The Shit and the Plebian: The Scariest Hallowe'en Tale Ever Told

It is with the greatest trepidation that I commit these words to tremulous and spidery life; with an almost insupportable dread, in fact.  Hesitantly, and with many a shudder, however, I must confront the terror of the past few days if I am to be granted the merest fancy of surcease of the fear that wracks my once-sturdy constitution.  Dear Lord!  Did I really write "past few days"?  Such is the ordeal imprinted upon my soul, it seems inconceivable that it has been of such inconsequential duration - rather it seems that my suffering had its nascency in a primordial, Cthonic era, and has grown over millenia into its current, all-pervading maturation...Yeah; I've got the wind up something rotten, is what I'm saying - frankly, I'm shit-scared.
And who wouldn't be?  Hallowe'en is almost upon us, after all: what better time could there be for darkness to enter the spirit, for awful chimerae to prowl and roar throughout the caverns of the soul?  Small wonder that I'm driven to extreme, intense, introspection.  When a life-long liberal type - one who has given over his heart to any number of woolly-minded, cuddly notions - finds himself agreeing with a senior figure in a Conservative government, it's a bit of a shock; when he finds himself thinking that - in all honesty - the cunt isn't going far enough, it's bound to make him hit the Gothic prose pretty fucking hard.
The thing is, however, I'm having a hard time faulting the logic of Ian Duncan Smith: there; I said it.
His notion to "cap" various family benefits so as to accommodate only the two oldest children has been pretty universally damned by anybody and everybody who leans further leftwards than Elizaveth Bathory, but I can sort of see his point.
Clearly, IDS' spot of ideologically-based kite-flying was to some extent a Conference-season come-on to the Tory faithful - a seductive gambit that combined economic "common sense" with a scapegoating of the poorest members of society that your average Telegraph-rustling Middle Englander wouldn't resist even if they could, and as such represents Politics at its very worst, but for all that, there's a germ of wisdom amongst the scrounger-baiting. It's just a pity he couldn't have found a way of deterring the better-off from filling the fee-paying Academies of tomorrow to capacity - perhaps by levying a prohibitive tax on the purchase price of those hideous People Carriers?
Prominent amongst the chorus of well-meant disapproval for this proposed money-saver has been the refrain that it "infringes upon the Human Rights" of those in lower income groups to reproduce: having giving it some thought, I can't go along with this in the slightest, though.  For a start, it isn't - at least not in any literal sense; it's not as though he's suggesting that roaming patrols of Sex-Cops should be turned loose in Council estates to let rip with stern lectures through a megaphone and blasts from an ice-cold water-cannon at the first creak of bedsprings, is it?  No; if people want to churn out mini-mes willy-nilly, they're free so to do - they just won't get any State money for it.  Secondly, I don't see propagation as a Human Right; rather, it's a responsibility (the biggest there is, in fact) and an obligation - anyone seeing it as asserting some kind of inalienable prerogative, is on a wrong'un in no small measure.  I've never spawned myself - and certainly, at this point, I never shall.  Surprisingly, it's because I lack the arrogance to conjure into being a living creature; I just don't have the balls (if you'll pardon the expression) to whip up a nipper and expose them to this unholy shit-pit.  How do people do it?  Christ on codeine; most people wouldn't stick a kitten into a blender, yet each and every day, they casually usher tiny human beings down the chute into an environment that will have much the same effect as the whirling blades of a Cuisinart upon a cat - only it takes years rather than seconds, and costs a shitload of money.  It's essentially a selfish act; the most selfish act, in fact - a flourish of fuck-youism in the face of one's own mortality, and one whose consequences are met wholly by a blameless zygote.
Nevertheless, the human race must go on - apparently.  That being the case, it would be wrong - not to say unrealistic - to forbid breeding entirely.  Is it wrong, however, to disincentivise it?  I don't think so.
People of all socio-economic levels pump out their protoplasm fairly recklessly; either because they can afford to, or because they don't think about it over-much.  Just because one can do something, does it necessarily follow that they ought to?  Really, what benefit is there in having more than two kids?  Do the proud parents-to-be think that their friends are beset with an insatiable hunger to hear yet a third variation on their anecdotes about a sleepless night that ended with a facefull of sprog-spew?  Are their own lives so empty and devoid of purpose that they can only feel truly alive when they're going through the Mr Men books yet again?  Is it a case of "third time's the charm", and on the latest go-round, the grisly, protracted ordeal of showing a toddler how to put its shoes on or refrain from sticking a sweetie into the DVD player will become a joyous, glorious lark?  Again; I don't see it.  Put simply: we've got enough people in the world as it is; what do you think your DNA has to offer the gene-pool in large quantities?  I can't imagine many couples shuddering in post-coital delight and drowsily reflecting upon how they've just beast-with-two-backed themselves an eventual cure for AIDS, can you?
The other objections to IDS scheme barely merit mention: "what about religious or cultural norms?"  Well; what about them?  While the late Mr Christ may have been right when he said that "In my Father's house are many mansions", but that doesn't alter the fact that down here, affordable homes (both in the form of social housing and in the private sector) are getting rarer than people who weren't diddled by celebrities in the 1970s - there may not be many mansions, but there are a fair few two-bed semis that cost about the same.  
We live in an age of paradoxically shrinking resources and ever-greater consumerism, with everybody wanting (or at least being told pretty convincingly that they want) a lot more from a lot less: why exacerbate it?  The era of the immense, sprawling family should be over; no longer should anybody (whatever their income) feel entitled to found yet another dynasty - even if they can afford it personally, the world can't.
To conclude, I shall borrow freely from the wisdom of another egregious demagogue with a flair for Mail-reading morality:  when addressing the human jetsam that wash up upon his stage, Jeremy Kyle often harangues them with the admonition to "man up, get a job, and put something on the end of it".  "Manning up" is pretty relative, of course, while getting a job is still something of a stumbling-block for many; putting something on the end of it, however, is something that anybody can do - and bloody well should do, at that.
Of course; having partially-agreed with both Ian Duncan Smith and Jeremy Kyle, I see little point in anything other than a quick and painless death: it's to be hoped that the sight of my corpse dangling in the front hall will  provide a suitably Hallowe'eny frisson for trick-or-treating kids - just as long as there's not too many of the little bastards.

Oh, What A Lovely Fraud!

Paschendaele, 1917: Death and Night stand sentinel over the scarred, embattled earth.  Shells burst in screaming fire above the battlefield, illuminating untold horrors: here, a single, severed hand clutching at nothing; a vicious tangle of bloodied barbed wire glitters with black rubies; a horse splayed in mud, sightless eyes bulging and grotesque behind a gas-mask.
Huddled in a trench, sharing cigarettes and the slow torture of ever-present fear, are two men: Sgt Dawson and Pvt White.  For them, the worst of the fighting has yet to come; for now, they must watch, worry, and wait; wait for a bullet, a shell, a bayonet - hopefully any of these will come the way of the cunt who's in the next trench aimlessly blowing long, plaintive notes upon a harmonica without ever getting anywhere near a melody.  The sergeant looks at his comrade: the boy is barely seventeen; frozen and absurd in his youth and an outsized army greatcoat.
"Chin up, lad," he tells him.
"Why?" asks Pvt White, "'Cos it'll all be over by Christmas?"
"It might be, Chalkie," Dawson nods slowly, "some Christmas, anyway - they weren't very specific as to the year, if I remember right..."
White throws his cigarette into a puddle; a pinprick of red light arcing through the night to fizzle and die in filth serving as an allegory for anyone inclined to see it.
"What's it all for though, Sarge?  That's what I want to know."
"We're not supposed to ask, son: King's Regulations - and," his voice drops to a whisper as though he's about to utter something improper "it's in a poem an' all."
Pvt White rubs his tired, reddened eyes with a muddy hand and sighs.
"I s'pose not, Sarge," he replies wearily.  "I just wish that ... I dunno; I just want it all to be for something.  I've seen three blokes I grew up with torn apart by bullets - actually torn apart - and for what? Can't you tell me that anything good is going to come from all this?  Can't you?"  By the end of this, White's voice has risen to a high, desperate screech.  Dawson has heard that tone before; knows it for pure fear and the death of hope.  He smiles a rueful, old campaigner's smile: finally, he thinks, I can do something for the boy.
"I'll tell you what good is going to come from it all, Chalkie," he says, easily.  "Though you'll 'ave to wait a bit, mind."
White looks at his sergeant, eyes wide with yearning.  He - and millions of other young men - need this answer.
"Yes," Dawson muses, "You'll 'ave to wait about an 'undred years, but believe you me, boy - it'll be worth it."
The private can't imagine a hundred years; can't even envision a tomorrow, in fact.  He lost the belief in a world without slime, horror, and carnage the day he lost his best friend.  Something in Sgt Dawson's tone is strangely soothing, however...
"In abaht an 'undred years," Dawson continues, "one of the most unpopular Prime Ministers that our Great Nation has ever had is going to pledge £50m of public money to a commemorative celebration of this war - now what d'you say to that?"
Tragically, a direct hit from a German mortar ended this conversation rather abruptly (while leaving the whining harmonica-player unhurt, nobody will be pleased to learn).  It therefore falls upon me (assuming I have the temerity - which I have) to respond on the terrified infantryman's behalf.
Broadly speaking, Mr Cameron can shove his Flanderspalooza up his arse.  Though by now - after a Royal Wedding, a Jubilee, and the hideously extended Sports Day we've all sat through - it should come as no surprise that the Government are pulling the old "bread and circuses" trick yet again, there really is something about this particular Crusty Cob that seems unusually indigestible.
Even assuming that it's possible to engage the whole population in thought about the Great War without trivialising its squalor and foulness by having Jedward knock out a hi-energy pop cover of "It's A Long Way To Tipperary" or drafting in the cast of The Only Way Is To Be A Self-Serving, Half-Witted Living Monument To Crass Vanity With A Tenuous Grasp On Reality to intone the poems of Rupert Brooke over footage of those iconic white crosses - and that's an assumption I'm pretty reluctant to make - what will be the point of any of it?
The point of it all is depressingly obvious if you give it even half a moment's thought: a colossal, months-long Party Political Broadcast for the Conservative Party paid for buy the taxpayer.  For what was World War One except a Tory war?  Alright; the historical fact is that it was a war that Britain entered into under a Liberal government, but let's not quibble over semantics: the values of WWI were pretty Tory, were they not?  Empire-building, influence and trade in the Balkans, xenophobia, and a callous disregard for the lives of innumerable Tommies - it had it all. And these are the things that we'll be urged to remember by unctuous commentators as we look at Cameron leaning his sculpted-Spam face down to confer a sickly grin upon the skeletal form of any Ypres veteran they can dig up for the Big Day.  Oh, there'll be the usual cant about "bravery and sacrifice" I suppose; it's all very inspiring to talk about that sort of thing - especially if you don't dwell too much on exactly who made the sacrifices, how avoidable they could have been had Edwardian Britain not been so fired-up with bellicose jingoism and capitalist greed, and just who actually benefited most from the countless acres of mutilated flesh and the thousands of tottering, broken figures screaming the rest of their lives away in mental hospitals that were the physical realities of these noble sentiments.
Of all the conflicts to have scarred the globe in recent history, The Great War is easily the most dreadful, pointless, and hideous: there was no ideology about it other than greed; it didn't even have the dubious provenance of being a "religious" war (on which all sorts of people are awfully keen) - yet it is to be marked in 2014 with a festival of flag-waving, hypocrisy, and propaganda, and an almost hypnotic insistence on the British Public's decency and courage as evidenced by the fact that they're happy to march forward unto their doom - be it in the form of German machine-guns, enforced redundancy, or an Atos assessment.
Yeah; it might cost a bit - but if there's one thing we've learned in the past couple of years, you really can't put a price on Britain's taste for their own servility or for what they're told is "prestige".  Does anyone else have a lump in their throat yet?  Don't worry: you will; a chunk of stale bread tasting of death and shit just like the ones those promised "homes fit for heroes" got to chow down on in the 1920s - and their descendants have been fed on ever since.

Why The Yeti Didn't Kill Kennedy and Other Truths "They" Don't Want You To Discover

Here's something to wipe that Monday Morning Smile from your faces, cats and kittens – because I just know how invigorating and giddy-thrilling we all find saddling up for another week...
I was watching Oliver Stone's JFK the other night, when I found myself struck by a rather disturbing thought. Don't worry: it wasn't anything really soul-chilling like “come to think of it, Costner really isn't that bad an actor”, or a recollection of seeing my grandparents going at it like famished badgers triggered by the scrotal appearance of Ed Asner – but even so, it was far from pleasant.
Put simply, it went like this: even given that the movie had a specific agenda, it was sufficiently based on acknowledged and easily-verifiable facts to make the whole conspiracy theory seem credible; indeed, for years before the film came out, one would be hard-pushed to find anybody that has heard of the JFK assassination and yet doesn't think there are a couple of points that might bear a second look. Let's face it: that President Kennedy was murdered by a group of people with considerable clout within the US Government's infrastructure is pretty much seen as a fact – a historical event as certain as the discovery of America, the invention of the Spinning Jenny, or that 1971 saw the birth of a pallid, mole-blind baby who would, over the years, acquire a few harmonicas, a top-hat, and an insurmountable urge towards self-aggrandisement.

For all that, however - for the alleged smears against those who spoke out against the findings of the Warren Commission, despite the (probable) killings of key witnesses, and in the face of all the usual “you-don't-know-how-high-this-thing-goes” histrionics – nothing was changed. The real killer (or, as seems overwhelmingly more likely, killers) have never been named, and despite all the questions and absurd inconsistencies the Commission's report threw up (stuff that even a child – or even a chap as unhinged as Mr Stone is said to be in some quarters – could spot), as far as Officialdom was concerned, that's that. A dark, blood-red line was drawn under Jacky-boy's offing, and anything beyond that will always be written off as speculation, as paranoid rattling from liberal freaks or disgruntled leftist losers. In the final analysis, The Man (and let us not delude ourselves: The Man exists – and He is legion) has said, “So what? You keep on chatting about it; frankly, we can't even be bothered to arrest you or harass you over that shit now – we've moved on to bigger and better things.”

Quite fortunate, really – and it certainly enhances the myth of a “free society” where anyone can mount a soap box and foam at the mouth about whatever takes their fancy (subject to the permission and supervision of the relevant police authorities, of course). The fact is that – despite some appalling examples of State Terror like the recent arrest of a couple of Political Science students in America (the FBI were looking for such damning evidence of subversion/terrorism as textbooks on political thought, black clothing, and mobile phones) – those of us who constitute the tattered remnants of “the counter-culture” are left largely to our own devices. But why shouldn't we be? After all; with the global media ran by oligarchs who are engaged in a mutually pleasurable and financially-rewarding daisy-chain with the Powers That Be on hand to discredit, deride, and undermine any alternative world-view at every turn, with plenty of glittering diversions (anything from The Jubilee to the X-Factor auditions and Kate Middleton's bared breasts) to stop people getting too curious about things that are simply none of their concern, and with flag-fetishism and national anthems blinding and deafening the masses to the crazed grumblings of a few traitorous curs who might as well go and live in Russia, why, in all honesty, should The Man knock Himself out? Admittedly, many will say that the Internet has changed things: that information can be disseminated at the click of a mouse-button, and that it's getting harder and harder to keep anything a secret – that is why every day brings another conspiracy theory, and why The Man is running scared and building up the ramparts surrounding His secret goings-on. People say that groups like Wikileaks are heroic crusaders (and I wouldn't argue with them; they and those who provide them with data risk imprisonment, financial persecution, and worse every day) providing a pipeline for information to the public; that knowledge is power, and that the more we arm ourselves with facts, the stronger we are.

Yeah; that sounds about right – and I'm sure Dr David Kelly would agree with it.
If he were still alive, that is.

Another prime example, there: unquestionably, dreadful things are done on a regular (perhaps even daily) basis in order to Protect Democracy, to Vanquish The Forces of Evil, and generally to ensure that everybody gets to live Happily Ever After* - yet even when this is all but proven, nothing happens.

Why not? If a high-profile Scientific Advisor can come to a sticky and mysterious end, what protects the rank-and-file conspiracy nut from the dark forces of officially unofficial retribution? Could it be the tinfoil lining their hats? Pretty unlikely – from personal experience, I can tell you that stuff doesn't even keep the rain out for very long. No; neither is it wholly a matter of a shortage of time and resources – if a Government have enough people on hand to rubber-stamp the Fit To Work certificates of quadraplegics, they could probably spare at least enough to chuck the odd death-threat-wrapped note through the window of an alternative newspaper's office. It's not even – and do prepare yourself for the shock of just how unsurprising this thought is – because they are indulgent and tolerant of the odd wayward sheep wandering away from the herd and bleating about what really goes on at Area 51. Quite simply, it's because they don't have to worry all that much.

If The Greatest Conspiracy Of Them All can be pretty much exposed (in essence, if not in specific detail) world-wide yet without anybody responsible being held responsible or accountable, why should they? I should think that the chaps behind that Grassy Knoll were pretty edgy at the time – what with it being the first time something of that scale was pulled off in an era of mass media coverage; their knuckles would have gone pretty white as they clutched the high-powered rifles, and furtive and quick would have been their movements. Had they known just how easy it was for a Government (official or otherwise) to get away with it – how little most people would react, or how little difference it would make to their unquestionable and invulnerable power even if they did – they'd have shot the grinning little womaniser with a cannon.

While wearing clown suits.
Hell; they could have probably gotten the Yeti to jump onto the bonnet of that limo and pulled his head off in plain sight - had he not been busy disseminating pro-Chinese literature in Tibet as a CIA double-agent at the time.

And that, cats and kittens, was the essence of the thought that gnawed at me while Tommy Lee Jones was over-playing a gay Southern Gentleman: the suspicion that even if every conspiracy theory we encounter is true, the way things are, there's not a great deal we can do about it. Following from that comes the deduction that if Kennedy's assassination, the fake moon-landings, the bullshit about WMD in Iraq – all of the “secrets” exposed by the digging of “truthers” both professional and amateur – is the stuff that The Man can doesn't mind us knowing about or suspecting, the information He's keeping a serious lid on must be – at best – fucking horrifying.  

I might go and have a quick nap now I've finished this: for some reason, I didn't sleep very well this weekend...

* Or at least Ignorantly Ever After - the next best thing.

The One-Eyed Killer and the One-Finger Typists

I've always been - for reasons that are pretty obvious - pretty supportive of people with one eye: story-book pirates were suitably dashing role-models to the young Silver Fox; Lt Columbo's squinting perseverence in the face of celebrity murderers was inspiring - and for all his deficit in the charm and chumminess department, I've always been prepared to acknowledge that Gordon Brown is probably a nice enough bloke.  Clearly, though, I can't extend this to suspected cop-killer, Dale Cregan.  No; though it's an awful thing to say, I fear that if he's hoping for a wave of one-eyed supporters to cheer him on at his trial - or even to testify as to how having really bad depth-perception is stressful enough to lead anyone into a life of crime and violence ("After knocking my fifth cup off the shelf in a week, something just snapped inside me, your Honour - the next thing I knew I was dealing four keys a week and sleeping on a pile of severed heads..."), he's going to be disappointed.  We're a close-knit network, but we have our limits.
There you are: I've said it; I've made it abundantly clear that I'm not pro-murder - are you all caught up now?  Does anyone need any extra clarification?  One must be awfully careful these days, apparently, as it turns out that everybody - even those people old enough and wise enough to be secure in their own convictions and thoughts - can be distressed, offended, horrified, sickened, and generally spazzed out into a Chenobyl-grade eppy by stuff on the Internet.  Yes; I was surprised too - but in actual fact, we're all of us fourteen-year-old girls sobbing our hearts out over our keyboards because of some fucking idiot's opinion of us - or of just about anything, come to that.
The fucking idiot in question here, of course, is the 22-year-old Merseyside man (the jobless 22-year-old Merseyside man, The Daily Mail helpfully and crucially informs me) who set up a tribute page for Dale Cregan on The Facebook.  For expressing his support for a suspected killer and questioning the fact that anyone "gives a shit" about the murder of PCs Fiona Bone and Nicola Hughes, Neil Swinburne could face up to six months inside under the 2003 Communications Act. I'm reminded of the furore about two similar pages set up in 2010 to laud the works of Raoul Moat - the beet-faced steroid enthusiast.  He too - some felt - was a "legend", a "folk hero" who had shown the coppers that they couldn't have it all their own way and generally acted as a guiding light to spiritual outlaws and would-be badasses of all kinds.  Of course, it was a load of immature, asinine, crap then, and it isn't a view that has improved with age. The "trolls" that celebrated Moat were reviled in the media, and roundly condemned by the majority of the social-network-using public; the pages were taken down, and that was pretty much it.  In the end, the tributes to "Moaty's" victims and the condemnations of his dreadful, cowardly acts outnumbered the shitty little posts about his "heroism" by thousands to one: it was a triumph of the decency and sense of Right that lurks somewhere within the British public - and it was a triumph that owed nothing to Police intervention.
Look; I'm in no way condoning Neil Swinburne's tribute - I think that gloating over the death of anyone is a sign that an individual might need at the very least a little nudge in the direction of the fold of civilised, compassionate humanity, after all - but I'd be very cautious about querying his right to raise his digital voice on the matter.  Yes; I'd agree that his page is offensive; I wouldn't argue that it would be distressing for relatives of the two officers to read. In fact, I'd characterise it as a stupid, tasteless, and deeply unpleasant piece of work that attempts to elevate a brutal thug to a status he in no way merits - but a criminal act?  Stroll on, eh?
The fact is that there will always be cop-haters as long as there are cops: whether these are genuine cop-haters, or merely poseurs seeking the cheap and easy cred of plastic-gangsta status, they'll be around - and while their views are extremist and anti-social, I'd prefer to be able to dismiss them as juvenile nonsense for myself than to have them silenced by the force of Law.  Though I try to avoid clichés like the plague, I'm finding it exceptionally hard not to use the phrase "the thin end of the wedge" at some point here; if some mouthy berk can be nicked for posting thoughtless drivel on Facebook, where does it end?  At what point does a perfectly rational (and responsible) desire to question or criticise the Police become a crime?  It looks like it might become harder and harder to tell - which might prove convenient, eh what?  Only a few days ago, the report on the Hillsborough tragedy gave us a very unpleasant reminder of just how fallible and flawed police officers can be, and while no rational person would suggest that justifies the slaughter (and subsequent celebration thereof) of two dedicated and brave constables, it does lend force to the notion that unthinking support and glorification of those "in blue" is both naive and potentially dangerous to the public good.
 Of course, it could be argued that it wasn't Mr Swinburne's "beef" with the Old Bill that led to him being taken in; perhaps it was the emotional distress he's caused the families and friends of the murdered PCs.  That's fair enough, but while we're at it, let's see a few more arrests, shall we?  Why not prepare a cell for the founder of the page "Hang Dale Cregan, Murdering Scum"?  This hate-filled page is probably pretty unpleasant reading for Mr Cregan's family (not all of whom, I would think, are hardened and brutal criminals), so where's their protection against distress - or doesn't that matter in the face of the overwhelming thunder of the Moral Majority?  Mind you, a "troll" is only a "troll" if you don't happen to agree with what they're saying: there's probably something enshrined in the Statute Books to that effect - with a Latin phrase and everything - otherwise, arresting one cyber-twat and not another could be seen as absurdly inconsistent...
The fact that Swinburne's arrest has been reported with approval from pretty much all quarters is pretty troubling, I think; the fact that it's prompted the Director of Public Prosecutions to state that
"the time has come for an informed debate about the boundaries of freedom of speech in an age of social media" is doubly so.  Just who will be having this debate, and who is going to be "informing" it?
Hopefully - and it's a forlorn, pallid, sort of hope - it might be somebody with the deep-down good sense to say something like "it's only the Internet: it's the dissonant cawings of a madman's aviary - get a fucking grip, for crying out loud".  As I say though: I'm not optimistic about that.  It seems that Taking The Internet Seriously is now a way of life -  and if you don't agree, "like", or post numerous links to this blog on your Twitter account, I'll have no choice but to see it as an implicit act of cyberbullying and kill myself.

So; This Comedian and his Accountant Walk Into A Bar...

Nah; it's not funny - it's sad, is what it is.  I don't know if our Society can take too many more shocks of this nature; if a towering Colossus of probity and moral rectitude like Jimmy Carr can be found to have human failings, pretty soon there'll be nothing left for us to believe in...
Let's face it, though: nobody takes up a career in the creative/entertainment fields because they've got an insatiable hunger for Aldi dog-food or because they simply can't imagine a winter without a mild touch of frostbite - they're in it (at least in part) for the ackers.  We can't condemn an artist for coining it in  (well; we can, but it generally comes across as sour grapes). No; we have to accept that - by some baffling quirk in human values - a pudding-faced little man can pull in around £3m a year for dourly firing moderately amusing quips and doing voice-overs, while a nurse is lucky to trudge home covered in sick and piss with £25,000 a year to call his or her own.  That's the world we live in, and it looks like there's little to be done about it at the moment.  Hell; it could even be argued that there's something of a tradition of tight-fisted, money-hungry comics - Ken Dodd is a name that springs to mind.  The difference is that Doddy never really cast himself as a "political commentator", and Carr has.

What people object to, is somebody like Carr presenting themselves as - albeit in an incredibly lightweight capacity on that God-awful Channel Four show he smirks his way through with Lauren Laverne and the others - an outspoken opponent of privilege, greed, and corruption whilst at the same time funnelling shekels into a tax-haven quicker than he can crack wise about the disabled and date-rape.

That the tax-haven is in Jersey, by the way, just makes it seem so much worse, doesn't it?  Is there anywhere shadier in the UK than that weird little land-nugget?  Fans of "Bergerac" will remember it chiefly for Charlie Hungerford swanning about the place in a white Roller, and all his pals turning out to be bent arms-dealers or murderers - but I digress...

What's almost as galling as the fact that this overpaid mediocrity has been able to act so hypocritically is his pathetically sincere, gag-free apology/explanation: an accountant asked him "would you like to pay less tax? It's totally legal" he says - as though that makes it OK - no more than "a serious error in judgement", in fact.  The implication here is clear: you'd all do the same thing.  Maybe 8 out of 10 cunts would, but I don't think that justifies it; isn't it possible that one or two people might think  "three million p.a is doing alright, and that even if 40/50% of that was scooped up by the taxman, I'm still a long way from having to dine at a soup-kitchen or ride a fucking bus now and again..."? Especially if one is in the habit of rabble-rousing about the Institutionally-created gulf that separates the rich from the poor, I mean to say?  

For all that, it's a matter of conscience - and Mr Carr has never made any attempt to be too much of a "nice guy", has he?  I don't know what he's actually like as a human being, and if he wants to be as slimy, self-serving, and repugnant as his stage persona undoubtedly is in his personal life, that's his business.  It does, however, pretty much preclude him from taking part in any further discussions of financial ethics - unless, of course, he wants to use his "gifts" to show us how side-splitting it is to be one of "them" and how there's nothing funnier in all the world than being too thick and poor to have an accountant who knows what's what tax-wise.
If Channel Four are going to inflict another series of that 10 O'Clock Live abomination upon us, I sincerely hope that Carr will not be amongst the line-up; he's simply lost any shred of credibility that mugging unctuously at the Jubilee Concert might have left him - and that was precious little, anyway.

Tankers, Bankers, and ... Oh, I don't know; something snappy that rhymes, probably.

It hasn't been easy coming up with anything this week, cats and kittens: not that there's nothing much to bring up the hackles and summon up a stream of metal-melting bile going on in the world - quite the reverse, in fact.  What's been difficult is that I found myself so infuriated the other day, that it was impossible to maintain my usual unbiased, cool and measured, almost forensic approach to analysing proceedings upon our disgraceful whirling shitball of a world.  Nor was I able to couch my views in the distant, irony-shrouded way I often do, so peeved did I find myself; there comes a time when exposing the fallacies and grotesque cuntery of the Great and the Good in a rather laboured and elaborate burlesque simply isn't enough.  I apologise unreservedly then, for the lack of any particular "hook" or "guiding conceit" in the following - especially to those readers (and there are many, I'm sure) who share my own delicacy of feeling and deep-rooted gentility.
It was that Vince Cable what done it: what a despicable, turncoat wankspanner he truly is.  Him and his dead, stocking-mask face were on Channel Four News on Friday, talking about the current dispute over the salaries and bonuses being awarded to Barclays' Bank executives; when I found myself hammering on the floor with my fists and screaming hoarsely at the television "Don't make me angry, Mr Cable - you wouldn't like me when I'm pulling your spine out and raping you with it", it became apparent that a line had been crossed somewhere.
It was the point-blank refusal of this glistening cadaver to say anything that really burned me up; despite - one might think - the official Cameronian doctrine of being "tough on the fat-cat culture" (or at least saying he's going to be) a discussion of this nature might at least call for some thunderously empty rhetoric, would you not? But no; Cable wouldn't even dignify the matter with an imposingly meaningless soundbite.  He claimed to have "very strong views" on the subject of barrow-loads of cash being flung at banking types like shit at a chimps' tea party, but he kept them very much to himself.  All he could do was repeat that it was "the responsibility of the shareholders" to ensure that pay for these people should be commensurate with performance and be at least nominally less obscene than the spectacle of John Merrick licking out Gail Tilsley off of Coronation Street - an attitude that suggested that the very last thing a Business Secretary should do is meddle with, interfere in, or have any dealings whatever with, business.
It's easy to see why, of course: after the Coalition folds in on itself (or the Lib-Dem contingent are actually eaten alive by their Tory overlords - whichever comes first) this amoral corpse is doubtless aware that he's unlikely to win any kind of election ever again; not even one of those "who gets a funnel-web spider enema?" ones on that awful Celebrity Jungle shambles.  That being so, he's got to be pretty careful not to rock the boat for the coporate pirates; a cushy directorship is about the only hope he's got of avoiding the dole or having to wrestle tramps for the last half-bottle of lighter fluid - we've all got to make some kind of a living, right? Quite so, but it was a sickening display nonetheless - particularly in the light of the Establisment's attitude towards the possibility of a strike by petrol tanker drivers the other week.
Self-righteous bellowing was much the order of the day then, as I recall: people were being "tough" and "strong" all over the shop; they pulled out all the old clichés about strikers being "irresponsible", "politically-motivated", and - my personal favourite - "holding the country to ransom" - and, in short, mirrored the consensus views of a nation brainwashed by Rupert Murdoch's newspapers, Margaret Thatcher, and years of repeats of "Carry On At Your Convenience".  Only a cad, bounder, or Communist, it seems, would even dream of striking - or supporting a striker, if the Cable-like reticence on the subject apparent in the big wet eyes of Ed Milliband and his acolytes is anything to go by.  Matters of pay, conditions, or health and safety should be resolved by Management or Think Tanks: such concerns are above and beyond the understanding or the remit of Union leaders (or - heaven forfend - of Union members) who should stick to organising the Works' Outings or the Darts League, and sorting out the whip-round for a "Get Well" card now and then.  The trouble with Unions, conventional thinking tells us, is that they're greedy and shiftless.  Whatever happens, their revolting cupidity should never be appeased: they should tighten their belts, achieve a Zen-like indifference to shabby material concerns, and be grateful to be working at all in these harsh times. They certainly shouldn't be looking for anything resembling a hand-out or a free ride - and they certainly shouldn't inconvenience a bunch of fat-assed car-dependent come-holes who may well drop dead if they had to walk a couple of hundred yards without the snug, smug, protection of their 4x4 chromed cocks.  The old Christian Work Ethic, in other words: remember your Duty to others around you - especially the ones at the top.  There's no talk of "incentivising" the average worker - yet it's the primary concern when it comes to the bankers.  Reducing their pay or bonuses is an idea bordering on heresy in some quarters: if some Spam-faced posho isn't offered the combined GNP of every Central African country each year, we're told, they simply won't want to know; they'll bugger off to America or some other Land of Opportunity - and then we'll have to deal with a society and an economy bereft of the kind of fiscal visionaries whose sound decisions and rigid moral code led to the bailouts, credit crunches, and double dips that have made Great Britain what it is today.  Now that's holding the country to ransom, I'd say.  The only difference is that banking chiefs don't strike - and here's why:
(i)  They're gentlemen - even the lady ones.
(ii)  Strikes call for picturesqueness: there's something affecting about people in donkey jackets, workboots, and pinched, desperate faces when lit up by a brazier.  People in thousand guinea suits forming a picket line and waiting for Nigel to get back from Cafe Nero with the pastries would look fucking idiotic.
(iii)  They secretly know that if they did strike, the rest of us would know how truly worthless they are.  Crops would grow and be harvested regardless, coal and metal ore would be mined and processed as usual; doctors would cure people, and painters and decorators would gloss skirting boards up and down the land unhindered.  The only difference if the Bankers weren't at the switch is that there would be nobody at the end of the day to say that all of the activity described above was rendered worthless because some avaricious shithouse in Sri Lanka was having a bad day on the Markets and had to sell off a couple of sweatshops - or something like that, anyway.
So there you have it: some are entitled to "incentives"; some are not.  I'm sorry I couldn't dress it up for you any fancier than that, but I'm really not in the mood.

COUNTRY WAYS: A semi-occasional ramble through rurality with a city-boy.

Having lived in the depths of the Countryside for a while now, I'd like to share some of my experiences for the benefit of those of you who are not fortunate enough to be awoken each day by the crow of a cockerel, or by the scent of new-mown horseshit wafting gently through the fresh morning breeze.  I offer these insights and observations in the hope that anyone visiting "the real England" will not make some of the mistakes that I've made already and will be able to blend seamlessly with the rustic population as I am already starting to do.  In no way should any of this be regarded as a collection of cheap gibes or glib, stock characterisations.
May is nearly upon us here in Grandborough, and while in the former Soviet Union and parts of Rotherham, May Day became synonymous with Revolution and Proletarian Struggle, here it retains its true meaning - whatever the suffering fuck that is.  I've asked around, but everyone from the Elders that gather around the bar of The Rampant Goat to the one-legged tinker that lives in an old Nissen hut on the common adjoining Ten Nigger Field* merely tap their noses, sigh, and tell me that I'll "knew all abewt it arter ten yirs or so, young 'un."
Whatever it is, they're taking it very seriously: already a May Pole has been erected on the Green, bunting has been hung up along the entire length of Main Road (well; "length" is probably pitching it a bit strong - but it certainly covers the front of both houses), and the heads of four incautious visitors from nearby Shuckburgh have been placed upon the railings outside Squire Erskine-Fowler's Manor. Damned festive they look too, I'm bound to say: there's something about a straw hat with feathers in the brim that counteract even the most ghastly look of death-agony - and you barely notice the grisly dark clumps of dried blood sticking to the protruding arteries.
Squire Erskine-Fowler's commitment to the festival doesn't end there, of course: he is, I am told, to throw open the gates of his estate on May Day. There, for the traditional fee of ninepence (£6 in "accursed new money") or a half hogshead of nettle beer, visitors can castrate a horse of their choice and be shot at with crossbows by the Squire's household staff - a collection of liveried psychopaths hired under the auspices of the Apprentice Scheme.  A parade will be held of course, culminating in the traditional Morris Dance and the Crowning of the May Queen.  This year's May Queen has yet to be decided upon, but I understand it's a two-horse race - Grandborough's female population is not, on the whole, all that attractive.  A hog-roast and bonfire will be held in the Beer Garden of the Rampant Goat, with an unprecedented TWO guest ales being available, and music provided by local children playing Los Del Rios' "Hey, Macarena" on the spoons and penny-whistles.
I'm not going.
                     
*There's an interesting story behind that name - but I'm too scared to ask about it.

Undercover of The Knights.

Anders Breivik's assertion that his horrifying attacks in Oslo were carried out on behalf of a shadowy network of anti-Islamic extremists seem to be the point upon which the case of his sanity hinges: if it's true, and the "Knights Templars" really exist, then he's not only sane (or at least saneish), but clearly a grim harbinger of further atrocities yet to come; if it turns out that the Knights Templars - as he describes them - are merely a delusional concoction of Dan Brown-style fantasy and too much "Assassin's Creed" games, then he's to be deemed a stone bonker and will more than likely live out the rest of his days in a rubber room - probably wearing a fetching Hannibal Lecter get-up.  That seems to be about the size of it, if I read the news aright - but is it?  I hardly think so.
There's a lot of talk about Breivik's claims to be linked to a Terror Network - either a real one or some imaginary one that has seeped through from the homicidal swamp of his underbrain into his mouth - but nobody seems to have seriously considered the possibility that it's all a load of crap.  No; it's condidered as a "delusion"; it's seen as evidence of some extreme and complex form of paranoia or some such; it's being judged as pure, unmitigated, lunacy.  That it's simply something he's dreamed up to cover himself in the event of being busted doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone.
Think about it, though, cats and kittens: if somebody knows they're about to kill seventy-odd people (and it's fair to assume he had at least that number in mind: car-bombing is, of course, an inexact science) in a horrifying, public manner, the possibility of having their collar felt surely must cross their mind to some extent.  Thus they find themselves considering contingency plans: clearly they're never going to see the light of day again, so it becomes a question of whether they're going to spend an incarcerated lifetime in solitary, awaiting the inevitable hors d'oeuvre of ground-up glass in whatever the Norwegian equivalent of bread-and-water is, or if it might not be better to kick back in a nice snug straitjacket with three mashed-banana-and-Thorazine cocktails a day.  I know which one I'd go for, I'll tell you that.
Of course, people are wise to the old dodges these days: overt pleas of insanity are viewed with suspicion, and thanks to Son of Sam, it's no use telling the court that "a dog made me do it".  On the other hand, a carefully-prepared "compendium" of manifestos and other deranged-looking screeds could well be enough to muddy the waters and point the beak's mind toward foam-rubber furnishings.  And let's face it: if that is the case, using the name of the Templars is a corking wheeze, is it not?  Even though Breivik claims that the inaugural meeting of this little crew was in 2002 - so they're presumably not the same Knights Templar that rotate with the Greys and the Illuminati in the rants of the tin-foil millinery fraternity - the very name instantly flags up any amount of associations with those unwilling or unable to subscribe to "conspiracy theories".  It's a masterstroke of diversion only excelled by having your brief try to prove that you're sane at the same time as you're presenting yourself as being madder than a packet of crisps in a Homburg hat.
What is notable about this dreadful case is that there seems to be a certain amount of reluctance in some quarters to accept that Breivik's organisation exists: it would suit a lot of people for him to be written off as a solitary nut-case rather than to acknowledge that a cadre of bloodthirsty racists exists and flourishes under the leadership of an enigmatic Serbian "war hero". Very few people in The Establishment ever questioned the provenance of al-Qua'eda, as I recall; it seemed perfectly feasible that there are any number of dark-skinned beard-gnashers setting their sights upon the West - yet that there might be a corresponding group of WHITE extremists is something many in power don't want to talk about...Rather odd that, eh?  No; I suppose it isn't, really - more par for the course than anything.
Regardless of that, Breivik is clearly a politically-motivated murderer; a hate-filled, hysterical fanatic that should be treated as such.  Terrorists may often be called "crazed", but they're hardly ever given the benefit of psychiatric evaluation.  Certainly the Navy S.E.A.L.s that gunned down Osama bin Laden weren't carrying any Rorschach cards along with their M-16s, and nobody ever recommended Group Therapy for the "bhoys" in the H-Block.  I'm reluctant to bandy terms like "good" and "evil" about in a world without absolutes, but it's hard to think of any other way of looking at a man who callously ended 77 lives and has freely admitted he'd "do it all again" - to designate Anders Breivik as a mentalist might be very easy (even compassionate, from a certain point of view), but it's simply wrong.   

The Iron Lady, The Silver Screen, and a Copper-Bottomed Cunt

Right; I think I've finally figured it out - there's a biopic of Margaret Thatcher doing the rounds at the moment, isn't there?  It's odd; you'd think that the thing might have attracted a little more media interest, would you not?  As controversial releases go, it's got to rank somewhere between "Happy Darkies: a Reappraisal of Slavery" and a feelgood rom-com based upon the life of Josef Fritzl: Maggie was - and is - undoubtedly revered and reviled throughout the UK, after all.  To the nouveau riche she pointed the way to Prosperity, Home Ownership, and a high old time generally; to others she was Satan's pre-eminent bitchwhore who shat all over Society throughout the 1980s with (I assume) the same lack of restraint that she now befouls the rubber sheets of her senescence.  Clearly there's no room for compromise on this issue: one is either a Thatcherite or not, and the film is guaranteed to do nothing more than strengthen either position.  After all; did anyone watch Downfall and find themselves musing that Hitler could well be forgiven for being a screaming, xenophobic nutcase - what with having such a lot on his plate during those difficult years and all? It's unlikely to say the least.
Ideally, of course, I'd refrain from commenting on the film until I've seen it - but then again, ideally, a visit to the cinema wouldn't be an over-priced, fagless, and soul-sucking ordeal that makes me want to die, so unless I happen to cop for a bent DVD of The Iron Lady it's going to be a while before I subject it to the sort of rigorous and impartial scrutiny that those that know me might expect.  Anyway; it doesn't really matter - as I say, I doubt that it's going to change anyone's view of Thatcher or her politics.  There are, after all, limits to even the powers of Meryl Streep's method acting and unnerving, angular face.
What is worth a look though, is the massive reaction to the film's release: all of a sudden, "Thatch" is once again the most talked about figure in British politics; the topic of conversation in the boozer and upon the Internet alike.  Despite the next recession looming ever closer, hardly anyone's talking about Cameron and his little cock-puppet; it's all "Maggie and the Miners", "Falklands", and "He liked a drink, that Denis, didn't he?"  There's also - understandably - a lot of anger.
Yes; it turns out that people do remember that there was more to the 1980s than New Romantics and the advent of home video recorders (which rather begs the question of why so many people voted for a déjá-vu government - but let's look at that some other time). People recall years of socially and economically divisive policies; a decade of deregulation and privatisation; an age of selfishness and greed unknown since the time of the Borgias - and they're appalled all over again.  Once more, Baroness Thatcher is a villified figure of hate and horror - only this time around, it appears, she might well be too bonkers to know it, or even care.
And that, I must admit, is what makes me feel a bit uneasy.  Certainly the dedication with which she attempted to dismantle not only the infrastructure of a compassionate State, but also the foundations of what used to be called "basic human decency" in order to create a Monetarist Utopia in which all was sacrificed upon the sanctified altar of Market Forces and Choice can't be forgiven by anyone with even a passing interest in having a social conscience; nor can we escape the possibility that the damage done to the world (both temporal and spiritual) may well be beyond hope of repair - but should we gloat with such immoderate joy over her decline into senility and her imminent death?  I'm not so sure. 
I won't mourn Margaret Thatcher, and I won't have any time for the mealy-mouthed tributes of apologists who describe her in obituaries as "a worthy opponent" or point to her "remarkable strength of character" - similarly the tributes of her political descendents will stick in my craw. Having said that, the crowing won't be any easier to swallow: contempt and scorn for the weak and vulnerable was the central, Darwinian principle underlying Thatcherism, wasn't it?  It fuelled the "me first" culture of the City and of global finance; it helped to close down the nut-houses and practically paved the streets with delusional characters in slippers screaming at non-existant camels; it was the ugly genie that came rushing out of the bottle of our collective consciousness and is still rampant and thriving to this day.  Should we then, give into it? Tempting though it is, I think not: our hatred and rage is wasted upon a frail and bewildered old woman; a toothless ogre who can no more grind up anyone's bones than she can walk to the toilet unassisted.  In addition to being futile (it isn't like one of those horror/science-fiction films where destroying the mother-ship or arch-vampire will destroy all the subsidiary lackeys instantaneously and restore everything to hunky-dorydom, after all - her bastard children and even-more-of-a-bastard grandchildren will still go on with her work), a celebration will rob us of even the minimal consolation of being "better" than Thatcher and her ilk. In fact, it's conceivable that in her lucid moments, the ageing beast's lips might contort into a travesty of a smile at the sound of our triumphant jeers.  Like the Emperor in Return of the Jedi, she will revel in such vindication of her belief in the essential rottenness of humanity - "let the hate flow through you" indeed.  Though it's tough not to laugh and applaud one of History's greatest monsters in its death throes, I'm going to have a pop at it - I'd like to cheat the Iron Lady of that last, grim chuckle, if nothing else.