I once sat in on police interviews with 3 clients accused of burglary. Their stories matched identically. Right down to the exact words used in answer to the questions. Astoundingly, the police didn't believe them. Mind you, I was their solicitor, and neither did I). Does that mean that one of you is telling the truth and the others are all lying? Well, perhaps it does (I'm sure we've all been guilty of embellishing a story), but I think it more likely that all of you will promise faithfully that you are giving me the truth.

So what does that mean? That we're a race of chronic liars (or, to use the correct name for a group of liars, lawyers)? Well, I like to display a little more faith in my fellow man, so I'm going to say that it does not (though if we really are all predisposed towards lying, that's probably another fib). What I think it does demonstrate is that the truth, far from always being something immutable and fixed in stone, is a little more flexible than we may have thought. The truth varies according to who it was that witnessed the event, and what their perception of it was.

Okay; that sounds like abstract bumslop of the worst kind so I'll explain myself a little more. The best place to see that the truth varies depending on your own perceptions is, perversely, politics. Usually, the wide and varied political spectrum is split into two for ease of identifying where one's basic sympathies are; left wing and right wing (or Liberal and Conservative). It is rare indeed that you'll find any sort of agreement between these two sides (mainly because the Conservatives want to preserve all the existing evils and injustices of the world. Liberals want to replace them with an entirely new set of evils and injustices), and you will see this being reflected in the media. There are left wing papers (The Guardian, The Mirror) and right wing (The Times, The Mail). Generally speaking they report on much the same stories. But the reports are rather different to one another.

Take the recent and continuing war in Iraq. Should you read the Mail (assuming you can find news about the war in between the pages and pages of jingoistic, anti-immigrant bile) , then the invasion wasn't just necessary, it was an imperative. It was about freeing a nation from a tyrant. The subsequent steady stream of dead soldiers and civilians is regrettable but shouldn't affect our resolve to bring freedom to the Iraqi people. If however you read the Guardian, then the war is nothing more than a grab for resources by the Americans. The soldiers dying every day are evidence that the Iraqi people don't want the kind of freedom offered to them by an invading army. The indisputable fact is that Iraq was invaded. Yet here are two wildly different versions of just why it happened, and what the result is.

I have my own bias; I'm more inclined to find the left wing version of events more to my liking. And I can produce all manner of reasons and justifications as to why I believe it that are, in my mind, unassailable. Yet I've spoken to people who are equally as adamant that the political right is, well, right. And they (well...some of them) can produce completely valid facts and figures that would seem to prove that they are correct and I am mistaken (and what with my temper, mistaken at the top of my voice). How can this be? Well, mainly because we look for the facts that back up our beliefs and then do our best to either ignore those tricky points that debunk our opinions, or we look for more facts to make those troublesome opposing ideas seem like naively held beliefs at best, lies at worst.

Of course, I'm just talking about people who are able to articulate just why they hold the beliefs they do, and why they believe in one version of events rather than another. I'm excluding entirely another category of people; those screeching idiots who are only able to shout down an opposing view. I'm inclined to believe that these people are not remotely interested in the truth, be it universal or not. Being too stupid to have any actual beliefs of their own, they are interested only in one thing; being seen to be right. Happily, these people are incredibly easy to humiliate into silence; try pressing them on specific facts and watch them dissolve into a red-faced, teary-eyed mess reduced to ranting "You're wrong!" ad infinitum. Unfortunately, an awful lot of these type of people seem to hold fairly important positions in society, and so it means we actually give credence to the menstrual waste that they laughably refer to as their version of the truth.

As a side note, if I had to pick one of the many insultingly idiotic arguments used by this group of people to justify why their blinkered Me-Muppetry cannot be disproved by any available facts as the worst, it would have to be "The media is biased towards the Liberals/Conservatives (delete according to political affiliation), so they will never report facts that prove what I say is right. Not that they have to, because I'm right and I know I am. And if you disagree, you're an idiot". These are always the same people who will cheerfully refer to newspaper articles that support whatever they're braying out as proof of how clever they are. Funnily, they only accuse the media of bias when they produce something that disagrees with them, but I digress.

What I'm driving at in this little rant is that we cannot expect to get a nice, neat version of events that is the undisputed truth. Usually, an event happens. Then different people give their different perceptions of what happened. We then have to look at those different perceptions and make up our own minds as to where the truth lies. As a race, we seem inclined to look for something that fits the 'story' structure; we look for explanations that have a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. The fact that our lives rarely fit the storybook mould doesn't seem to bother us; we expect the rest of the world to do so. So it's not really the truth we look for, but the story that we're most inclined to hear.

But of course, that's just my perception of the truth. Yours could be completely different.

Politics: Not Boring

2003-11-04T05:35:00.000-08:00

I have mixed and confused feelings when it comes to voting. On the one hand, I believe everyone should be compelled to vote. On the other, I can see exactly why so few people have faith in the power of the vote.

It’s about that time of the year when the weather gets duller. The skies become greyer with each passing hour, the leaves have long since stopped being a myriad of colours, and chill winds blast icy needles through anyone unfortunate enough to be caught outside. All in all, it seems like the perfect time to talk about politics.

Now, I’m aware as I write this that chances are, not many of you will read it. After all, politics is earthshatteringly dull, and more than a little perverse. Where else would a man who professed admiration for the BNP be considered ‘a bit of a character’? In which other profession could the boss lie through his teeth to the shop floor (i.e. us) and, when caught out, refuse to bring the matter up again? Not very many I’d bet.

But why is it so boring? I mean, whether we like it or not, politics is an important matter. Speaking personally, whenever I write these little bursts of vitriol about the political world, I try and make them as accessible and entertaining is possible as possible (not always easy when talking about something duller than the wits of a US President). And one would have thought that it would be in everyone’s best interests to make sure that every effort is made to include people in debate on something as important as politics. Wouldn’t you?

Apparently it is not. A century ago, people were encouraged to believe that the ‘ruling classes’ knew what was best, and should be left alone to the important business of running the country, whilst the working classes should busy themselves working. This attitude disappeared almost totally in the UK after WWII. We’d seen in the build up to the war just what an utter barrel of monkey’s bumholes the supposed ruling elite had made of seeing which way the wind was blowing (“What’s that old chap? Some Austrian chappy is shouting about how he intends to invade half of Europe? And he’s making lots of weapons you say? Well, I’m sure it’s nothing. Now; who’s for a spot of incest? Incest anyone?”), people started to pay a lot more attention to who it was they gave power to. A 6-year war and revelations like the Holocaust tend to concentrate ones mind, and make one less likely to be blindly and idiotically faithful to the idea that their government will do what is best for everyone.

Then we had the Thatcher years. Now, I do tend to think that she was a strong leader and a rather good one (though with the benefit of hindsight, I do get the impression that given a few more years and she would have started doing things like declaring herself “Dictator for Life”...) for the country at the time. However, she did tend to encourage people not to pay much attention to politics. Hers was a pretty much authoritarian rule, and so people grew apathetic about politics because no matter what they said or did, Thatcher went ahead and did what she wanted. And because it mainly worked out for the best (in the short term certainly), no one really wanted to question her too closely anyway. “So a few thousand miners are out of work, and all our heavy industry got canned? Aye well...it was going to die a death soon anyway and who cares when we’re making SO MUCH MONEY!”

So now we’re back in the situation where we’re gently encouraged to leave the ruling classes alone to get on with running society. Only now, we don’t have the excuse of being ill informed, or ignorant. We’re better informed now as a society than we ever have been before. And, as a result, even someone only casually acquainted with the cavernous headed prats who call themselves our government will be well aware that they are a bunch of shifty, power hungry sh*tcake bakers. We wouldn’t trust these people to look after our house for a weekend, but we don’t really much care about letting them look after our country. Why is this?

It’s not as if those in opposition are any better; the Tory party have just jettisoned their leader (I’m not going to mention him by name; I’m intrigued to know how many people actually know it without being prompted...) in favour of Michael Howard; a man who became a byword for Shiftyness after his interview by Paxman, and who is recognised by the general public as “that smarmy Tory bloke”. Doesn’t encourage faith in them as an alternative government really. The Libdems are...well, they’re there. And nobody seems to care.

So we have a bunch of people jostling for power, none of whom are liked or trusted very much. The only ones who aren’t disliked or considered untrustworthy are the ones whom nobody has really heard of. And so, most people simply don’t bother to choose their leaders. We just leave it to people who still seem to give a damn about politics.

And who are most of these people? They’re the people who will vote for one party because they have done all their life and their parents before them, and so on. They’d vote for Labour if Tony Blair stood up in Parliament, flicked the V’s at the camera’s, then gave a speech on how he intended to solve unemployment by grinding the jobless up in a giant mincing machine and selling the resulting mush to their families. They’d vote Tory if...well, lets face it; anyone who still votes Tory after the pigs ear they made of things in living memory has clearly not bothered to engage their brain since 1990. But you get the picture; the majority of those who vote are those who are rabidly in favour of one side, and seem to believe that their opposition are in league with Satan.

Because of this, politics has polarised. The parties know that they have to appeal to their hard-core base of voters, and it seems that they’ve decided that the best way to do this is to heap scorn on whoever is their opposition (although it does seem that, using that logic, the Tory party’s main opponent is the Tory party...). So now, when one looks at the political arena, one sees what looks very much like a slightly more grownup version of that old playground favourite, “My gang is better than your gang”.

This doesn’t benefit anybody (except perhaps the Sun and the Daily Mail, who like to keep things simple...), and just reinforces the idea that politics should be ignored. But things have been like this for over 20 years now; to new voters, this venal popularity contest between two main parties is the way things have always been. And those people who DO vote are so preoccupied with denouncing whomever is on the other team politically, that they’ve stopped bothering to examine what exactly their own side is getting up to.

So what are we left with? Well, we have a gang of greedy fools supported by mindless idiots on one side...and much the same on the other. Both of these groups are, I would say, in the minority. The overwhelming majority of the public is made up of people who have simply ceased to care what happens in politics any more. They still complain about the government when it affects them personally, but bearing in mind they don’t vote, why should the government give a toss? Answer: They don’t have too. As long as they pander to the minorities who elect them, they can get away with murder (literally in some cases).

So what am I trying to say (other than the same thing that, in a roundabout sort of way, I always say: I’m bored at work)? Basically I think I’m saying that, boring though it is, politics is something we should try to at least take a passing interest in if we actually want to see any improvements in our own lives, and in society as a whole. The alternative is more leaders like Dubya, who doesn’t even need to hide the fact that he’s only in government in order to line his pockets any more as there are idiots out there who would believe him if he said the sky was yellow, black was white, and WOMD will be found in Iraq any day now. Surely we deserve better than that?

You know you gotta have faith

2003-09-10T06:31:00.000-07:00

Since I was a teenager, I've been fascinated with the idea of faith (and yes, I was something of a geeky teen...). At first, it was religious faith that interested me. I couldn't for the life of me understand why otherwise sensible and rational people would live their lives according to a set of principles that evolved over a thousand years ago, the lynchpin of which was a mythical father figure of who's existence there is no proof at all. I wanted to know what drove these people to their conclusion that a particular faith was best suited to them, what made them reject the alternative faiths on offer, and most of all I wanted to know whether these gullible fools would be interested in buying these magic beans I had for sale.

But as time has passed, I've thought about faith a little more (which just goes to show how boring life can be in Newcastle) and I've gradually and belatedly come to realise that faith isn't just limited to religion. We are constantly encouraged to show faith in, for example, our employers who have our best interests at heart, so have faith and don't ask too many questions about why pay rises are heading the same way as the Dodo. Or our government; Tony Blair and Dubya in particular are fond of using their opportunist religious principles to support their calls for us to have faith in them, so don't look too closely at what they're doing because it'll all work out for your benefit, honest. Unsurprisingly, we in the west are now completely cynical about having faith in anything; in general we greet whatever new soul-sapping announcement is guaranteed to make ones life that little bit less enjoyable with black humour and a wry smile. On the plus side, this means that religion no longer has the influence it once did on everyday life. On the down side, it means that we are losing the most important item of faith that we have; faith in ourselves.

Of course, I say that we're losing that aspect of faith; it has never exactly been widespread anyway. If one looks back through history, we've never really been encouraged to have any faith in ourselves as individuals. It has always suited whoever was on the top of the social heap to make us think that, in order to make anything out of our lives, we would need to rely on those in charge. The message has always been "Trust in your leaders, because if you don't then the world will turn to sloppy dogshit". We're indoctrinated with that belief and have been since the dawn of civilisation. Because of that, it is a very special person indeed who has enough faith in himself or herself to take chances in their life and follow a different path from the norm. And, human nature being what it is, those rare and precious few invariably take up a position in what could loosely be termed the ruling classes of society and become part of the same system that tries to keep people down.

Now, I'm not enough of an anarchist to follow this train of thought through to the conclusion "We need no leaders if we all have faith in ourselves". Frankly, although I think the idea that we could live in a world without leaders is a lovely one, human nature being what it is, we'd almost certainly find ourselves in a situation that closely resembled hell on earth. But on the other hand (and this is a very naive thing to say), surely having large numbers of self-confident people who are willing to think for themselves is good for society as a whole? How can it profit a government to keep the population timid and meek, accepting of their lot in life no matter how indifferent it may be?

The obvious answer is, of course, because the ruling classes are not interested in anyone other than themselves. The general populace needs to be kept fearful and paranoid in order to keep them in power? No problem; just look at the constant propaganda we see in the media telling us to be afraid of bombs and of evil terrorists. Look at the Anthrax scare in America ("No, please no! Not anthrax!! Not the disease that is easily curable by anti-biotics!! Nooooooooo!!!"), or the pointless evacuation exercise that took place in London last weekend. We would seem to faced with a contradiction; the people we elect to power to serve our interests will gladly sacrifice those interests in order to remain in power. All because we don't have enough faith in ourselves to stand up and say "Actually, I'm not happy with the way things are being done." We fear being ridiculed for doing so, and that fear and lack of faith keeps us paralysed and allows those fortunate enough to have a measure of control over their lives to extend that control over ours.

Not surprisingly, this state of affairs has led to discontent. In particular we are seeing that discontent among the people of the Islamic world, who have long been burdened with oppressive and unrepresentative governments who use religious faith as a tool for political control. To put things in perspective, I'm sat here complaining about the lack of control I am afforded in my life, but at least I am not in danger of being imprisoned by my government for doing so. Yet how is this discontent being expressed (or at least, how is the majority of that discontent being expressed)? By putting faith in organisations that remain equally unrepresentative of their supporters and have their own agenda which invariably involves replacing the current ruling classes of their society with the leadership of the organisation. This is true of Al-Quaida in all it's many and varied forms, of Hamas, of Islamic Jihad, of the ultra-violent Islamic rebels of North Africa. All of these so-called revolutionaries are equally dependant on discouraging people from having any faith in themselves, and encouraging them to believe that their problems can only be dealt with by the leaders of the organisation.

In abusing the trust of the very people whom they are meant to serve, governments are effectively sowing the seeds of their own destruction. We're encouraged to have faith in our leaders, but our leaders constantly lie to us and are visibly and demonstratably self-serving buckets of bullbollocks. However, thanks to centuries of being told we shouldn't rely on ourselves, we turn to organisations that encourage us to have faith in them instead, and they in turn abuse that trust to achieve their own aims. Isn't it time to stop placing all of our hopes in groups who couldn't care less about us, and only view us as a means to gain power and control over their own destiny? Isn't it time we started to think a little more of ourselves, of our own potential, and act on it? Or will we simply wait for the group of our choice to tell us that it's okay to have a little self-belief? Time will tell I suppose, but I can only hope that we start to believe in ourselves long before there is no other option.

You are NOT welcome here

2003-08-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

This came from a mixture of genuine concern that Iraq would collapse into a bloodbath as soon as coalition troops left, and the incredibly patronising and parochial belief that we (The UK) could make even the slightest difference to that inevitability.

So then; Iraq.

I find myself following a rather odd school of thought these days when it comes to Iraq. On the one hand I still believe that the whole war was not much more than a fairly shabby land grab. The Hutton enquiry is starting to hint at just how many lies and half-truths we were told by our government in order to get support for the war. The various reasons that were used to justify it have been all but discredited (WOMD: Where are they? Links to Al-Quaida: there are now more Islamic militants operating in Iraq than there were before the war. Liberating the people of Iraq: How come the US and UK are happy to support other brutal dictators across the world?), and we are left with the rather depressing sight of politicians using smoke and mirrors to try and help us forget just how questionable all of the evidence actually was. If you've been following the '45 minutes' row between the BBC and the government you might have noticed that...well, its not hugely important. Happily the Hutton enquiry might help bury that little bout of handbags and allow more investigation of how questionable the intelligence was in the first place

Okay, so that's a quick summary of why I don't think the war should have happened in the first place. With all that said, I also find that I don't actually want the coalition troops to leave Iraq now that they're there. And why not? Well, not because I'm taking smug satisfaction in seeing the UK troops making a far better job of peacekeeping than the US army (though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't...patriotism sometimes shows itself in the most absurd ways). No, it's because I'm inclined to think that the whole country would collapse into a pretty spectacular bloodbath if our troops did just pack up and leave.

I've arrived at this conclusion for a number of reasons. Firstly, despite what those war-hungry little bags of sh*t on the political right would have you believe, I'm immensely happy to see the end of Saddam's regime in Iraq. However, the one advantage to having he and his delightful family in charge of the country was that it kept a lid on all of the other tensions that were simmering away. Admittedly, he did this by torturing and murdering large numbers of people, but because of his organised brutality a lot of disorganised brutality didn't happen.

Now that Saddam has gone, what is to stop that disorganised violence from taking a grip of Iraq? I mean, what would stop the Kurds and Arabs in the north of Iraq from continuing the ethnic battles that have simmered since Iraq's creation? What would stop Turkey taking what it sees as it's dues in Northern Iraq? What would stop the Shia and Sunni Moslems from extending their disagreements on the best way to love ones fellow man, to the violence that is a hallmark of religious disagreement?

The only thing at the moment that would stop it is the coalition troops. We've not heard much from the Kurdish area of Iraq, and that is thanks in the main to the presence of the troops. So far, Turkey have been discouraged from making any aggressive moves by the presence of US soldiers. And although the Arab population are being none-too-gently persuaded by the Kurds to get off their land, it is at least being done with a certain measure of restraint (certainly compared to the poison gas that Saddam used to persuade the Kurds to move in the first place) thanks to the presence of American Troops. Neither have we heard much about religious strife, though the continuing and increasingly confrontational proclamations of the Shia clerics in Iraq make it pretty clear that it is still an option.

In fact, all we generally do hear about in Iraq is the mounting body count of allied troops, or the absolute ineptitude of some or them in their peacekeeping duties. With regard to the former, more troops have died since the war ended than did during the war itself. Many people on the political left are using this as ammunition for their belief that the war should not have happened. To an extent, I agree with them. But it's also being used to justify why the coalition should pull out of Iraq altogether. Now to me this seems like cutting off ones nose to spite ones face. The political left gave several very valid humanitarian reasons in the arguments as to why the war should not start. Yet some of them seem happy to ignore the inevitable humanitarian disaster that would occur if the troops did leave. I like to win arguments (no, really), but I stop short of wanting to win them at the cost of thousands of innocent dead. That seems a high price to pay for the privilege of saying "I told you so".

As to the ineptitude...well, lets not mince words here; most of those accusations have been levelled at American troops in central Iraq (particularly Baghdad). It's unfair to say that they are the only troops at fault; anyone familiar with the UK's history in Northern Ireland will have little difficulty believing that the killing of UK troops in Basra was due in part (or perhaps in it's entirety) to heavy handedness on the part of the soldiers. But by and large, the media are concentrating on the US troops.

Now I'm not going to defend them; they've made some horrendous cockups (at the cost of innocent Iraqi's being killed; not an ideal way to make the locals think well of the troops) and I would hope that the troops involved will be held accountable. Neither does the claim "Well, they're soldiers and not peacekeepers so what do you expect?" hold much weight with me. Peacekeeping duties are part of a soldier’s role in peacetime, so if it's a part of their job then it's not too much to ask of them to do it properly.

However, I am going to sympathise with them to a certain extent. Iraq is a powderkeg of a country, and keeping a lid on it using methods other than the brutality of Saddam must be one hell of a difficult task. All in all, it seems to me that the incidents where troops sow more fear and mistrust in Iraq are outweighed by the (largely unreported) incidents where there is no trouble to speak of. Admittedly, I could be wrong in that regard; maybe the troops are endlessly adding to the tension in Iraq. But the fact that there have so far been no en masse riots running for days would seem to indicate that most of the troops are doing a good job most of the time.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that although the legality of the war and continued occupation is questionable at best, the reality of the situation is that somebody's troops need to be there. Not that anyone should expect either the US or UK to be too concerned with trifling little niggles such as international law; Moazzam Begg and Feroz Abbasi (the two British civilians held at Guantanamo Bay) are apparently about to confess to a war crime. Bearing in mind that America is denying that the conflict in Afghanistan was ever a war? There have been great pains taken to describe the men held in Guantanamo Bay as "Illegal combatants", thus allowing them to be held without any reference to the Geneva Convention. If they have to confess to war crimes, does this mean that they or any other interested party can also have members of the US government arrested for the war crime of Mistreatment of Prisoners? America is successfully applying the rules to others but not to themselves.

Anyway, griping aside the reality of this situation is that the UN still don't have a role, so for now it has to be the coalition. The alternative is not a very pleasant thought.

My little runaway

2003-07-15T07:48:00.000-07:00

I was trying to say something about the sexualisation of children in this rant. Whether I succeeded or not is a matter for debate.

You may or may not be aware of the UK headlines today. Shevaun Pennington, a 12-year-old girl from Wigan, has run off to France with 31-year-old Toby Studebaker, a former US marine. Apparently the two of them met over the Internet, both pretended that they were in their late teens, and at least one of the two met with the other with thoughts of marriage and children on their minds.

Though it's sorely tempting to comment on the fact that, if a US marine can't tell the difference between a 12 year old girl and a 19 year old woman then what chance have they got distinguishing between an Iraqi civilian and an Iraqi guerilla, I'll leave that subject alone for now. I'll also tactfully avoid mentioning just how disappointed the two 'teenagers' must have been upon first seeing each other in the flesh;

"Gee, you look young for 19"
'Yeah, uh...I'm very petite. Um...you look old for your age. In fact, you look as old as my dad'
"Well...you've seen Dawson’s Creek; all teenagers look at least 21, right?"
'Well...I suppose so...fancy going to Paris?'

Instead I'd rather like to spend a bit of time looking at people's reactions to this story. After all, this is a story that has paedophilia at its centre by pretty much anyone's standards. So whilst the papers are, for once, acting with a certain amount of restraint in that the overwhelming tone of the reports is concern for Shevaun's safety, one would expect the general public to be horrified at this soldier for taking advantage of a naive young girl. One may expect the baying for his blood to begin shortly, and in earnest. One would be wrong.

Maybe it's the "If I don't laugh, I'll cry" defence kicking in, but the main reaction as near as I can tell is "Jesus, look at the STATE of her! I mean, Christ, is he so desperate to get laid that he'll take a statutory rape charge in order to have sex with a kid who looks like she would be improved by having a Siamese twin conjoined to her head?!" Maybe that's a trifle harsh (or maybe my friends and I have just got too vivid and unpleasant an imagination...), but nobody seems to be taking this particularly seriously at all. So why not? How come a man can get beaten up in this country for having the same name as a paedophile, but someone who travels over 3000 miles in order to have sex with a 12-year-old girl becomes the subject of bawdy contempt, if not jocular sympathy?

Well, as the full story of what has happened is not known, there's going to be a certain amount of unsubstantiated guesswork going on here, so bear with me. As I've mentioned, the picture of Shevaun that was released to the media is...well, it's less than flattering. The poor girl is not an oil painting, as many have commented on. Well here's a thing; she's only a child, so why the hell SHOULD she have to have model good looks? I rather though that the point here is that she shouldn't have to worry about whether or not she'll be seen as attractive to a 31 year old, yet we're sniggering and making derogatory comments about someone who is a victim in this situation. I don't get it; I mean, when Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman were abducted and murdered, no-one was going "Yeah well, a couple of blondes in footy shirts...I mean, any man would, wouldn't they?".

She's just a child, and as such she shouldn't be expected to worry about how sexually attractive she is. Yet here she is, running off with a man whom she doubtless intends to have a sexual relationship with. So whose fault is that? Is it hers, for lying to a man and leading him on? Is it his for taking advantage of someone who is clearly just a kid? Or is it something more? Well, here is where the guesswork comes in; I would say it's about 1% the first explanation, 49% the second, and 50% something else entirely. If this girls photo has caused disbelieving mirth among all and sundry, it's doesn't take a great leap of the imagination to accept that she quite probably got an equal amount of grief at school. After all, we were all schoolkids once and I'm sure we can all recall the abuse heaped upon the ugly girl in our class, and all in the name of ensuring that whomever it was getting picked on, if it wasn't us then who cares? I know I never gave the first shit, just so long as my peers weren't laughing at me.

Well, if we can understand that Shevaun was almost certainly on the receiving end of teasing and bullying about, among other things, her looks then why on earth are we so surprised that she's ran off with someone who most likely showered her with compliments and bolstered her ego by telling her how much he liked her? Again I must stress, this is no more than me guessing as to the circumstances, but it doesn't sound so unbelievable does it? Yes, Studebaker is pretty much without doubt a predatory paedophile and as such he richly deserves to have his testes nailed to the inside wall of a Tiger enclosure at the zoo. But what about the fact that she was driven part of the way into his arms? I'm not talking about the specific individuals who teased her, but the fact that (and you all knew this was coming...) society allows it.

Speaking as someone who, if you allow me a moment of uncharacteristic boastfulness, has raised the use of vitriol and bile to something like an art form, it may seems very strange that I'm bemoaning the fact that it was probably teasing that drove Shevaun into this deeply unpleasant situation. And I should clarify, I'm not expecting kids to stop belittling each any time soon; that’s just part of growing up. But I am expecting society as a whole to take a bit more interest in making young people feel valued. There have been enough foaming tabloid rants about what we should do to protect our children from paedophiles. Surely we should start a little closer to home, and try and arm our kids with a greater sense of self worth, so that the honeyed words of a sick bastard won’t tempt them to throw away their childhood in exchange for underage sex and mental scarring.

Do ya think I'm sexy?

2003-07-09T06:25:00.000-07:00

The play was called Cooking With Elvis, and if you ever get a chance to see it I urge you to do so. It's hilarious and moving in equal measure. And you'll see a man get his cock out. Who could ask for more?

In a couple of month’s time, I will be in a play that will find me onstage and as naked as the day I was born. Naturally, were it not for the fact that I'm so damned sexy, I'd be shitting my pants to the point of overflowing. And predictably enough, everyone whom I've told has asked "Aren't you embarrassed?". To which the answer is "No; should I be? Do I have anything to be embarrassed about? It's my body, I'm rather fond of it, and if other people want to come along and have a look at it...well, more power to 'em!"

But, me being me, all those blushing and giggling questioners did set me off thinking; why do we seem to have such a huge hang up on body image in our society? Especially where women are concerned, but increasingly with men as well. I mean, we live in a time when the NHS farts and collapses every time there is a flu epidemic, but where men can also have operations to implant fake muscles into their chests. I'm a first class pervert, and am the first to admit that I have no problem with silicon breasts. But silicone pecs...is it just me, or does that seem like vanity taken to the point of parody?

Everyone, men and women, seems to feel that they are under increasing pressure to have a certain shaped body, a particular size waist, a specific weight range. Why is this? As far as I can see, it seems to be down to insecurity about ourselves and the way we look. But when did self-centred vanity become the accepted way to express this insecurity? Did we, as a society, inch slowly towards that all by ourselves? Or did we receive a helping hand along the way?

Naturally, when looking for something to blame for a fault in society, we will turn our attention to the media. The media gets a lot of bad press (if you'll pardon the pun) in this regard; I'm sure everyone is familiar with the somewhat schizophrenic approach taken by the print media towards body image. On page 4 we will be told of the anguish caused by the increase in anorexia and bulimia among young women, and what could perhaps be done to stop it. Then page 5 will, in scandalised tones, launch an epic flurry of claws and handbags at whichever celebrity happens to have been snapped with his/her stomach being anything less than washboard flat.

In the past, I've always had the same opinion when it comes to criticising any media for what they do; if you don't like it, don't read or watch it. There's not exactly a dearth of newspapers, lifestyle magazines, TV, or radio programs to choose from, so choose one more to your liking. After all, we're adults and are capable of making our own choices. That is still my opinion, but I have had cause to add a caveat to it; sometimes we have no choice in the matter. Sometimes something permeates so many different parts of the media on so many levels that we're left with little option but to be aware of it. There can't be many people in the UK who remain blissfully unaware of the continuing saga of Victoria Beckham, her appearance, her weight, and her husband (and anyone who has stayed unaware is a lucky, lucky bastard...). However, just because we are all aware of something, doesn't mean we have to actually pay any attention to it, or give it any credence.

(As a side note, I should really confess that I've found myself modifying my opinions of films or albums based on favourable write-ups in magazines. Curiously, I'm not really ashamed to admit that...maybe that's just because I've never read a magazine that's told me I should be)

The thing is though, if it is the media, then why do we go out and buy or watch the image-obsessed dross that is cluttering up newsagents and TV stations? I mean, they wouldn't be successful if we had no interest in them, yet we weekly spend a sum equivalent to the third world national debt on ladmags/'lifestyle' mags (as women insist on calling the froth that fills the pages of Cosmo et al)/scandal rags. It seems odd that the media gets so much of the blame for our growing obsession with body image, when one could build a convincing case that they are merely responding to what the public wants.

Which leads us to the obvious question; why is this what the public want? Why do we want the perfect body, even at the expense of having a remotely enjoyable life. I mean, I've known a few people with eating disorders, and the misery that they caused themselves trying to sculpt their body to someone else’s idea of perfection far outweighed any misery they had felt for being overweight/ugly. To me, it seems bizarre that no-one stops to think "Hang on; I only weigh as much as a packet of crisps now, I have hunger pains all the time, and my body chemistry is completely screwed due to malnutrition. Hmm...yeah, I must be happy with my weight!".

I'm taking the proverbial to an extent there; eating disorders are a mental illness, and expecting someone to think logically about anything when in the throes of mental illness is unreasonable of me. Couldn't we therefore say that society's body image hang up is a widespread form of mental illness? Well...perhaps, but not everyone with an obsession over body image ends up with an eating disorder. So perhaps it is a mistake for me to think of this hang up of society as something to be diagnosed and then treated.

I'm starting to ramble more than usual, so I shall draw things to a close now. And as per usual, I find that I've raised more questions in my own head than have been answered. The one thing I remain sure of, and hope I've gone some way to impressing on you, is that society is spending a disproportionate amount of its time being concerned with what is not much more than petty vanity. Surely we're all better than that.

Aren't we?

Rape

2003-05-15T07:48:00.000-07:00

Very recently, I found myself arguing with a friend about rape laws in the UK. I found this rather strange, as usually most arguments about rape laws tend to go something like along the following lines:

"Rape laws aren't really good enough as they stand; too many men are getting away with rape and too many women are suffering as a result"
'Yeah, you're right there'

And that's where it usually ends. This time however, it was pointed out quite forcibly to me that saying things are unfair as they stand isn't really good enough. If we know it's unfair, and if everyone seems to accept that, then why are there still such low conviction rates for rape, and why is this crime still so prevalent? Do we acknowledge the seriousness of the problem? Are we willing to something beyond talking about it? Or is this just proof that we live in a mans world; men are always the perpetrators, and suffer rape far less often than women and so are less inclined to do anything about the problem.

One of the biggest problems is that rape is a crime that remains hidden. We occasionally hear of situations in some Islamic cultures where rape is considered a matter of shame for the victim and her family. If you're anything like as condescending as I am, you may find yourself shaking your head in bewilderment that any society could consider rape to be the fault of the victim. You may even start to feel faintly superior as you live in a country where rapists are widely and rightly regarded with contempt. Well, much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, as things stand the UK is equally as bad in it's treatment of victims of rape.

Of the women whom I've met in the last 10 or so years, roughly 1 in 10 of them has told me that they have been raped or sexually assaulted. None of their attackers were convicted of any crime, or even arrested for it. And that is just the women who have admitted to being raped. Who knows how many more keep silent about it? Scary, isn't it?
Personally, I find it absolutely horrifying that someone can be raped in this country with seeming impunity. Either a few men have a voracious appetite for forced sex, or there are a lot more inadequate little scumbags around than we'd like to admit to.

A common retort to the lack of rape convictions is "Well, why don't more women go to the police?" My question is, why should they? After all, of those cases that actually make it as far as court, less than 10% result in a conviction and sentences can be as low as 180 hours community service. Can you imagine that? Going through the horror of reliving being raped, with the man who did it sat a few metres away from you, and an arrogant, wig wearing shite tries to make you feel like the whore of Babylon for having had sex with more than one man in your whole life? And then, after having got through the judicial ordeal, to then see the man guilty of raping you walking from the court having received no more than a slapped wrist? It doesn't exactly encourage women to come forward and report the crime, does it?

I should point out that my line of argument at this point in the debate with my friend was something like "Well, yes things are shite right now. But they will change. I admit, they'll probably change slowly because the legal process always grinds along, but so many people of our generation and below realise how horrendous the crime of rape is, and so convictions will increase". My friend’s response was "How the hell do you know that? What if it never changes?".

Though I didn't think it at the time, I'm starting to wonder whether she had a point. If anything, rape convictions are falling. A small part (a VERY small part) of the blame must be attributed to the stunningly idiotic women who falsely accuse someone of rape (Nadine Milroy-Sloane, come on down!). They don't exactly help in encourage women to come forward and report rape. But the vast majority of the problem would seem to lie in society's attitude toward women.

For example, a woman's sexual history can be legitimately raised by the defence in a rape trial. What that means in practice is that if a woman has been anything less than a saintly virgin, it will be implied that she is no better than a whore who probably wanted it anyway, and is now spitefully trying to ruin a mans life. Basically, the underlying theme of many of these rape defences seems to be that a promiscuous woman cannot be raped, as she is not capable of not consenting to sex. The even more sinister unspoken thought behind this is "And even if she was raped, she deserved it for being such a slapper".

Now the reason that this sort of defence is allowed to succeed so often is that the upper echelons of the judiciary (judges etc) are old and old fashioned in their view of women. That anachronistic view of the world is exploited by barristers to a rapist’s advantage. So, in theory, as new judges replace the old ones, we should start to see the end of that attitude. But will we really? After all, most of us still tend to regard promiscuous women with...well, if not scorn then we certainly think rather less of them than we would if they are not promiscuous. And that is a fucking ridiculous way to view women. And what is more, people tend only to act in matters that concern them directly. Male rape is a rarity, and most of society's movers and shakers (and, most importantly, legislators) are men. Why should they worry about a change in rape laws, or an increase in convictions, when it isn't going to win them the next election? It tends to suggest that my initial assessment, that change will happen slowly, was wide of the mark. Change will still happen, but a lot slower than anyone apart from a rapist would like it to be.

More than anything, I would say that increased respect for women is the only way to ensure rape becomes a rarely committed (and then, punished in draconian fashion) crime. We need, as a society, to stop classifying women as either virgins or whores with no allowance for anything else. Unless we do, 1 in 10 women will continue to be raped, and only 1 in 10 rapists will suffer any degree of punishment. I defy anyone to tell me that that is a satisfactory state of affairs.

More random thoughts

2003-04-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

Some more random thoughts about the war:

Seeing the people of Iraq celebrating the end of Saddam's regime was a fantastic sight. Anyone who still, despite this, managed to snort with derision and launch once more into the numerous (and in some cases, well founded) reasons that the US is doing the Arab world a disservice must be hard hearted indeed.

So, no Weapons of Mass Destruction were used. None were found (so far). No Al-Quaida training facilities have been unearthed. Yet the sophistry and spin would have you believe differently. We have been told that "Materials likely to be used for chemical weapons" have been discovered. Would it sound less impressive if it were pointed out that the average public swimming pool, with it's reasonably large stock of chlorine, has materials that could be used in chemical warfare?

This morning also saw the announcement that Abul Abbas, the Palestinian who planned the terrorist hijack of a cruise liner some 16 years ago (during which a paraplegic American hostage was murdered), has been captured in Baghdad. No doubt this will be touted as proof of terrorist links to Saddam's regime. Proof? Erm...well, not really. Abbas had renounced violence, had been allowed by the Israeli government (not noted for it's forgiving attitude toward Palestinian terrorists) to visit Gaza numerous times, and America had dropped the warrant for his arrest. If this is proof that the Iraqi government has links to terrorism, then we in the UK must be guilty of the same thing. More so in fact, as we have Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness (former IRA members) in our Parliament.

The looting in Iraq's major cities seems to be dying down (if only because there is nothing left to steal). Some people have seen fit to blame the coalition forces for the looting. Which is true in that it was they who overthrew the Ba'ath regime. But bearing in mind that there are 25,000 troops in Baghdad who need to control 5 million people, doesn't it strike anyone else as rather petty minded and pathetic of those most fervently anti-war voices to try and lay all the blame for this at the coalitions door? We're talking about a nation that has suffered oppression of the worst sort, so it's not entirely surprising that we are now seeing the most basic expression of newly acquired freedom (i.e. Do What Thou Wilt is the whole of the law). And a few troops are expected to police it? Please; I’m opposed to this ugly little land grab, but if you're going to be anti-war then at least try and keep within spitting distance of reality.

Has anyone, at any point, sat Dubya down and explained the principles of diplomacy to him? He and his administration seem incapable of expressing themselves by any means other than threats. Worried about your allies not supporting your actions? Threaten them with a trade embargo. Worried about countries that border the one you've invaded offering sanctuary to people you want captured? Threaten them with war. Worried about Arab's from elsewhere in the middle-east fighting US troops in Iraq? Threaten each and every nation that the originated from.

America is now condemning (and, naturally, threatening) Syria for sheltering members of the former Iraqi government. Is this the same America that has trained, equipped, and if things go horribly wrong, offered sanctuary to Christ knows how many South and Central American tinpot dictators over the past few decades?

One of the major objections to this war was that the US was being very selective in which dictators it was removing. However, couldn't the bullishness and threatening language emanating from Washington at the moment be interpreted as the US answering that very criticism? If America did turn this oil war into some sort of crusade against dictatorships, wouldn't that be a good thing in principle (if not in practice)?

Speaking of crusades, why is Dubya doing his very best to prove the fears of the Islamic world correct by only bullying Moslem countries? I mean, I hate to bang on about this but North Korea and Israel are not exactly behaving like angels, yet they continue to be left to their own devices. Anyone would think that certain members of the Bush and Blair governments want terrorism to increase in order to limit personal liberties. I'm not entirely sure I believe that myself, but one can certainly see why many other do.

There seems to be some sort of religious tension in Iraq at the moment. A senior Shiite cleric was murdered a few days after he returned to Iraq from the UK. Yet another cleric was given 48 hours to leave Iraq. And the Shiite’s seem to be the most vocal out of all Iraqi groups opposed to US involvement in setting up a new government. I suspect that there is more than meets the eye here.

There would also seem to be a racial war brewing in the north of Iraq. The Kurds have wanted their own country for years (Kurdistan is divided between Iraq and Turkey at the moment). There has already been fighting between Kurds and Arabs in the northern city of Mosul, and the Turks make no secret of the fact that they would regard annexation of Northern Iraq by themselves as preferable to a Kurdish nation. This all adds up to more interesting times.

If you want a blueprint of what will happen in Iraq now that the war is basically over, look no further than Afghanistan. The US promised millions in aid to the fledgling Afghan government. Would you care to guess how much has been set aside for them in Dubya's most recent budget? Approximately....nothing. Zero. Not a sausage. Afghanistan is still in chaos; chances are that Iraq will be just as messed up as a nation this time next year. Add to that the possibility of racially and religiously motivated conflict within the country, and one has cause to worry that this conflict is just the beginning of the bloodshed.

Am I alone in wanting this whole thing to be over so we can have something on the news other than War? After all, we have other things to think about. Things like the global spread of the SARS virus, the faltering Northern Ireland peace process, and the trial of Maxine Carr and Ian Huntley...actually, can we keep the war going as long as possible?! Okay, so soldiers and civilians are dying every day, but it makes for more positive viewing and reading than any other world events...