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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.
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.
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.
Yes; that's two puns in the title - and shit ones, at that. What do you expect, though? I don't really know what I'm doing here, to be honest; it's going to take a while for this thing to settle down to anything like a coherent format. F - as they say - FS; titles are frightfully difficult, but you've got to have them, I know that much. I could just number these screeds, but that's a short-term solution that smacks of laziness and doesn't really consider the students of tomorrow who'll doubtless be citing a lot of this stuff in theses and the like. They'll need some keywords to help them search these annals, won't they? It's going to be dashed hard on them if they can't tell at a glance which piece is a bit of trenchant insight into prevailing attitudes to the NHS and which is merely some late-night, drunken musings on how the contestants on ITV gameshows all seem to look like failed genetic experiments and have all the apparent wit and charm of bacteria that key other bacteria's cars just for a laugh. Think of the children, eh? Even if the students of the future will all be rich entitled cuntslugs studying Management Science, they deserve at least a basic level of courtesy...
Though perhaps I'm being unduly pessimistic? The days of the super-rich élite may well be numbered if the Occupy movement's success in winning over the (at least tacit) support of the Church is anything to go by. After all; they may be an almost total cultural irrelevance - and their idea to set up some kind of commission to look into the Ethics of Capitalism is kind of náive and clueless even by the standards of people who believe in God - but it's a kind of victory. It certainly shows something of an awareness of the urgency and sincerity of the cause amongst an institution that rarely does anything more than dole out soup and cough diffidently from the sidelines. No; the protests in London and New York are having an effect, it seems; it's just the masks I don't care for.
There; we're back on track - and it didn't take all that long, did it? The Guy Fawkes mask that's been taken as a symbol by the Occupy movement is an odd choice, I reckon. I mean; I can see why they chose it - he was a dissident, and V For Vendetta was a pretty cool movie - but I can't imagine old Guido being terribly opposed to greed and capitalism. He was reasonably well-off - back in those days anybody who even knew what the House of Parilament was would have had a shilling or two. Secondly, his Finest Hour was getting involved in a plot to kill the King and put a Catholic on the throne - and back those days, religious types didn't mess about. Had he succeeded, we might well to this day be enjoying the "freedom" of meatless Fridays, procreation-only sex, and even more priests running around with the cassocks twitching for little boys: magic stuff, Guido - what a pity it didn't work out, old sport...Even leaving aside the fact that unless a protestor photocopies the iconic fizzog onto some cardboard and makes eye-holes in it the heartless mask corporations are making a tidy bundle, I have to say that I don't care for masks; these are ordinary people who are righteously angry about the fiscal shitter they've been dumped into - they have no call to hide their faces. Stone me; I don't have the most classic profile on Earth (those that know me seem to agree that I look like a Croatian paedophile or something, in fact), but were I to demonstrate or protest, I'd so so proudly, without hiding behind another man's face - especially not the face of a God-bothering nut-job.
Still; symbols are important to people, I suppose - to the point where they seem to matter more than the ideals and beliefs they embody. Another symbol that comes in for a lot of coverage at this time of year is the British Legion Poppy: these distinctive paper flowers are reviled in some quarters as "glorifying" war; similarly, those that don't wear them - or choose the pacifist White Poppy - are decried as being monsters who are only prevented from pissing on the corpses of dead soldiers by laziness and a lack of moral fibre. They're only symbols; it's not worth getting so riled up about them, really - their utter meaninglessness is underlined by the fact that MPs wear them. I always envisage a desperate scrum to be the first one in the House to pin one on and show just how committed they are to honouring the War Dead - and then trotting off to vote for a piece of legislation that ensures there will be plenty more of them. A charity that seeks to help out old soldiers is a good cause; so is one that promotes education about peace - however impractical it may seem. Donate whatever you want to either, and feel free to wear whichever colour poppy best matches your eyes - just don't think it says anything significant about you, any more than anyone else's says about them. And shut the fuck up, because I've been hearing this inconclusive, squabbling nonsense off and on for forty years, and I'm as familiar with as I'm fed up with every self-righteous word.
I've always felt that one of life's greater pleasures is wrapping oneself around a few bottles of sherry with a few like-minded chums and putting the world to rights: it can often be quite stimulating to the brain (even though it's giving the spongy fucker quite a hiding at the same time); it encourages the consideration of ethics, politics, and other high-minded matters - which makes a nice change from discussing "crisps vs pork scratchings" - and above all, it's totally harmless. Nothing ever comes from these late night sessions, after all. Whatever hellish dystopia you and your cronies end up fashioning from personal prejudice, a mixed bag of intentions, and the kind of inspiration that only eight cans can provide, you'll awaken to find nothing worse has come of it than a screaming headeache and perhaps a puddle of piss in the corner of the living room. The world carries on; nothing has changed, and despite the acclaim the suggestion received last night, riot police don't have big smiley faces painted on their shields to lighten the tone of protest rallies and the abuse of the crippled. Then you do it all again next week.
I was reminded of this pleasure today by a news report on the future of Libya: the provisional government now find themselves in almost exactly the same position of one of those crapulent caucuses - the only difference being that they're not saying "I'll tell you what I would do"; they're actually doing it. Their discussions will have weight and will affect not only millions of Libyans, but also the world to a greater or lesser extent. Being Moslems, they're doing it without booze as well; a terrifying thought, really - and not something I'd take a whack at. Fuck me; I don't even like deciding which brand of Oven Chips I'm buying without having had a couple of lagers...They're also having to decide what to do with a dead body - which again, is something that most pissed-up social visionaries don't have to deal unless something's gone very awry during the evening. "The Man With The Golden Gun" is currently lying in a meat-storage room, and before they can even think about laying the foundations of democracy in their country, they've got to work out what to do with him: should they get him under the ground, or should they drum up some quick cash for the national coffers by charging people a couple of dinars for a gander (spitting extra)? Of course; another consideration is that they might need to produce Gadaffi's chilled carcass to some kind of international enquiry - which is what really caught my attention.
Why, exactly? What purpose would an investigation serve? The only one that leaps immediately to mind is that it would strengthen the international impression that the UN knows best, and that a bunch of sand-hugging savages can't be trusted to keep a straight bat and play the game "like a white man". Perhaps those of you with long memories will recall the news stories and photos that accompanied the fall of Communism in Romania - disturbing pictures of Ceaucescu and his wife lying dead and blood-splattered in Wenceslas Square? The headlines were in much the same vein as those that accompanied the news of Gadaffi's passing - "Death of a Tyrant!", "Freedom!", "Tulisa and Louis In X-Factor Feud!" etc. The general belief was that it was a Good Thing that a despotic dictator had been brought down by the righteous fury of the oppressed. I don't recall anybody suggesting anything other than the cunt got what was coming to him - there was certainly no international outcry about "due process". Mind you; he was a Communist, and thus beyond the pale, wasn't he? The people that killed him were also European and thus civillised and keen to learn all about market forces and the other blessings of Western Capitalism.
It's a kind of double standard that we see in the International Community all the time: those anti-nuclear proliferation treaties always seem to be more about preventing African, Asian, or Middle-Eastern countries from getting their dusky, trigger-fondling fingers on nukes, while the US, the UK, and the ever-reasonable and soigné French are deemed wholly fit and responsible to have world-sundering arsenals at their disposal. It's like a Dad looking after the fireworks on Bonfire NIght is what it is: he can lurch out to light a dozen rockets after a few liveners, but the kids can't have so much as a sparkler until they've proved that they can be "trusted to act responsibly".
Still; there's no point in jumping to conclusions just yet, is there? There's too much of this sort of carping mistrust knocking about; it sours people and probably does more harm than good. Let's just wait and see, shall we? The UN will doubtless do their utmost to preserve the independence of Libya's nascent government - and to assist them in every way to find the same kind of freedom and democracy that we enjoy every day. It would be churlish and narrow-minded to suggest anything else, right?
I'd still like to sit in on the "What are we doing with the body" meeting though, I'll tell you that for nothing...
