From Lake Geneva to the Finland Station.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Various Camden...
Old Bob was old, like really old; fifty something. He'd been on Camden for longer than he cared to remember. But he did remember.
It started when he was a student at the University. Bob was a chemistry and exogeology undergraduate. He had come to Camden from Picta, in orbit round Sirius B. Siriuns are often taken for human beings. With basically identical anatomy, the Siriuns are slightly paler than Earthlings. This reflective of their body temperature, which under equal conditions is slightly cooler than a human's. Siriuns are slow to rise and tend to dress warm.
Bob had just finished his first year exams and was enjoying, for a few weeks, the peculiar joy of being a Radiohead. Bob was a farmer's boy. Though he had loved growing up in the Pictan countryside he'd got a taste for city life and wasn't keen on going back. He had taken up the guitar and was half-willingly looking through music shop ads, going to free jam sessions. He had just started going out with a beautiful young Earthling called Jenny, the future Mrs Bob.
His family liked to stay in touch. Bob had received an email late in the year/week: something wrong, do not come home. Bob tried phoning, but got no contact. In fact the whole planet seemed to be out of signal. Somewhere on Picta there had been a runaway anti-matter reaction, which scoured about half the planet clean of life and annihilated the atmosphere. Bob's parents were one of the few thousand refugees to escape with their lives.
With no home, and no income from home (Bob was a grant student) Bob had to find work. He tried his luck at the university, the hospital, various shops and cinemas. He found some bar work, but that didn't make the nut, especially now he had to rent out privately over the summer. Things were getting increasingly difficult when Old Kurt, the chief of police (the only officer) offered him a job.
Bob was thrown. “Deputy?”
They were in a café by Mornington Crescent. Bob knew Kurt through an art discussion group started on campus. Kurt was doing his morning round when he saw Bob glum, sitting alone by the window, mulling over a cold Aldebaran tea. He meant to ask him about the disaster but saw him glancing through the want ads in the Camden Journal:
“I don't know”, said Bob, “I mean part of the state”.
“There is no state, here” said Kurt.
“What'd you mean?”
“How many police officers do you know, Bob?”
“I know you” answered Kurt.
“Well, any more, have you seen any other officers out doing the rounds?”
“I haven't really...”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Kurt. “No one likes to see a police officer. I'm a mediator. I keep the peace. I'm not here to repress. I don't perpetuate so-called crime, I do my job and go. It's just a name, like 'deputy'. It's for all the people out there, the straights on other planets who send their kids here”.
“But what about crime?” asked Bob.
“What about crime? Crime is mostly whatever you choose to it define as. The Earthlings have their saying ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’, well, they would say that. But here on Camden nine tenths of the people own nine tenths of the stuff. What’s to steal?”
“What about the other tenth?” asked Bob.
“They’ve got TV” said Kurt, with a wave. “So, what say you, young man?”
With that Bob became Deputy Bob.
----------------------
The Radioheads - very outward, sensitive people, verbally and musically articulate. They are liable to listen to some music and notice its unusual time signature or the key switch in the middle eight. They can do this because the flexible antennae on their head allows them to scan numerous frequencies at once. As well as complex, intricate music Radioheads love strong, abstract art. A great number of them are touched by audio-visual synaesthesia. A tune may become a rotating abstract pattern, geometric shape or body schematic, or vice versa.
The Radioheads tend to be liberal in outlook and rationalist in philosophy. They are less hedonistic than others and often quite engaged in galactic issues. They can sometimes be a touch aloof and disconnected from other Tribes. They are certainly respected. Many of the Radioheads who remain on the planet full-time are successful in their chosen field.
The Goths – are easy to spot, all are over seven foot tall. They, of course, have their own line of clothing, flowing, long and dark. The Goths are very conscious of their look, they are in their own way a very beautiful tribe.
They are also very musical. Goths adore moving, romantic music performed with power. This sometimes leads them into surprising areas. Earth's rock music is very popular among Goths, although they are also heavily into different forms of classical music. Every Goth has a copy of Camden Philharmonic performing the Aldebaran Suite.
The Goths are nihilists and can be quite prickly. They tend to keep to their own. This can lead to members of other tribes treating them ironically. Though romantic self-destruction is central to Goth culture very few Goths have ever fallen apart. If you want to annoy a Goth ask them if they've committed suicide today.
The Bunnies – are lovin' it, man! They love to dance and Planet Camden, pulsating to so many different rhythms and waves, is the place to do it. The Bunnies are called such for their boundless energy, particularly over the weekend (which is also the end of the year), although they tend to go underground during the midweek blues, to be seen by nobody. The Bunnies are brightly coloured people. Their skin is luminous and flushes with different colours, more so at the high point of their cycle.
Bunnies love fusion and simultaneity. They love art, music, film and fashion, especially if it happens all at once. They are always raising money, putting on events, plastering the planet with posters and fliers.
Though apolitical they are very social. Bunnies love to meet people from new planets, hook up, swap beats and rhymes, fashion tips, screen prints. The Bunnies are central to day-to-day Camden, plugged in. The outer galaxy is shocking to them.
The Baggies – unfairly singled out as the planet's stoner tribe (none of the tribes are innocent on this account). The Baggies are primarily a musical group, a laid-back offshoot of Bunny culture, concentrating on slower rhythms, bass tunes. Baggies also appear much paler than Bunnies.
The Young Royals – were not so much a cultural tribe as a educational category. The University of Camden was always a prestigious institution. It costs a lot to send your offspring halfway across the galaxy to receive higher education. Many planets gave grants or ran scholarship programmes. Even so a large number of students were from affluent families on powerful planets.
Your typical Young Royal is a consumer, a socialiser and a networker. Many were sent by their families with explicit instruction to sleep around, take drugs, pull crazy stunts but make sure you make friends there, good friends, rich, powerful friends from planets where we can do business. Young Royals have excellent memories (which sometimes makes them good students), they are always good with names. They are emotionally intelligent, with special mutable faces tuned to the viewer's aesthetic ideal. Young Royals tend to dominate student politics, to the intense irritation of more politically committed groups.
The Church of Hendrix – are a group of galactic hippies, dedicated to subversion and psychedelia. Based on a commune circling Ursa Minor, The Church of Hendrix is their established Earth name. It was they who sent Jimi Hendrix to shake up music in the western spiral arm. After his time on Earth he was moved to a civilisation in Sirius B that was stuck in the jazz age.
The cult is currently tolerated but not trusted on Planet Camden, street jamming and free improvisation being way out of fashion.
Morissey's Children – are a teasing bunch. Inspired by the prophet of the fourth gender, theirs is a part literary movement based around the popular magazine Hand in Glove, with a circulation of 15-20 thousand, specialising in open poetry, enigmatic short stories and contrary opinion pieces. Morissey's Children hold frequent events in his honour, bicycle races, flower arranging and karaoke. The Children like to talk in aphorisms and diagonal slogans. They (appear to) argue that Morissey was a constant poet, whose every spoken word was in blank verse.
But, who knows if that's true. Morissey's Children are impulsive controversialists, pranksters and leg pullers. Some say they're satirists who poke fun at the values of more uptight tribes (such as the Radioheads' political earnestness or the Bunnies and their indiscriminate, one world openness). Others say they go too far, not meaning half of what they say but opening the door to much other groups who threaten the delicate harmony of Planet Camden.
It started when he was a student at the University. Bob was a chemistry and exogeology undergraduate. He had come to Camden from Picta, in orbit round Sirius B. Siriuns are often taken for human beings. With basically identical anatomy, the Siriuns are slightly paler than Earthlings. This reflective of their body temperature, which under equal conditions is slightly cooler than a human's. Siriuns are slow to rise and tend to dress warm.
Bob had just finished his first year exams and was enjoying, for a few weeks, the peculiar joy of being a Radiohead. Bob was a farmer's boy. Though he had loved growing up in the Pictan countryside he'd got a taste for city life and wasn't keen on going back. He had taken up the guitar and was half-willingly looking through music shop ads, going to free jam sessions. He had just started going out with a beautiful young Earthling called Jenny, the future Mrs Bob.
His family liked to stay in touch. Bob had received an email late in the year/week: something wrong, do not come home. Bob tried phoning, but got no contact. In fact the whole planet seemed to be out of signal. Somewhere on Picta there had been a runaway anti-matter reaction, which scoured about half the planet clean of life and annihilated the atmosphere. Bob's parents were one of the few thousand refugees to escape with their lives.
With no home, and no income from home (Bob was a grant student) Bob had to find work. He tried his luck at the university, the hospital, various shops and cinemas. He found some bar work, but that didn't make the nut, especially now he had to rent out privately over the summer. Things were getting increasingly difficult when Old Kurt, the chief of police (the only officer) offered him a job.
Bob was thrown. “Deputy?”
They were in a café by Mornington Crescent. Bob knew Kurt through an art discussion group started on campus. Kurt was doing his morning round when he saw Bob glum, sitting alone by the window, mulling over a cold Aldebaran tea. He meant to ask him about the disaster but saw him glancing through the want ads in the Camden Journal:
“I don't know”, said Bob, “I mean part of the state”.
“There is no state, here” said Kurt.
“What'd you mean?”
“How many police officers do you know, Bob?”
“I know you” answered Kurt.
“Well, any more, have you seen any other officers out doing the rounds?”
“I haven't really...”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Kurt. “No one likes to see a police officer. I'm a mediator. I keep the peace. I'm not here to repress. I don't perpetuate so-called crime, I do my job and go. It's just a name, like 'deputy'. It's for all the people out there, the straights on other planets who send their kids here”.
“But what about crime?” asked Bob.
“What about crime? Crime is mostly whatever you choose to it define as. The Earthlings have their saying ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’, well, they would say that. But here on Camden nine tenths of the people own nine tenths of the stuff. What’s to steal?”
“What about the other tenth?” asked Bob.
“They’ve got TV” said Kurt, with a wave. “So, what say you, young man?”
With that Bob became Deputy Bob.
----------------------
The Radioheads - very outward, sensitive people, verbally and musically articulate. They are liable to listen to some music and notice its unusual time signature or the key switch in the middle eight. They can do this because the flexible antennae on their head allows them to scan numerous frequencies at once. As well as complex, intricate music Radioheads love strong, abstract art. A great number of them are touched by audio-visual synaesthesia. A tune may become a rotating abstract pattern, geometric shape or body schematic, or vice versa.
The Radioheads tend to be liberal in outlook and rationalist in philosophy. They are less hedonistic than others and often quite engaged in galactic issues. They can sometimes be a touch aloof and disconnected from other Tribes. They are certainly respected. Many of the Radioheads who remain on the planet full-time are successful in their chosen field.
The Goths – are easy to spot, all are over seven foot tall. They, of course, have their own line of clothing, flowing, long and dark. The Goths are very conscious of their look, they are in their own way a very beautiful tribe.
They are also very musical. Goths adore moving, romantic music performed with power. This sometimes leads them into surprising areas. Earth's rock music is very popular among Goths, although they are also heavily into different forms of classical music. Every Goth has a copy of Camden Philharmonic performing the Aldebaran Suite.
The Goths are nihilists and can be quite prickly. They tend to keep to their own. This can lead to members of other tribes treating them ironically. Though romantic self-destruction is central to Goth culture very few Goths have ever fallen apart. If you want to annoy a Goth ask them if they've committed suicide today.
The Bunnies – are lovin' it, man! They love to dance and Planet Camden, pulsating to so many different rhythms and waves, is the place to do it. The Bunnies are called such for their boundless energy, particularly over the weekend (which is also the end of the year), although they tend to go underground during the midweek blues, to be seen by nobody. The Bunnies are brightly coloured people. Their skin is luminous and flushes with different colours, more so at the high point of their cycle.
Bunnies love fusion and simultaneity. They love art, music, film and fashion, especially if it happens all at once. They are always raising money, putting on events, plastering the planet with posters and fliers.
Though apolitical they are very social. Bunnies love to meet people from new planets, hook up, swap beats and rhymes, fashion tips, screen prints. The Bunnies are central to day-to-day Camden, plugged in. The outer galaxy is shocking to them.
The Baggies – unfairly singled out as the planet's stoner tribe (none of the tribes are innocent on this account). The Baggies are primarily a musical group, a laid-back offshoot of Bunny culture, concentrating on slower rhythms, bass tunes. Baggies also appear much paler than Bunnies.
The Young Royals – were not so much a cultural tribe as a educational category. The University of Camden was always a prestigious institution. It costs a lot to send your offspring halfway across the galaxy to receive higher education. Many planets gave grants or ran scholarship programmes. Even so a large number of students were from affluent families on powerful planets.
Your typical Young Royal is a consumer, a socialiser and a networker. Many were sent by their families with explicit instruction to sleep around, take drugs, pull crazy stunts but make sure you make friends there, good friends, rich, powerful friends from planets where we can do business. Young Royals have excellent memories (which sometimes makes them good students), they are always good with names. They are emotionally intelligent, with special mutable faces tuned to the viewer's aesthetic ideal. Young Royals tend to dominate student politics, to the intense irritation of more politically committed groups.
The Church of Hendrix – are a group of galactic hippies, dedicated to subversion and psychedelia. Based on a commune circling Ursa Minor, The Church of Hendrix is their established Earth name. It was they who sent Jimi Hendrix to shake up music in the western spiral arm. After his time on Earth he was moved to a civilisation in Sirius B that was stuck in the jazz age.
The cult is currently tolerated but not trusted on Planet Camden, street jamming and free improvisation being way out of fashion.
Morissey's Children – are a teasing bunch. Inspired by the prophet of the fourth gender, theirs is a part literary movement based around the popular magazine Hand in Glove, with a circulation of 15-20 thousand, specialising in open poetry, enigmatic short stories and contrary opinion pieces. Morissey's Children hold frequent events in his honour, bicycle races, flower arranging and karaoke. The Children like to talk in aphorisms and diagonal slogans. They (appear to) argue that Morissey was a constant poet, whose every spoken word was in blank verse.
But, who knows if that's true. Morissey's Children are impulsive controversialists, pranksters and leg pullers. Some say they're satirists who poke fun at the values of more uptight tribes (such as the Radioheads' political earnestness or the Bunnies and their indiscriminate, one world openness). Others say they go too far, not meaning half of what they say but opening the door to much other groups who threaten the delicate harmony of Planet Camden.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tales of interest
I saw on the BBC and see on Paul Mason's blog the Tory government intends to make up the shortfall in demand caused by cutting services and freezing pay increasing exports:
There are problems with suddenly becoming an export economy (even before you get to how you deal with problem of declining standards of living at home). The first (and biggest) is everybody's going for austerity and exports. If everybody's churning out export products who's going to buy them? There's no guarantee. The Chinese, Japanese and Germans, for example, do have huge trade surpluses. Asking them to start buying means asking Chinese, Japanese and German capital to give up its competitive advantage at a time of global depression. It's not so likely (hence Obama's gripes at the surplus countries... an unfortunate phrase).
The other problem is what is Britain going to export? British manufacturing is second division stuff. We've got the Tories to thank for that. What about primary products? Well, Britain has much potential still left in its coal seams. But the Tories reopening the mines...? Ahem.
I've got it! The service industry. We can't drive Japanese trains or serve Germans hamburgers. What can we do? Domestic service... Butlers! Britain will export its domestic labour. There's the solution to our problems, put on a penguin suit and burp the idle rich.
There is no guarantee that the UK can make this switch. If you look at the table "Gross Domestic Product and its Components" in this OBR document, released yesterday, you will find some pretty heroic assumptions. Exports rise 90bn, fixed investment rises 60bn, and the trade deficit falls from 44bn to just 9bn - all over a period of five years. GDP grows by around 150bn over that period, while government consumption actually falls by 30bn.
There are problems with suddenly becoming an export economy (even before you get to how you deal with problem of declining standards of living at home). The first (and biggest) is everybody's going for austerity and exports. If everybody's churning out export products who's going to buy them? There's no guarantee. The Chinese, Japanese and Germans, for example, do have huge trade surpluses. Asking them to start buying means asking Chinese, Japanese and German capital to give up its competitive advantage at a time of global depression. It's not so likely (hence Obama's gripes at the surplus countries... an unfortunate phrase).
The other problem is what is Britain going to export? British manufacturing is second division stuff. We've got the Tories to thank for that. What about primary products? Well, Britain has much potential still left in its coal seams. But the Tories reopening the mines...? Ahem.
I've got it! The service industry. We can't drive Japanese trains or serve Germans hamburgers. What can we do? Domestic service... Butlers! Britain will export its domestic labour. There's the solution to our problems, put on a penguin suit and burp the idle rich.
A beautiful morning on Planet Camden
All was well on Planet Camden. The sun shone through the curtains. Bird chatter filtered in above the light drone of traffic. Downstairs it seemed the TV was on.
All was well, until Thom moved his head slightly.
“Oh…”
Searing pain; it hadn’t worked. There was a bottle of water, undrunk, by his bed. Oh, and he sat down in the SU and… were those people leering at him trying to make him sick?
Thom realised could actually hear some banging and mumbling from downstairs. Yes, the TV was on too. It was almost always on, 10am to 3am the following day. Not much chance of sleeping through this, Thom sat up.
Pieces of last night started to come together. All the guys came out, bowling down the high street. Thom remembered feeling a little better after a couple of lines and some fresh air, out of the SU. They got on the tube into town. They saw Old Bob talking to another Radiohead in the Lyttleton. Thom was frisked in the queue for The Underworld (Camden's main underground club) by a Neptunian bouncer, lucky he kept his stash in his left shoe. He saw something amusing in the toilets, by the urinals a set of arrows written in ballpoint going up; on the ceiling a note:
“You are now pissing on your shoes”.
It was a good night, it seemed, good music, good crowd, but a couple of the guys wanted to move on. They came out several hours before dawn and went for some fast food. There was a group of existentialists playing bongos, handing out leaflets by the tube. Up the road toward the lock was a preacher for the Church of Hendrix. Some of the guys wanted to head up to the Hemstede. There was rumours of an all-night rave. The twin planets of Hackney and Islington were in perfect transit, a special occasion that only happened once a month.
But Thom and a couple of others wanted to head to the Ursa Major spirit bar. On the way they wandered across a performance art piece. An artist, from Earth as it happened, had hired out a huge billboard underneath a flyover. It was pure white with numerous little pouches, each labelled, containing slips with little squiggles on them. Thom picked one up, it said Greece-Macedonia. Ah, the futile absurdity of nationalism!
Once inside the Ursa Major Thom started drinking shots, mostly Earth tequila with Barnard's Fruit, which was something like a psychedelic chilli. Things got a bit hazy from there on in. Thom remembered puking up against some railings while his mates pretended to be horrified. Then there was sirens and flashing lights. Thom's earthly instincts kicked in, he started running. His friends caught up quickly, he could barely stand up, let alone run. They assured him it was just fire trucks. It couldn't be police, Old Bob was up at the rave. There were lots of trucks.
Thom mulled this over as he prodded along the shelf in the bathroom, looking for the toothpaste. He heard a voice:
“Thom!”
It was his house mate and fellow songwriter Johnny calling from downstairs.
“What?” grumbled Thom.
“Thom!” said Johnny again.
Thom answered a little louder. “What?” It hurt.
Johnny bundled upstairs. He peered round the bathroom door. “You all right?”
“Too late to ask now” said Thom, mildly annoyed. “What's the matter, I've got a hangover”.
“You didn't drink your water? I suppose you wouldn't have” said Johnny. “You were mashed”.
A moment's pause before Thom prompted Johnny. “Hmm?”
“Sorry... You know the club we went to?”
“The Underworld?”
“Yeah. It says on the news there was a fire, big fire. They reckon it was deliberate”.
All was well, until Thom moved his head slightly.
“Oh…”
Searing pain; it hadn’t worked. There was a bottle of water, undrunk, by his bed. Oh, and he sat down in the SU and… were those people leering at him trying to make him sick?
Thom realised could actually hear some banging and mumbling from downstairs. Yes, the TV was on too. It was almost always on, 10am to 3am the following day. Not much chance of sleeping through this, Thom sat up.
Pieces of last night started to come together. All the guys came out, bowling down the high street. Thom remembered feeling a little better after a couple of lines and some fresh air, out of the SU. They got on the tube into town. They saw Old Bob talking to another Radiohead in the Lyttleton. Thom was frisked in the queue for The Underworld (Camden's main underground club) by a Neptunian bouncer, lucky he kept his stash in his left shoe. He saw something amusing in the toilets, by the urinals a set of arrows written in ballpoint going up; on the ceiling a note:
“You are now pissing on your shoes”.
It was a good night, it seemed, good music, good crowd, but a couple of the guys wanted to move on. They came out several hours before dawn and went for some fast food. There was a group of existentialists playing bongos, handing out leaflets by the tube. Up the road toward the lock was a preacher for the Church of Hendrix. Some of the guys wanted to head up to the Hemstede. There was rumours of an all-night rave. The twin planets of Hackney and Islington were in perfect transit, a special occasion that only happened once a month.
But Thom and a couple of others wanted to head to the Ursa Major spirit bar. On the way they wandered across a performance art piece. An artist, from Earth as it happened, had hired out a huge billboard underneath a flyover. It was pure white with numerous little pouches, each labelled, containing slips with little squiggles on them. Thom picked one up, it said Greece-Macedonia. Ah, the futile absurdity of nationalism!
Once inside the Ursa Major Thom started drinking shots, mostly Earth tequila with Barnard's Fruit, which was something like a psychedelic chilli. Things got a bit hazy from there on in. Thom remembered puking up against some railings while his mates pretended to be horrified. Then there was sirens and flashing lights. Thom's earthly instincts kicked in, he started running. His friends caught up quickly, he could barely stand up, let alone run. They assured him it was just fire trucks. It couldn't be police, Old Bob was up at the rave. There were lots of trucks.
Thom mulled this over as he prodded along the shelf in the bathroom, looking for the toothpaste. He heard a voice:
“Thom!”
It was his house mate and fellow songwriter Johnny calling from downstairs.
“What?” grumbled Thom.
“Thom!” said Johnny again.
Thom answered a little louder. “What?” It hurt.
Johnny bundled upstairs. He peered round the bathroom door. “You all right?”
“Too late to ask now” said Thom, mildly annoyed. “What's the matter, I've got a hangover”.
“You didn't drink your water? I suppose you wouldn't have” said Johnny. “You were mashed”.
A moment's pause before Thom prompted Johnny. “Hmm?”
“Sorry... You know the club we went to?”
“The Underworld?”
“Yeah. It says on the news there was a fire, big fire. They reckon it was deliberate”.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
More budget yak
Here we go:
Ah the good old manufacture of consent. It's actually somewhere between a wily and/or transparent tactic. The correct answer will never be get rid of the internal market in hospitals and surgeries, get rid of PFI in schools, get rid of overpaid executives... and you can bet the mortgage you no longer can afford it'll never be get rid of David Cameron. This is an attempt to not only divide the public from public sector workers but divide those workers from each other. The unions should start a campaign (amongst others) of non cooperation with this scheme.
There. Should. Be. No. Cuts. There should actually be direct investment, in things like further and higher education, transport, social housing and so on. The cuts are not designed to 'sort out' the economy, except in the sense that not enough money is going to wealthy businessmen and shareholders (we all know how tough it's been lately for the rich). Otherwise the Tory plans are economic and social insanity.
Also of mild interest, Nick Clegg:
Who does he think he's fooling? Has he been spending the last three years tottering around on ketamine? No... barbiturates, laudanum, booze? Wait, sorry, that was Charles Kennedy. Anyway, did he not know there's a recession on? Life's tapestry is just a bit too rich.
Ministers will determine the extent of the squeeze faced by individual departments in October's spending review but are asking public sector workers to suggest services they believe are non-essential, how services can be better targeted or provided more effectively by private and voluntary groups.
"We want you to help us find those savings so we can cut public spending in a way which is fair and responsible," Prime Minister David Cameron writes.
"You work on the frontline of public services. You know where things are working well, where the waste is and where we can rethink things so that we get better services for less money."
Ah the good old manufacture of consent. It's actually somewhere between a wily and/or transparent tactic. The correct answer will never be get rid of the internal market in hospitals and surgeries, get rid of PFI in schools, get rid of overpaid executives... and you can bet the mortgage you no longer can afford it'll never be get rid of David Cameron. This is an attempt to not only divide the public from public sector workers but divide those workers from each other. The unions should start a campaign (amongst others) of non cooperation with this scheme.
There. Should. Be. No. Cuts. There should actually be direct investment, in things like further and higher education, transport, social housing and so on. The cuts are not designed to 'sort out' the economy, except in the sense that not enough money is going to wealthy businessmen and shareholders (we all know how tough it's been lately for the rich). Otherwise the Tory plans are economic and social insanity.
Also of mild interest, Nick Clegg:
Challenged over his support for a rise in VAT - something the Lib Dems campaigned against before the general election - he said he had been faced with an economic "firestorm" in Europe - a reference to the Greek debt crisis - a structural deficit £12bn higher than expected and £44bn of cuts announced by Labour that were "completely and utterly unfunded".
Who does he think he's fooling? Has he been spending the last three years tottering around on ketamine? No... barbiturates, laudanum, booze? Wait, sorry, that was Charles Kennedy. Anyway, did he not know there's a recession on? Life's tapestry is just a bit too rich.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Armageddon? Armageddon out of here, if I can!
Just because you knew it was coming doesn't make you glad it's arrived. The 'emergency' budget is a robber's charter. The rich and powerful are seizing their chance to maliciously wound society, dish out pain to working people for not working that little bit harder to make them that little bit richer.
Its hard not to look away, but we have to look facts in the face. Britain's scab class may get away with it. The future will look that little less bleak once someone stands up to them.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The CBI wants you... to be their slave
There's a gimp mask, their's Digby Jones' cellar, we'll call you when we need you, prole. That's right, Britain's anti-union laws are not restrictive enough. Despite all the hoops trade unions must go through to provide their members 12 weeks legal protection (which in many companies and corporations fails due to witch hunting and legal indifference); despite the fact that strikes can be banned because a union fails to indicate 11 spoiled ballot papers (out of thousands of returns); yes despite all this, despite the 7 days notice unions are required to give to employers of both the ballot and the strike, despite all this the CBI is still not happy.
The fat filth who run this country, who gorge while working people have to scrimp not only want to win, they don't even want a fight. They want you to shut up and lose. The CBI and their pals in government are attacking the very basis of civilised society. This is a fight, a fight to the death. We have to be equally determined and organised.
The fat filth who run this country, who gorge while working people have to scrimp not only want to win, they don't even want a fight. They want you to shut up and lose. The CBI and their pals in government are attacking the very basis of civilised society. This is a fight, a fight to the death. We have to be equally determined and organised.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
All the shite in black and white
A leaked government memo states that abolishing free (as in no charge at the point of consumption) school meals will help pay for free (as in free of poor children) schools. A simple illustration of what the current government's 'reforms' amount to, socialism for the rich.
Better news: football's coming home. Alright, so the English football team's probably coming home earlier than all the sunburned Mr Blobbies that follow them would have liked. If football needs a home perhaps it could go to Argentina, Holland or Germany? It's for the best...
The 299th British soldier has died in the ever evolving war Afghanistan. The generally low-intensity war has apparently escalated this year. This is after a supposedly pacifying surge was put in place. This all adds to the debt which we're told has to be slashed and slashed now. No one keeps count of Afghan deaths.
Better news: football's coming home. Alright, so the English football team's probably coming home earlier than all the sunburned Mr Blobbies that follow them would have liked. If football needs a home perhaps it could go to Argentina, Holland or Germany? It's for the best...
The 299th British soldier has died in the ever evolving war Afghanistan. The generally low-intensity war has apparently escalated this year. This is after a supposedly pacifying surge was put in place. This all adds to the debt which we're told has to be slashed and slashed now. No one keeps count of Afghan deaths.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Upon speaking to some Martians
I resisted the temptation to quiz them over the impossibility of living under a denatured, stripped atmosphere.
They told me, however, they found the World Cup confusing. For weeks they were under the impression it was a drinking contest. They were amused to find their own planet honoured by John Barnes. I hadn't the heart to tell them he was selling confectionary.
Also confusing was the persistent association of sport with war. Were the England team supposed to vanquish their opponents after each game? What happens when they lose? What is ambush marketing, are you supposed to be shocked into purchase?
After considering this for a while one of the Martians asked me:
"This wouldn't to do with this capitalism thing you're always telling me about?"
They told me, however, they found the World Cup confusing. For weeks they were under the impression it was a drinking contest. They were amused to find their own planet honoured by John Barnes. I hadn't the heart to tell them he was selling confectionary.
Also confusing was the persistent association of sport with war. Were the England team supposed to vanquish their opponents after each game? What happens when they lose? What is ambush marketing, are you supposed to be shocked into purchase?
After considering this for a while one of the Martians asked me:
"This wouldn't to do with this capitalism thing you're always telling me about?"
Monday, June 14, 2010
This week's world tour of stuff
U.S. discovers nearly $1 trillion in mineral deposits in Afghanistan... NO! Cover it up, quickly, before they find any more! Natural resources + Americans = even more carnage.
Bozo Johnson's gone to the courts to get rid of the Democracy Village currently parked in Parliament Square. His lawyer's argument begins thus:
Whatever your opinion of the Democracy Village (I think its perfectly harmless and more beautiful than the hideous statues of hideous men dotted around Whitehall), those who have seen it will know (1) it is peaceful and (2) it does not prevent other people from accessing the square. What does prevent other people from accessing the square is the lack of public crossings. Anyone who wants to enjoy the space has to run the gauntlet of traffic.
Elsewhere in stuff, a Japanese probe has returned from a seven year mission to a near-Earth asteroid (the probe landed on the asteroid twice in 2005). There is a 50% chance that it came back with some of the asteroid. This alone is an engineering feat. If has has brought back substantial material it will fill in a gap in our knowledge, the process between asteroids and metorite fragments.
Bozo Johnson's gone to the courts to get rid of the Democracy Village currently parked in Parliament Square. His lawyer's argument begins thus:
"This is a case that deals with a collision of the rights of the minority to exercise free speech and assembly and protest in a public place and of the rights of others to use that same public place for that and other uses."
Whatever your opinion of the Democracy Village (I think its perfectly harmless and more beautiful than the hideous statues of hideous men dotted around Whitehall), those who have seen it will know (1) it is peaceful and (2) it does not prevent other people from accessing the square. What does prevent other people from accessing the square is the lack of public crossings. Anyone who wants to enjoy the space has to run the gauntlet of traffic.
Elsewhere in stuff, a Japanese probe has returned from a seven year mission to a near-Earth asteroid (the probe landed on the asteroid twice in 2005). There is a 50% chance that it came back with some of the asteroid. This alone is an engineering feat. If has has brought back substantial material it will fill in a gap in our knowledge, the process between asteroids and metorite fragments.
The world cup so far
The football has been even worse than I expected, but the crowning glory... ?
At least England were shit. Small mercies.
Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... deep breath... Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...
At least England were shit. Small mercies.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
You learn something new every day
Today's news is that when the police say 'ringleader' they mean person who sticks in our mind (I use the word loosely here) and/or person who made us feel a bit bad. Harvie Brown, the initial face of the G20 demo (before Ian Tomlinson), has thankfully been acquitted of violent disorder.
Doesn't he look frightening and belligerent? Well no. He is distressed and bloody. Why? Because he spent several minutes trapped in front of flailing police thugs:
"I was shocked when I was released from the police station in the early hours of 2 April to see that I was plastered all over the newspapers and described as a violent agitator at the G20 protests," Brown said tonight.
"I was distressed that I was made out to be the aggressor. I was also very upset that the emphasis of the reporting, which I felt should have been on the demonstration against the causes of the financial crisis, had turned into a focus on what was described as anti-police behaviour."
Witnesses told the court that Brown spent much of the protest distressed and in tears, upset at police treatment.
We also understand:
The court heard Brown's injuries – two head wounds and a broken tooth – could have been inflicted by police.
Could have?!?! Why so coy?
Despite initial claims by police about violence caused by protesters G20, there have been relatively few convictions for a demonstration of its size.
Seven people have so far been convicted of violent conduct, criminal damage and public order offences at or during the demonstration, including a handful who were identified as having taken part in the ransacking of a branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland. A further five prosecutions are pending, while five have resulted in acquittals.
The charge of violent disorder is being thrown around a lot these days. It is used by the police to frighten groups and destroy individuals. Harvie Brown has had to live with the threat of three years imprisonment for 15 months.
Shame on the police.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Yay football, it's so exciting... etc
Here's a wheeze, let's pretend there's something progressive about nationalism.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bill Hicks... fascist?
It was observed in a recent Grauniad article that the iconoclast Bill Hicks has, unfortunately, become an icon himself. Given this was a man who took to wearing a trench coat and stetson and appearing on stage in a wreath of fire to the sound of Purple Haze (during a tour named Revelations, no less), I guess this wouldn't have been such a problem to Bill, had he lived.
No true art has been created outside of contradiction. On particularly interesting thing about Hicks was the persistent duel between his leftism and fascism, Goatboy vs Satan (who each spoke with the same voice).
Bill Hicks was never a fascist, despite many times calling for the earth to be cleansed in unbiased human genocide. His corporate concerns were all left-wing, he was for personal liberty, anti-racist and anti-war.
People often comment on his sexism and sometimes homophobia. He was certainly fascinated by pornography, he did occasionally use prostitutes (although he is on the record as regretting this). As his routines progressed he would nearly always undermine his pro-pornography stance with graphic (what I would call naked lunch) material, concerning the grim reality of how pornography is made.
In terms of aesthetics and philosophy Hicks was much more ambiguous. Hicks was a deist. The god he extolled was synonymous with love. He believed the fall of man was an illusion brought about by birth into the material world. This is roughly a gnostic point of view. Another person who was interested in gnosticism was David Bowie who as Ian MacDonald described in The People's Music, fused gnosticism with Nietzsche to create a "pop Zarathustra", where the enlightened Homo Superior, able to see through the waking dream, lived amongst the outdated, uncomprehending Homo Sapiens.
The last term in this sequence is the Thule Society, an occultist proto-nazi group (many of who were let off scot free by the German Red Army of 1920). It was their belief in a round table of superhuman heroes destined to herd the multitude into a modern Sparta that fused together the core of the German nazi party.
At this point send in The Counts of the Netherworld. Counts of the Netherworld was a TV show based on an idea Hicks borrowed from CC Jung (who imported a great number of esoteric ideas into psychoanalysis), that humanity has a collective unconscious. It was Hick's appointed mission to bring it to consciousness. Quite a goal for a programme that would mostly consist of people talking about great art for half an hour.
The name "Counts of the Netherworld" is the first give away. The second was its setting in a mock-Victorian salon. Hicks at least thought of it as an elite exercise. The Counts' Manifesto is available in the collection Love All the People, and generally contradicts the collection's title.
It bemoans the happy mindlessness of the people while exalting the Counts, though warning that it is only their commitment to unvarnished truth that keeps them from being simply ruthless cads. At only one point does the manifesto describe the Counts as being "voices for the dammed".
Hicks was an incredibly quick witted and sensitive individual. Without perhaps realising it he stumbled on the essential difference between fascism and (although he wouldn't have used this word, I will) socialism. It is the difference between despair and hope. Bill clearly had ample potential for both and, despite at many points finding this intriguing and disturbing, he explored this fact.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
This week in delayed gratification
I watched Cloverfield last night after having been prohibited from watching it at the cinemas. This may only be relevant to my interests but, finally, there has been a good, nae great 9/11 film made. The whole point of the film is summed in almost in the final line, "I don't know why this is happening"... as if terrifying monsters need a reason why.
Its further evidence that its impossible to dramatise inhuman events realistically without abandoning realism. 9/11 was particularly horrific because it seemed motiveless to ordinary Americans. The attack did have motive and reason, and it was essential to the war effort that no American ever managed to find out.
Like 9/11, Cloverfield can also be chalked up as a return of the repressed. A natural, human reaction to the epic cubism of New York is to picture it crumble and burn. Nothing so imposing exists in nature. New York must, therefore, be radically unsustainable.
Through its effort to stand tall New York will not go out with a whimper, but with a bang. All that was repressed will come flooding back with devastating power. Cloverfield has some beautiful, revolutionary sights and sounds to share. Revolutionary because the lead characters are affluent Manhattanites. The monster has a prediliction for destroying skyscrapers, New York's temples of power.
But what is repressed? The film is canny (or uncanny?) in not showing the monster in high detail until almost the very end.
A minor flaw, no-one has yet managed to perform authentically in the found footage genre. There are plenty of times when a sane human being would drop the camera and run. The film doesn't completely shake of horror cliche. The horror is, of course, motiveless. The narrative has to find some, however flimsy, of driving the protagonists back into danger.
Even so, its a great watch (hey, I wouldn't post about it otherwise).
Monday, June 07, 2010
Phil Space - Arise, Planet Camden!
Planet Camden was a fascinating, implausible idyll.
It was the third in a thirty-three planet system, a spacious, clockwork mechanism. So many planets of different sizes and compositions, moving together in apparent harmony. The host sun was small, temperate and stable. Planet Camden was tiny, its orbit brief, only a seven days to complete.
This was what made the planet so special. Planet Camden was a place for the young. Time meant something else when a year was seven days long. Planet Camden was a place of contentment. If you don't like winter, hang on for 48 hours, it's spring again.
Planet Camden was an urban planet, mostly. A mere 505 kilometres in diameter, there was only 800,000 square kilometres of surface area to cover, most of it was covered in buildings, roads, nightlights and so on. There were a fair few parks and ponds but only one genuine stretch of wildlife, known locally as the "Hemstede".
The top of the Hemstede is the highest point on the planet, 3 kilometres high and 300 kilometres wide it is an extinct volcano. Its sunken caldera holds a giant freshwater lake, at four points its streams feed into the Tamesas, Camden's only river, strapping the planet's equator. Planet Camden's tenuous ecosystem is still home to many beatiful and benign flora and fauna, and so well regarded by its eco-conscious citizens.
Ecosystem though it may be, it was clearly not enough to sustain life, let alone civilisation. Camden was first colonised, then terraformed roughly 1,800 years ago during the Brythonic space programme. Settlers had to artificially maintain the atmosphere, installing a giant dynamo in the planet's extinct core to erect a protective magnetosphere.
After an early period of conflict between the Brythonic settlers and the nearby Iceni the planet was eventually incorporated into the wider galactic system and made into a transplanetary concern. The last 1,000 years have seen it blossom into a place of creativity. There was an economy, in the traditional sense, buildings were built, letters were sent and trains went from A to B. If you turned on a tap, there was water. If you dialled a phone there'd be someone at the other end. Switch on a plug there was all the electric you needed to do whatever you needed to do.
But this was a mystery to most Camdenites. Most of the hard work was done by the Poor. The Poor worked hard, dressed modestly and lived in the quieter parts of Camden. Due to the galactic labour shortage the Poor were hired on long-term contracts and paid handsomely, albeit once they left the planet. In between times they were permitted to live lingering, grey lives.
But Camden was known for its creative people, artists, writers, musicians and designers in the main. There were many, many students. The University of Camden was a galactically renowned institution. It had a huge undergraduate curriculum, teaching everything from Astro-Biology to Exo-Linguistics to Psycho-Literature. The research departments were equally impressive. The university library was the largest in the spiral arm. It held over 7,000 completed dictionaries and thesauruses of almost all the known languages.
By far the biggest population in Camden was The Audience, The Followers, aka The Tribes. Most worked by day, in restaurants, nightclubs, shops, offices and so on; some were students. By night they were The Audience, dancing, listening to bands and DJs, admiring paintings, discussing novels, plays and poetry. They were the backbone, the basis of Planet Camden.
Most Camdenites were young. Sometimes it seemed as if there was no one under thirty living on the planet. That wasn't far from the truth. The people of the galaxy sent their young to Planet Camden to learn and grow in a happy, harmonious environment. Some remained and graduated into artists or lecturers, but most took their happy memories and moved on to real life.
Public life on Camden was not the galactic norm. Pay was fine, or at least enough, grants were abundant, rent was cheap, the cost of living low. No one wanted for anything, except the Poor, and they were not really a problem for your average Camdenite. The concept of struggle, and therefore politics, was laughable to them.
But Camden was the envy of other planets. It was not consumed in class or racial conflict. Camdenites were straightforward and honest to all comers. They were typically opposed to war, Camden knew nothing of violent conflict. In fact it was used to host many peace negotiations and conferences. Camdenites were more galactically than locally aware. After all they had come there from solar systems far and wide.
Such was the calm consensus democracy as such fell into disrepair. The municipal assembly was dominated by the Good Intentions Party. There were other parties, such as the Monster Raving Tory Party, the Literal Democrats or Coalition for Diffuse Malcontent. But whether it put through progressive or reactionary changes the GIP always meant the best and was always returned to power.
After years and years the municipal assembly met less and less frequently until it more or less shut up shop. If a decision needed to be made the relevant people simply went along to to the Town Meeting.
Matters of law and order were taken seriously on Planet Camden. The same restrictive, paternalistic rules were applied there, just as any inhabited planet. The trouble was there was no one to apply them. The municipal council consistently spent it on more important things things, like research programmes, building renovation, art grants, import music and so on.
The whole bureaucratic police force gradually withered until it was eventually staffed by one man, known as Old Bob. Old Bob was a genial fellow; impossibly aged, he was just glad to be around so many young faces. Even by galatic standards there was very little for him to do. By day he sat in his tiny office, eating doughnuts and surfing the internet. By night he did his rounds, which mostly consisted of going to gigs or exhibitions. If any minor dispute arose his role was more as a mediator than enforcer, which usually worked. People liked Old Bob.
It was the third in a thirty-three planet system, a spacious, clockwork mechanism. So many planets of different sizes and compositions, moving together in apparent harmony. The host sun was small, temperate and stable. Planet Camden was tiny, its orbit brief, only a seven days to complete.
This was what made the planet so special. Planet Camden was a place for the young. Time meant something else when a year was seven days long. Planet Camden was a place of contentment. If you don't like winter, hang on for 48 hours, it's spring again.
Planet Camden was an urban planet, mostly. A mere 505 kilometres in diameter, there was only 800,000 square kilometres of surface area to cover, most of it was covered in buildings, roads, nightlights and so on. There were a fair few parks and ponds but only one genuine stretch of wildlife, known locally as the "Hemstede".
The top of the Hemstede is the highest point on the planet, 3 kilometres high and 300 kilometres wide it is an extinct volcano. Its sunken caldera holds a giant freshwater lake, at four points its streams feed into the Tamesas, Camden's only river, strapping the planet's equator. Planet Camden's tenuous ecosystem is still home to many beatiful and benign flora and fauna, and so well regarded by its eco-conscious citizens.
Ecosystem though it may be, it was clearly not enough to sustain life, let alone civilisation. Camden was first colonised, then terraformed roughly 1,800 years ago during the Brythonic space programme. Settlers had to artificially maintain the atmosphere, installing a giant dynamo in the planet's extinct core to erect a protective magnetosphere.
After an early period of conflict between the Brythonic settlers and the nearby Iceni the planet was eventually incorporated into the wider galactic system and made into a transplanetary concern. The last 1,000 years have seen it blossom into a place of creativity. There was an economy, in the traditional sense, buildings were built, letters were sent and trains went from A to B. If you turned on a tap, there was water. If you dialled a phone there'd be someone at the other end. Switch on a plug there was all the electric you needed to do whatever you needed to do.
But this was a mystery to most Camdenites. Most of the hard work was done by the Poor. The Poor worked hard, dressed modestly and lived in the quieter parts of Camden. Due to the galactic labour shortage the Poor were hired on long-term contracts and paid handsomely, albeit once they left the planet. In between times they were permitted to live lingering, grey lives.
But Camden was known for its creative people, artists, writers, musicians and designers in the main. There were many, many students. The University of Camden was a galactically renowned institution. It had a huge undergraduate curriculum, teaching everything from Astro-Biology to Exo-Linguistics to Psycho-Literature. The research departments were equally impressive. The university library was the largest in the spiral arm. It held over 7,000 completed dictionaries and thesauruses of almost all the known languages.
By far the biggest population in Camden was The Audience, The Followers, aka The Tribes. Most worked by day, in restaurants, nightclubs, shops, offices and so on; some were students. By night they were The Audience, dancing, listening to bands and DJs, admiring paintings, discussing novels, plays and poetry. They were the backbone, the basis of Planet Camden.
Most Camdenites were young. Sometimes it seemed as if there was no one under thirty living on the planet. That wasn't far from the truth. The people of the galaxy sent their young to Planet Camden to learn and grow in a happy, harmonious environment. Some remained and graduated into artists or lecturers, but most took their happy memories and moved on to real life.
Public life on Camden was not the galactic norm. Pay was fine, or at least enough, grants were abundant, rent was cheap, the cost of living low. No one wanted for anything, except the Poor, and they were not really a problem for your average Camdenite. The concept of struggle, and therefore politics, was laughable to them.
But Camden was the envy of other planets. It was not consumed in class or racial conflict. Camdenites were straightforward and honest to all comers. They were typically opposed to war, Camden knew nothing of violent conflict. In fact it was used to host many peace negotiations and conferences. Camdenites were more galactically than locally aware. After all they had come there from solar systems far and wide.
Such was the calm consensus democracy as such fell into disrepair. The municipal assembly was dominated by the Good Intentions Party. There were other parties, such as the Monster Raving Tory Party, the Literal Democrats or Coalition for Diffuse Malcontent. But whether it put through progressive or reactionary changes the GIP always meant the best and was always returned to power.
After years and years the municipal assembly met less and less frequently until it more or less shut up shop. If a decision needed to be made the relevant people simply went along to to the Town Meeting.
Matters of law and order were taken seriously on Planet Camden. The same restrictive, paternalistic rules were applied there, just as any inhabited planet. The trouble was there was no one to apply them. The municipal council consistently spent it on more important things things, like research programmes, building renovation, art grants, import music and so on.
The whole bureaucratic police force gradually withered until it was eventually staffed by one man, known as Old Bob. Old Bob was a genial fellow; impossibly aged, he was just glad to be around so many young faces. Even by galatic standards there was very little for him to do. By day he sat in his tiny office, eating doughnuts and surfing the internet. By night he did his rounds, which mostly consisted of going to gigs or exhibitions. If any minor dispute arose his role was more as a mediator than enforcer, which usually worked. People liked Old Bob.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Birmingham City Council: bringing the fascism directly to you
That's its unofficial slogan (the official one being Global City Local Heart). However, every piggy politician and bureaucrat connected with that body should be ashamed of themselves. Why? Because:
These are 'covert' cameras as well. Techno-profiling: yet more proof of the institutional racism at the heart of British state. The only way to redress this would be to (1) remove the cameras and end racial profiling or, given:
(2) A slightly more 'radical' solution, start secret surveillance in white areas, in particular areas where nazis are popular. Hey, the threat's real.
Give it two years and the declining trend in Home Secretaries will result in a purple arsed baboon decked in swastikas getting the job.
Surveillance cameras in Birmingham track Muslims' every move. About 150 car numberplate recognition cameras installed in two Muslim areas, paid for by government anti-terrorism fund
These are 'covert' cameras as well. Techno-profiling: yet more proof of the institutional racism at the heart of British state. The only way to redress this would be to (1) remove the cameras and end racial profiling or, given:
The criteria for TAM funds state clearly that a police force must prove a project will "deter or prevent terrorism or help to prosecute those responsible".
Police sources said the initiative, code-named Project Champion, is the first of its kind in the UK that seeks to monitor a population seen as "at risk" of extremism.
(2) A slightly more 'radical' solution, start secret surveillance in white areas, in particular areas where nazis are popular. Hey, the threat's real.
Give it two years and the declining trend in Home Secretaries will result in a purple arsed baboon decked in swastikas getting the job.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Early days of a global horror movie
Something awful and violent is pulsating under the thin, translucent skin of civilisation; it's all there, piracy on the high seas, aimless village murder, tories. Or maybe I'm watching too much TV?
Or maybe the fascist EDL say they're going to march in East London. We all thought came to London to escape pointless violence and tenacious bigotry... but now it's following us, chanting "fweedom of speesh, I've got fweedom of speesh". The fascists did take a well deserved knock at the general election. But all the conditions for the spread of violent racism remain. If the nazis try to march on the 20th of June you must be there to stop them. No excuses.
Don't forget, the football world cup is approaching. Town and city centres will be ringing to the hoots of the EDL and their back of the spoon bretheren: "engerluharahoohaahweh". You won't be able to step outside without seeing rivers of vomit, glass, blood and people reeling about in an atavistic stupor. The English football team will eventually be knocked out and, that night, a spate of assaults will ripple across the land. Anyone who looks like the might be from The Abroad (or looks like they might not have gone "engerluharahoohaahweh" hard enough) will get it in the face.
So act now, before Britain becomes the Wetherspoons Reich.
Elsewhere in horror, six people are being locked in a box in a Moscow car park for 18 months. It's actually further psychological testing for a staffed mission to Mars. My first thought was will there even be a world for them to come back to? But, according to the Grauniad report, that's the least of the participants worries:
Man, the future's bleak. At least Big Brother's almost over.
Or maybe the fascist EDL say they're going to march in East London. We all thought came to London to escape pointless violence and tenacious bigotry... but now it's following us, chanting "fweedom of speesh, I've got fweedom of speesh". The fascists did take a well deserved knock at the general election. But all the conditions for the spread of violent racism remain. If the nazis try to march on the 20th of June you must be there to stop them. No excuses.
Don't forget, the football world cup is approaching. Town and city centres will be ringing to the hoots of the EDL and their back of the spoon bretheren: "engerluharahoohaahweh". You won't be able to step outside without seeing rivers of vomit, glass, blood and people reeling about in an atavistic stupor. The English football team will eventually be knocked out and, that night, a spate of assaults will ripple across the land. Anyone who looks like the might be from The Abroad (or looks like they might not have gone "engerluharahoohaahweh" hard enough) will get it in the face.
So act now, before Britain becomes the Wetherspoons Reich.
Elsewhere in horror, six people are being locked in a box in a Moscow car park for 18 months. It's actually further psychological testing for a staffed mission to Mars. My first thought was will there even be a world for them to come back to? But, according to the Grauniad report, that's the least of the participants worries:
Space agencies have simulated long missions before, though not always successfully. An experiment at the same Moscow facility in 1999 descended into chaos when a Russian captain forced a kiss on a female Canadian crew member, and two other Russians got drunk and ended up in a fist fight that left blood spattered over the capsule walls.
Man, the future's bleak. At least Big Brother's almost over.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Marxism 2010
The Marxism 2010 timetable is now out. Hooray! Marxism is a fantastic event, a beautiful festival of left-wing politics. The TtSD crew (such as it is) never miss it, nor should you.
But there's another upside to the timetable coming. Every year we play Meeting Title Tombola. Let's get started:
But there's another upside to the timetable coming. Every year we play Meeting Title Tombola. Let's get started:
Oliver Cromwell, sex and Zionism.
Michaelangelo - hero or villain?
Fanaticism: the ideas of Alain Badiou
Lenin seduced
Is Lenin reviving?
Is Lenin reviving Pablo Neruda?
What makes you popular?
If it's popular, can it be climate change?
The crisis behind the crisis
Behind the belly of the beast
The crisis behind the belly of the beast
Do pin-ups determine the belly of the beast?
Organising the belly of Pablo Neruda
Has the French Revolution always existed?
Has 1968 always existed
Is the state becoming boring?
Why is Ireland so boring?
Ireland - the key to the middle east?
Who do revolutionaries stand under Obama?
The fight under Obama - is it over?
Is Noam Chomsky destroying creativity?
Is Iraq South Africa?
Who was Leon Trotsky and Georg Lukacs?
Where does Rosa Luxemburg come from?
Are genes funding Pablo Neruda?
Has finance capital stopped the changing face of Frederick Engels?
Is the Euro free?
Does Pablo Neruda control the Third World - again?
The anarchists and beyond - again?
An alternative vision for the way forward and beyond.
More flotilla stuff
Some of the members of the flotilla are being released. Their testimony, assuming its true, and we have no reason to doubt, points to the cruel and bizarre mentality of the IDF:
Further:
But the crowning weirdness:
This is especially important. The ship was boarded in international waters. It was headed for Gaza. During the bombardment of Gaza we never heard the end of how Gaza was not part of Israel, but supposedly sovereign Palestinian territory.
Read on, you find that even people like Tony Blair and Hilary Clinton are calling the blockade on Gaza "unsustainable". We never ever rely on ruling class figures to deliver, however, the Stop the War demo called for Saturday - coupled with the slogan End the Siege of Gaza - could be pushing at an open door.
Be there.
IT professional Hasan Nowarah, from Glasgow, described the moment Israeli troops stormed the aid flotilla.
He told Sky News the Mavi Marmara ship was surrounded by helicopters and Zodiac assault craft.
"All you could see was screaming and bullets. Out of the blue as I looked around our ship, all I could see were hundreds of Zodiacs: hundreds of Zodiacs full of soldiers, and big ships, lots of ships, and I believe as well submarines in the sea," he said.
Further:
An Algerian, Izzeddine Zahrour, said the Israeli authorities "deprived us of food, water and sleep, and we weren't allowed to use the toilet".
"It was an ugly kidnapping, and subsequently bad treatment in Israeli jail," he said. "They handcuffed us, pushed us around and humiliated us."
But the crowning weirdness:
Mauritanian Mohammed Gholam said Israel "wanted us to sign documents saying that we entered Israel illegally".
This is especially important. The ship was boarded in international waters. It was headed for Gaza. During the bombardment of Gaza we never heard the end of how Gaza was not part of Israel, but supposedly sovereign Palestinian territory.
Read on, you find that even people like Tony Blair and Hilary Clinton are calling the blockade on Gaza "unsustainable". We never ever rely on ruling class figures to deliver, however, the Stop the War demo called for Saturday - coupled with the slogan End the Siege of Gaza - could be pushing at an open door.
Be there.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Something completely else...
1,300 ways to say the same thing: An online archive is collecting English accents to help academics and actors.
Try saying this:
Please call Stella. Ask her to bring these things with her from the store: six spoons of fresh snow peas, five thick slabs of blue cheese, and maybe a snack for her brother Bob. We also need a small plastic snake and a big toy frog for the kids. She can scoop these things into three red bags, and we will go meet her Wednesday at the train station.
Apparently this passage contains most of the consonants, vowels and clusters of Standard American English. The outcome of getting English speakers from across the globe to read the above is we learn:
"When it comes to foreign (non-native) speakers, there seems to be something that all French speakers share, all Mandarin Chinese speakers share, etc. The French speakers of English are substituting, altering, deleting and adding sounds to their English making it different from that of a native English speaker. When we distill what they do to their English, we see patterns: French speakers sound French because they are using French sounds and structures in their English.
"It is not willy-nilly, but systematic. Most French speakers of English can be shown to do these specific (French) things, Swahili speakers to do Swahili things, and so on. So what we 'hear' in an accent is really the system of grammar from the talker's native language. Studying accents is just like studying native sound systems. But don't get me wrong," he adds. "There are still lots of other things about accents that may be more idiosyncratic.
Which is stunningly obvious, when you think about it. Of course we tend not to think about such things. I remember years ago being taught by an English teacher who was also the local magistrate and very, very proper (reduced to herding us oiks). She was a actually a good teacher (once she the observation, which I've never forgotten, that if Shakespeare were alive today he'd write sitcoms like Bottom). The only other thing I remember was her trying to get the class to each pass to pass the oral presentation section of English GCSE. Initially everybody got everything wrong because, in our minds, speaking was different to writing, so loads of us resorted to mangled colloquialism.
One thing this still doesn't answer is why? Why do English people shape their vowels at the tip of tongue while French speakers use the roundness of their mouth (example, creating the comic cliche of "ze" for "the"). Language is part of culture. It is learned and repeated. Certain forms of pronounciation and accent are encouraged, some discouraged. This could, theoretically, be an entirely self-sustaining phenomenon.
But we know things are never this way in practice. Take words and meaning; and Englishman's home is his castle but the French have no word for home, they just have "maison", house. A likely source is, at the point where modern English and French began to coalesce, the English peasantry no longer suffered direct serfdom. An English house was not only shelter from the elements but shelter from the local lord; hence the difference between house and home.
Speculation aside, there are usually material reasons why languages develop words in different ways (there are different words for snow in Arctic cultures). Why shouldn't it be the same for accents?
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