Unfortunately due to contractual obligations, which I'd rather not go into now (OK, I'm Axl Rose's chauffeur, lawyer and drug dealer... keeper awayer) I was at the Reading Festival. I can report from the frontline of corporate endorsed rock that:
(1) This years Reading mainstage was the worst line-up of any festival this year (or many years), at least the lead singer of Arcade Fire owned up to not being a headline act. They still inflicted a headline long set.
(2) The most underbilled band were the Futureheads, who have now happily written a song of their own to match the joyous majesty of Hounds of Love:
(3) The best set came from Kele, Sunday on the NME stage:
I might not be supposed to know, but I have no idea what a Tenderoni is...
(4) Second prize goes to LCD Soundsystem (soon to disband, sadly):
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Time keeps slipping
In 2007 we were living in the 21st century. Thanks to the stock market crash by 2009 we were living in the 1930s. If this trend continues, and judging by this current government it will, by 2011 we will be living in the 1850s. 2013 will see the second dawn of the 1770s, 2015 the 1690s, and so on until 2017 will see the restoration of government by divine right.
And the Tory Party's function will be complete... unless, of course, we stop them.
And the Tory Party's function will be complete... unless, of course, we stop them.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A story
Warning, it has some fruity, unBolshevik language, included for verisimilitude. It's simply called:
Duelists
To begin with Little Tom was a marginal figure, he'd been that way for thirteen years. His parents, Big Tom and Esme, were travelling folk who worked on fairgrounds.
His early years were spent in and out of school. Winters he'd usually stay with his Grandma, spring and summer he'd usually be out on the road, helping his Dad on the rides.
Life for Tom only settled down after his father died. Big Tom bled to death in hospital, internal haemorrhage, after an argument with a drunken customer turned to violence. The police never caught his killer.
Esme dropped out of the carnival life. She took Little Tom to live with her mother until she found work (as a cleaner) and a flat to live in the city. Not quite a teenager, Tom had his first full year of schooling.
He found it difficult settling into full-time education. Teachers found it very difficult to sort him into any kind of stream. His written English was very basic, although he was quick-witted, verbose and hard to handle. Years of haggling and handling cash meant he was a natural mathematician. His general knowledge was sketchy but occasionally brilliant. For example, Tom knew almost every constellation in the sky but had never heard of the Norman invasion in 1066.
Most teachers saw him as simply a problem. All they could do was bury him in the bottom stream. It was too late for him. There was too little time to help him get up to speed.
But one teacher in particular too exception to him, the Deputy Head Mr Thorpe. Mr Thorpe was a PE teacher,an imposing figure with a heartless, grinding Liverpudlian accent. He was a big man, over six feet with broad shoulders and arms. He had sharply receding red hair, diamond green eyes and huge flared nostrils above a pugnacious moustache and lantern jaw. Though only the Deputy, he was truly master of all he surveyed. The Headmaster was Mr Stanley, a kindly, beloved old science teacher; due to retire in eighteen months, he'd already checked out, deferring most of the day to day running to Mr Thorpe.
Thorpe was ambitious, a devout follower of the government, a friend of Ofsted. He knew he had targets to meet and he'd be dammed if he'd have the children let him down. If there was one thing he wouldn't stand for, apart from slackness, was weakness. He could spot weakness, even a hidden weakness buried deep down and use it to humiliate and intimidate. Thorpe was a bully, feared and loathed but, as far as he was concerned, he got the job done.
So he was surprised (and infuriated) one day to be called a “scouse twat”.
It happened one Monday, toward the end of lunch break. Five minutes to go, Thorpe saw three lads hanging about like they were trying to waste time. He walked up to them, sizing them up in his mind. Then he saw Tom.
“All right there, isn't it about time you were moving on, you little pikey?”
“No, I'm fine here” said Tom. “Something wrong with you, you scouse twat?”
Tom's two friends, Ricky and Harry, suffered a ripple of horror, and not just for the anger flashing across Mr Thorpe's face. In his first few weeks at school Tom had to fight his corner. Wise asses in his year, sizing him up, tried to get at him for being a gypsy, but Tom fought his corner. A typical example:
“I heard you're Mum's a gypo...”
“Yeah” said Tom, “and I heard your Mum uses a Kit Kat wrapper as a diaphragm”.
Kids found out quickly that Tom took no shit and would give as good as he got. People respected him from then on. They still didn't like him, but they respected him. The friends he made were generally low-rank, they gathered round him for safety. He became the leader of the tail-enders, their champion, almost. Tom's friends knew he wouldn't back down in front of Thorpe.
“You cheeky little shits! Get out of here, NOW! I want to see all three of you in detention, tonight!” Thorpe loomed over the trio. Tom's friends both thought he'd get violent, but Tom was calm.
“It's all right. I've got nothing doing tonight. I bet you have though, Sir”.
Mr Thorpe did as well, he and his wife were supposed to be dining with two of the Board of Directors at Imperial College, although Tom couldn't have known. Mr Thorpe hesitated before gritting his teeth:
“Make that, tomorrow night as well”.
Tom's friend's quailed. Undeterred, Tom suggested “How about the whole week?”
“It's a deal” said Mr Thorpe, who then grabbed Tom roughly by the coat and shoved him toward where he thought Tom was supposed to be going. Tom gathered his balance and, cool as he could, started walking in the opposite direction. Thorpe, wide eyed, blocked his path. “Where'd you think you're going”.
“Uh, Sir, my class is that way”.
Tom walked on. He called back to his friends without looking, “c'mon guys”.
That evening, after school, Tom and co turned up for their detention. Thorpe didn't keep his promise, instead it was Ms Fry, who just handed out some back copies of National Geographic:
“Here, just copy these articles, keep quiet and we can all go home in an hour”.
…
Later that week Tom was coming out of another boring French lesson, facing another half-mile trek to IT. Tom's school was built over a wide area, several square miles. The science and IT block was being rebuilt and meanwhile students had to trudge down the road to the former playground of the local primary school, were they received tuition in a group of temporary cabins.
This worried Mr Thorpe. There were already enough problems getting classes started on time. This would be very difficult to manage. But every problem can also be an opportunity. Thorpe first put a memo round to staff, then made announcements in several assemblies. He started a campaign against “down time”. Pupils were not to dawdle, they were forbidden from taking “scenic routes” between classes. Signs were put up round school, arrows painted on the floor. He drafted in selected prefects and support staff to supervise his children, make sure they took the direct route (but not run) between lessons. Anyone caught carousing, lolly-gagging or swinging the lead would be given detention on the spot. Thorpe was cracking down on down time.
Tom knew this. He thought to console himself he'd have a bit of his packed lunch now. Tom searched through his bag. There it was. What had Mum packed? Sandwiches, crisps, a nice chocolate bar... Panda Pop? Ugh! Tom hated cheap pop, but his Mum insisted she didn't have enough money to buy him cola every day.
Tom unfastened the top and poured the cola out onto a patch of grass.
“Pikey!”
Tom knew that voice. It was Thorpe, leaning out a window from the teachers lounge. He looked angry.
“My office, now!”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“NOW!”
“All right, all right”.
Outside Thorpe's office, next door to the lounge.
“So, Tom, you think it's OK, defacing my workspace?” Thorpe, seemingly calm now, folded his arms.
“Your workspace?”
“My workspace...”
“You work on the grass?”
“It's our working environment and you are disrespecting it”.
“I was just pouring...”
Mr Thorpe snapped; “detention...”
“But I...”
“But what?” asked Thorpe.
“But I already have detention” said Tom. “You gave it to me, remember?”
Thorpe uncrossed. “One week's detention”.
“I'm already doing a week's detention”.
Thorpe paused for thought. He leant over Tom.
“OK then...”he spoke slowly. “You are going to stand here until you come up with a good reason why you defaced my workspace”.
Thorpe turned and without looking went back into the teachers lounge, shutting the door firmly. Tom stood for a moment. He heard chatty adult voices, a ripple of muffled laughter.
“Nuts to this” said Tom, under his breath. He shrugged, turned and strolled off to class.
Fifteen minutes into the lesson, everyone was sitting at a computer, trying to type out the same basic programme. A firm click and the swoosh of the room door.
“Mr Allard, a moment”.
It was Thorpe, standing in the doorway:
“Mr Marsh, stand up”. Thorpe beckoned to Tom. Tom stood up. Thorpe remained in the doorway. “Come here”said Thorpe. Tom came. “I told you to stay there until you could think of a reason...” Thorpe let his voice fall. He seemed to want a response from Tom. “Why did you walk off?”
Tom sighed. He could feel behind him, and all around him a prickly tension, like something was about to break. “Well... Sir... I was thinking about what you said but, on the other hand I didn't want to waste any valuable down time”.
Mr Thorpe, still outwardly calm said:
“I'll see you tonight... That'll be all Mr Allard”.
As Tom returned to his seat he glanced toward Mr Allard, who seemed to be smiling.
…
That evening there were nearly two-dozen students waiting in the library. They sat at various tables, all talking. Everyone was excited about Tom's growing feud with Mr Thorpe. They couldn't believe it. Tom was holding court when Ricky spotted Mr Thorpe at the front door. Everyone hushed.
“Good evening, cretins” Mr Thorpe hollered as he pushed through the front door. Thorpe was carrying a mug of coffee and a small briefcase. He plonked the coffee and case down on a desk in front of the detainees. He opened the briefcase. Inside was a large wad of paper.
“Welcome to the worst night of your lives so far”. Thorpe started handing out A4 sheets with special typed headings. “You are all time wasters, oxygen thieves and future jailbirds. Education is wasted on you. If I had my way you'd all be packed off to the workhouse or the military to get a dose of reality, but, until that happy day, you're my problem to deal with and I'm going to deal with you the best I can. I have personalised each of your tasks. You will copy out your own personal sentences”.
“How many times, Sir?” asked one of the Detainees, a second year girl.
“Until I can see you've got the message”.
“But how many...?”
“You'll do it until I tell you to go”. Thorpe circled before sitting back at the desk.
“But Sir...”
“I have informed your parents. They've all agreed to this” said Mr Thorpe.
Tom knew this wasn't true. For one thing his Mum didn't have a phone. Tom looked at his sheets of paper. They were headed with:
“I will not be a cheeky, thieving little rat-boy”.
Thieving?
“Well, don't wait for me” said Thorpe. “I'm not doing any lines”. Thorpe's Secretary appeared, she whispered into his ear. “Well folkies, I've just got to deal with something in my office. If you've not started by the time I'm back I'm keeping you in overnight”. He looked at the horrified faces. “Get going”. Most of the kids did. Tom, sitting at the back watched and listened.
“What did the Chancellor say? Is he still...?” Thorpe and his Secretary left through the front door.
Once he was sure they were out of sight Tom stood up. He walked over to the front desk, where Thorpe had left his open briefcase and steaming mug of coffee. He walked slowly and quietly. No one really noticed him until he started rummaging through the briefcase contents.
“What are you doing, Tom?”
“Just looking” said Tom. There was nothing inside that really interested him.
“You can't do that” said the Second Year.
“Oh yeah?” said Tom. “Just like he can't keep us in after five thirty”. Tom put the various sheets, notebooks and pens back in their place.
“You're mental, Tommy” said one of the other Detainees.
Tom picked up the cup of coffee. “I suppose I am” said Tom. He spat in the cup. The whole group gasped.
“You can't do that”.
“Well I just have” said Tom, a little testy. “What's your name?”
“Jacinda” said the girl.
“Haven't you always wanted to do that?” asked Tom. “Well, something like that. What's he go you in here for, Jacinda?”
“Chewing gum”.
“Is that a detainable offence? I don't think it is. What's he got as your lines”.
“Only fat cows chew all day” said Jacinda, who was a little overweight.
“It's not on” said Tom. “Ricky, Harry, he's got both of you in here for something I did”.
“Yeah, my Mum's pissed off” said Harry. “She said I shouldn't have nothing to do with you”.
“We've all got our problems, Harry. Tyler, what are you in detention for?”
“Being late”.
“What's he got you writing?”
“The French for moron is...”
“Mr Thorpe's taking the piss” said Tom. “It's time we started getting back at him. Everyone gob in coffee. Let's have him drinking our flob”.
“But we'll get caught” said Jacinda.
“No we won't” said Tom. “He's taking a phone call. I heard him. He won't be back for ages. He loves the sound of his own voice. Besides, if he does what's he gonna do? Harry, c'mon, you first”.
Harry, persuaded, got up and spat in the Thorpe's mug. Before long the whole room had got up and done the same. It was nearly ten minutes before Thorpe returned. Everyone appeared to be busy, head down writing, even Tom. Mr Thorpe was satisfied. He sat down without speaking to anyone. He saw the steaming mug, picked it up to take a sip but noticed, for some reason, everyone was now looking at him.
“Get back to work” said Thorpe, before taking a nice long sip.
…
Friday's saw all-school assembly after registration. The head staff usually rotated who gave the assembly. This week it was Thorpe's turn. This week he wanted to talk about achievement. Recent test results showed a growing gap between boys and girls results. It was great that girls were seeking empowerment through achievement but that was no excuse for the boys falling behind.
“Your school days are the most important days of your life. Fail your GCSEs and you will fail life” said Mr Thorpe.
Why was this happening?
“There are a number of theories, reasons why boys are getting less out of school than girls. I won't bore you with them” said Thorpe before listing a number: macho culture, footballers, the Gallagher brothers, computer games, TV sketch shows, alcopops...
“But above all it's just considered uncool. It's not cool to learn. I want to change this. It is cool to learn. That's why...” Mr Thorpe's Secretary handed him a piece of white cloth. “That is why I am starting a new campaign to say...” Thorpe unfolded the cloth, holding it out in front of him It was a t-shirt. “It's cool to learn”. In case anyone doubted him the shirt had six-inch bold font saying “It's Cool to Learn”.
“I want each of the...” Thorpe stopped. There seemed to be laughter, suppressed laughter. I want, I want each of the...” The children, they were definitely sniggering. “The prefects to...”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
It was that Tom, that rat boy, openly mocking him; pointing and laughing. He set off a number of others. The spell had been broken.
…
That evening Tom went straight home.
Duelists
To begin with Little Tom was a marginal figure, he'd been that way for thirteen years. His parents, Big Tom and Esme, were travelling folk who worked on fairgrounds.
His early years were spent in and out of school. Winters he'd usually stay with his Grandma, spring and summer he'd usually be out on the road, helping his Dad on the rides.
Life for Tom only settled down after his father died. Big Tom bled to death in hospital, internal haemorrhage, after an argument with a drunken customer turned to violence. The police never caught his killer.
Esme dropped out of the carnival life. She took Little Tom to live with her mother until she found work (as a cleaner) and a flat to live in the city. Not quite a teenager, Tom had his first full year of schooling.
He found it difficult settling into full-time education. Teachers found it very difficult to sort him into any kind of stream. His written English was very basic, although he was quick-witted, verbose and hard to handle. Years of haggling and handling cash meant he was a natural mathematician. His general knowledge was sketchy but occasionally brilliant. For example, Tom knew almost every constellation in the sky but had never heard of the Norman invasion in 1066.
Most teachers saw him as simply a problem. All they could do was bury him in the bottom stream. It was too late for him. There was too little time to help him get up to speed.
But one teacher in particular too exception to him, the Deputy Head Mr Thorpe. Mr Thorpe was a PE teacher,an imposing figure with a heartless, grinding Liverpudlian accent. He was a big man, over six feet with broad shoulders and arms. He had sharply receding red hair, diamond green eyes and huge flared nostrils above a pugnacious moustache and lantern jaw. Though only the Deputy, he was truly master of all he surveyed. The Headmaster was Mr Stanley, a kindly, beloved old science teacher; due to retire in eighteen months, he'd already checked out, deferring most of the day to day running to Mr Thorpe.
Thorpe was ambitious, a devout follower of the government, a friend of Ofsted. He knew he had targets to meet and he'd be dammed if he'd have the children let him down. If there was one thing he wouldn't stand for, apart from slackness, was weakness. He could spot weakness, even a hidden weakness buried deep down and use it to humiliate and intimidate. Thorpe was a bully, feared and loathed but, as far as he was concerned, he got the job done.
So he was surprised (and infuriated) one day to be called a “scouse twat”.
It happened one Monday, toward the end of lunch break. Five minutes to go, Thorpe saw three lads hanging about like they were trying to waste time. He walked up to them, sizing them up in his mind. Then he saw Tom.
“All right there, isn't it about time you were moving on, you little pikey?”
“No, I'm fine here” said Tom. “Something wrong with you, you scouse twat?”
Tom's two friends, Ricky and Harry, suffered a ripple of horror, and not just for the anger flashing across Mr Thorpe's face. In his first few weeks at school Tom had to fight his corner. Wise asses in his year, sizing him up, tried to get at him for being a gypsy, but Tom fought his corner. A typical example:
“I heard you're Mum's a gypo...”
“Yeah” said Tom, “and I heard your Mum uses a Kit Kat wrapper as a diaphragm”.
Kids found out quickly that Tom took no shit and would give as good as he got. People respected him from then on. They still didn't like him, but they respected him. The friends he made were generally low-rank, they gathered round him for safety. He became the leader of the tail-enders, their champion, almost. Tom's friends knew he wouldn't back down in front of Thorpe.
“You cheeky little shits! Get out of here, NOW! I want to see all three of you in detention, tonight!” Thorpe loomed over the trio. Tom's friends both thought he'd get violent, but Tom was calm.
“It's all right. I've got nothing doing tonight. I bet you have though, Sir”.
Mr Thorpe did as well, he and his wife were supposed to be dining with two of the Board of Directors at Imperial College, although Tom couldn't have known. Mr Thorpe hesitated before gritting his teeth:
“Make that, tomorrow night as well”.
Tom's friend's quailed. Undeterred, Tom suggested “How about the whole week?”
“It's a deal” said Mr Thorpe, who then grabbed Tom roughly by the coat and shoved him toward where he thought Tom was supposed to be going. Tom gathered his balance and, cool as he could, started walking in the opposite direction. Thorpe, wide eyed, blocked his path. “Where'd you think you're going”.
“Uh, Sir, my class is that way”.
Tom walked on. He called back to his friends without looking, “c'mon guys”.
That evening, after school, Tom and co turned up for their detention. Thorpe didn't keep his promise, instead it was Ms Fry, who just handed out some back copies of National Geographic:
“Here, just copy these articles, keep quiet and we can all go home in an hour”.
…
Later that week Tom was coming out of another boring French lesson, facing another half-mile trek to IT. Tom's school was built over a wide area, several square miles. The science and IT block was being rebuilt and meanwhile students had to trudge down the road to the former playground of the local primary school, were they received tuition in a group of temporary cabins.
This worried Mr Thorpe. There were already enough problems getting classes started on time. This would be very difficult to manage. But every problem can also be an opportunity. Thorpe first put a memo round to staff, then made announcements in several assemblies. He started a campaign against “down time”. Pupils were not to dawdle, they were forbidden from taking “scenic routes” between classes. Signs were put up round school, arrows painted on the floor. He drafted in selected prefects and support staff to supervise his children, make sure they took the direct route (but not run) between lessons. Anyone caught carousing, lolly-gagging or swinging the lead would be given detention on the spot. Thorpe was cracking down on down time.
Tom knew this. He thought to console himself he'd have a bit of his packed lunch now. Tom searched through his bag. There it was. What had Mum packed? Sandwiches, crisps, a nice chocolate bar... Panda Pop? Ugh! Tom hated cheap pop, but his Mum insisted she didn't have enough money to buy him cola every day.
Tom unfastened the top and poured the cola out onto a patch of grass.
“Pikey!”
Tom knew that voice. It was Thorpe, leaning out a window from the teachers lounge. He looked angry.
“My office, now!”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“NOW!”
“All right, all right”.
Outside Thorpe's office, next door to the lounge.
“So, Tom, you think it's OK, defacing my workspace?” Thorpe, seemingly calm now, folded his arms.
“Your workspace?”
“My workspace...”
“You work on the grass?”
“It's our working environment and you are disrespecting it”.
“I was just pouring...”
Mr Thorpe snapped; “detention...”
“But I...”
“But what?” asked Thorpe.
“But I already have detention” said Tom. “You gave it to me, remember?”
Thorpe uncrossed. “One week's detention”.
“I'm already doing a week's detention”.
Thorpe paused for thought. He leant over Tom.
“OK then...”he spoke slowly. “You are going to stand here until you come up with a good reason why you defaced my workspace”.
Thorpe turned and without looking went back into the teachers lounge, shutting the door firmly. Tom stood for a moment. He heard chatty adult voices, a ripple of muffled laughter.
“Nuts to this” said Tom, under his breath. He shrugged, turned and strolled off to class.
Fifteen minutes into the lesson, everyone was sitting at a computer, trying to type out the same basic programme. A firm click and the swoosh of the room door.
“Mr Allard, a moment”.
It was Thorpe, standing in the doorway:
“Mr Marsh, stand up”. Thorpe beckoned to Tom. Tom stood up. Thorpe remained in the doorway. “Come here”said Thorpe. Tom came. “I told you to stay there until you could think of a reason...” Thorpe let his voice fall. He seemed to want a response from Tom. “Why did you walk off?”
Tom sighed. He could feel behind him, and all around him a prickly tension, like something was about to break. “Well... Sir... I was thinking about what you said but, on the other hand I didn't want to waste any valuable down time”.
Mr Thorpe, still outwardly calm said:
“I'll see you tonight... That'll be all Mr Allard”.
As Tom returned to his seat he glanced toward Mr Allard, who seemed to be smiling.
…
That evening there were nearly two-dozen students waiting in the library. They sat at various tables, all talking. Everyone was excited about Tom's growing feud with Mr Thorpe. They couldn't believe it. Tom was holding court when Ricky spotted Mr Thorpe at the front door. Everyone hushed.
“Good evening, cretins” Mr Thorpe hollered as he pushed through the front door. Thorpe was carrying a mug of coffee and a small briefcase. He plonked the coffee and case down on a desk in front of the detainees. He opened the briefcase. Inside was a large wad of paper.
“Welcome to the worst night of your lives so far”. Thorpe started handing out A4 sheets with special typed headings. “You are all time wasters, oxygen thieves and future jailbirds. Education is wasted on you. If I had my way you'd all be packed off to the workhouse or the military to get a dose of reality, but, until that happy day, you're my problem to deal with and I'm going to deal with you the best I can. I have personalised each of your tasks. You will copy out your own personal sentences”.
“How many times, Sir?” asked one of the Detainees, a second year girl.
“Until I can see you've got the message”.
“But how many...?”
“You'll do it until I tell you to go”. Thorpe circled before sitting back at the desk.
“But Sir...”
“I have informed your parents. They've all agreed to this” said Mr Thorpe.
Tom knew this wasn't true. For one thing his Mum didn't have a phone. Tom looked at his sheets of paper. They were headed with:
“I will not be a cheeky, thieving little rat-boy”.
Thieving?
“Well, don't wait for me” said Thorpe. “I'm not doing any lines”. Thorpe's Secretary appeared, she whispered into his ear. “Well folkies, I've just got to deal with something in my office. If you've not started by the time I'm back I'm keeping you in overnight”. He looked at the horrified faces. “Get going”. Most of the kids did. Tom, sitting at the back watched and listened.
“What did the Chancellor say? Is he still...?” Thorpe and his Secretary left through the front door.
Once he was sure they were out of sight Tom stood up. He walked over to the front desk, where Thorpe had left his open briefcase and steaming mug of coffee. He walked slowly and quietly. No one really noticed him until he started rummaging through the briefcase contents.
“What are you doing, Tom?”
“Just looking” said Tom. There was nothing inside that really interested him.
“You can't do that” said the Second Year.
“Oh yeah?” said Tom. “Just like he can't keep us in after five thirty”. Tom put the various sheets, notebooks and pens back in their place.
“You're mental, Tommy” said one of the other Detainees.
Tom picked up the cup of coffee. “I suppose I am” said Tom. He spat in the cup. The whole group gasped.
“You can't do that”.
“Well I just have” said Tom, a little testy. “What's your name?”
“Jacinda” said the girl.
“Haven't you always wanted to do that?” asked Tom. “Well, something like that. What's he go you in here for, Jacinda?”
“Chewing gum”.
“Is that a detainable offence? I don't think it is. What's he got as your lines”.
“Only fat cows chew all day” said Jacinda, who was a little overweight.
“It's not on” said Tom. “Ricky, Harry, he's got both of you in here for something I did”.
“Yeah, my Mum's pissed off” said Harry. “She said I shouldn't have nothing to do with you”.
“We've all got our problems, Harry. Tyler, what are you in detention for?”
“Being late”.
“What's he got you writing?”
“The French for moron is...”
“Mr Thorpe's taking the piss” said Tom. “It's time we started getting back at him. Everyone gob in coffee. Let's have him drinking our flob”.
“But we'll get caught” said Jacinda.
“No we won't” said Tom. “He's taking a phone call. I heard him. He won't be back for ages. He loves the sound of his own voice. Besides, if he does what's he gonna do? Harry, c'mon, you first”.
Harry, persuaded, got up and spat in the Thorpe's mug. Before long the whole room had got up and done the same. It was nearly ten minutes before Thorpe returned. Everyone appeared to be busy, head down writing, even Tom. Mr Thorpe was satisfied. He sat down without speaking to anyone. He saw the steaming mug, picked it up to take a sip but noticed, for some reason, everyone was now looking at him.
“Get back to work” said Thorpe, before taking a nice long sip.
…
Friday's saw all-school assembly after registration. The head staff usually rotated who gave the assembly. This week it was Thorpe's turn. This week he wanted to talk about achievement. Recent test results showed a growing gap between boys and girls results. It was great that girls were seeking empowerment through achievement but that was no excuse for the boys falling behind.
“Your school days are the most important days of your life. Fail your GCSEs and you will fail life” said Mr Thorpe.
Why was this happening?
“There are a number of theories, reasons why boys are getting less out of school than girls. I won't bore you with them” said Thorpe before listing a number: macho culture, footballers, the Gallagher brothers, computer games, TV sketch shows, alcopops...
“But above all it's just considered uncool. It's not cool to learn. I want to change this. It is cool to learn. That's why...” Mr Thorpe's Secretary handed him a piece of white cloth. “That is why I am starting a new campaign to say...” Thorpe unfolded the cloth, holding it out in front of him It was a t-shirt. “It's cool to learn”. In case anyone doubted him the shirt had six-inch bold font saying “It's Cool to Learn”.
“I want each of the...” Thorpe stopped. There seemed to be laughter, suppressed laughter. I want, I want each of the...” The children, they were definitely sniggering. “The prefects to...”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
It was that Tom, that rat boy, openly mocking him; pointing and laughing. He set off a number of others. The spell had been broken.
…
That evening Tom went straight home.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Door... Bolted... Horse... Etc
Andy Burnham, champion of Aspirational Socialism (where the proles get to, I don't know, breathe out or something), has launched a blitz on the self-perpetuating metropolitan elite.
Meanwhile in a TOTALLY UNCONNECTED STORY Tony Blair has founded a high-end financial advice service. But if you thought he was setting up a bank for the super-rich you'd be wrong, oh yes!
Presumably Blair got all this lucrative strategic insight working as a lawyer or perhaps a back bencher toiling for the good people of Sedgefield, but definitely not when he was a prime minister. Remember, it's not corruption if you take your bribe after you leave the job.
Meanwhile in a TOTALLY UNCONNECTED STORY Tony Blair has founded a high-end financial advice service. But if you thought he was setting up a bank for the super-rich you'd be wrong, oh yes!
Blair's spokesman said: "The very idea that Tony Blair is starting a bank or finance house for the super-rich is fatuous ... As we explained at the time, FSA approval was simply sought out of an abundance of caution ... Tony Blair Associates provides strategic advice on a commercial and pro-bono basis, on political and economic trends and governmental reform."
Presumably Blair got all this lucrative strategic insight working as a lawyer or perhaps a back bencher toiling for the good people of Sedgefield, but definitely not when he was a prime minister. Remember, it's not corruption if you take your bribe after you leave the job.
Friday, August 20, 2010
This week in unremitting awfulness
Another world is possible, unfortunately it's shrinking. The Moon is decreasing in size due to the ongoing cooling process from its likely formation, producing wrinkle like scarps on the surface. This, of course, suggests the Moon is geologically active.
Meanwhile, the Dawkins debate. The trouble with Richard Dawkins is, I think, he actually knows the limitations of foresquare materialism, is troubled by its implications, but for many reasons is unable to ditch this outlook (hence, right at the end of The Selfish Gene he adds... but, as conscious humans we don't HAVE to act selfishly). In one very particular sense I think he's right about schooling. Science and theology are not equal subjects. It is not good enough to say kids should "make up their own minds". For one thing, what's the point of schooling if children are allowed to meander toward a worldview?
And finally, Hope not Hate are a bunch of sectarian shits, whose sole aim is to carve out non-Labour anti-fascists. Hence they went from trying to have the EDL's march through Bradford banned, to trying to have UAF's counter march banned, to organising their own counter counter-event event miles from the originally agreed spot... all the while baiting UAF and its supporters as latent rioters. Here's me thinking the EDL were the problem.
With friends like them who needs collaborators?
Meanwhile, the Dawkins debate. The trouble with Richard Dawkins is, I think, he actually knows the limitations of foresquare materialism, is troubled by its implications, but for many reasons is unable to ditch this outlook (hence, right at the end of The Selfish Gene he adds... but, as conscious humans we don't HAVE to act selfishly). In one very particular sense I think he's right about schooling. Science and theology are not equal subjects. It is not good enough to say kids should "make up their own minds". For one thing, what's the point of schooling if children are allowed to meander toward a worldview?
And finally, Hope not Hate are a bunch of sectarian shits, whose sole aim is to carve out non-Labour anti-fascists. Hence they went from trying to have the EDL's march through Bradford banned, to trying to have UAF's counter march banned, to organising their own counter counter-event event miles from the originally agreed spot... all the while baiting UAF and its supporters as latent rioters. Here's me thinking the EDL were the problem.
With friends like them who needs collaborators?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Pure TV Gold
We know TV does not exist to provide entertainment, enlightenment or uplift. It is there to anaesthetise us plebians so one day yuppies will be able to extract surplus value by attaching suction pumps to our eyeballs. Still we watch it though. Here's some more TV shows to help smooth our descent into oblivion:
Eastenders on Ice
Big Brother's Little Brother's Weird Friend
My Family - after the apocolypse
Two and a Half Mensch (yes, it's set in Germany in 1933)
Guy De Famille
Mock the Working Lunch
Relocation, Relocation, Tory Housing Policy
National Lottery - Government Policy Tombola
Sky News at the Improv
Nick Clegg's Happy Hour (every night he signs off with "don't worry, I've still got a job")
Celebrity Sky at Night
Pope Idol
Swearing - a fucking history (presented by Danny Dyer)
The Holiday Programme - volcano special.
Monday, August 16, 2010
No one is illegal
Socialist Worker has picked up a gobsmacking story:
Read on, it's outrageous stuff. Southern Africa is incredibly mineral rich. For example, Zimbabwe and South Africa hold approximately 90% of the world's platinum reserves.
The mining system, so to speak, is harsh. In Britain mining villages were deliberately deprived of all other industry in order to force local sons leave or go underground. In South Africa mine owners usually own the surrounding area and insist on their employees renting accomodation on site, effectively making the workers bonded slaves.
So you can imagine the intensity of class war on these sites and, given this is Southern Africa, it is intimately linked with racial conflict. Hence three white security guards can kill twenty black miners and abandon their bodies 1km down.
But check out their apparent language, they thought the miners were "illegal". This is becoming a common adjective. You've heard it before. No one is illegal, no one can be illegal. It is impossible to break the law by simply existing (though, give it time!). The point of deeming someone to be "an illegal" is to put them beyond humanity, they are not a citizen, they are not a person. In this case its the motive for casual murder.
In this context "illegal" is a dehumanising, racist trope that should be fought at every turn. No one is illegal.
Up to 20 miners were executed by security guards on the East Rand in South Africa on Monday.
The Grootvlei gold mine is owned by Aurora Empowerment Systems whose chair is the nephew of South African president Jacob Zuma.
Witnesses say security guards opened fire without warning on a group of miners that they thought were “illegal”—not employed by the company.
Read on, it's outrageous stuff. Southern Africa is incredibly mineral rich. For example, Zimbabwe and South Africa hold approximately 90% of the world's platinum reserves.
The mining system, so to speak, is harsh. In Britain mining villages were deliberately deprived of all other industry in order to force local sons leave or go underground. In South Africa mine owners usually own the surrounding area and insist on their employees renting accomodation on site, effectively making the workers bonded slaves.
So you can imagine the intensity of class war on these sites and, given this is Southern Africa, it is intimately linked with racial conflict. Hence three white security guards can kill twenty black miners and abandon their bodies 1km down.
But check out their apparent language, they thought the miners were "illegal". This is becoming a common adjective. You've heard it before. No one is illegal, no one can be illegal. It is impossible to break the law by simply existing (though, give it time!). The point of deeming someone to be "an illegal" is to put them beyond humanity, they are not a citizen, they are not a person. In this case its the motive for casual murder.
In this context "illegal" is a dehumanising, racist trope that should be fought at every turn. No one is illegal.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Welcome to the Bullingdon Club charity auction
Where everything MUST GO!
All nature reserves MUST GO!
All life tenancies MUST GO!
All wages linked pensions MUST GO!
Comprehensive education MUST GO!
Access to higher education MUST GO!
The National Health Service MUST GO!
The shirt on your back MUST GO!
Proceeds go to help starving bankers.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
A discussion on human nature
Discussing human nature with comrades last night it occurred to me, if it weren't for the fact that political questions are framed in terms of 'nature' we would not want to use that particular phrase.
Nature is an interaction between organic and inorganic bodies. What is consistent in organic bodies is coded in DNA and passed on through reproduction.
Outward expressions of humanity, what we do, what we create, are hardly you'd call natural. Human civilisation is not natural, wait as long as you like, you will not see a skyscraper or an aeroplane form naturally.
The propensity of humans to invent new methods of propulsion or mathematics or even a new social system is not determined by genetics. What made James Watt an inventor, Albert Einstein a mathematician, Karl Marx a revolutionary was not handed down to them through their ancestors genes, otherwise human invention is just a happy accident, which could happen equally at any point in history. Despite being organic bodies, what makes us human, as oppposed to animal clearly lies beyond this.
Nature, human nature is clearly a value judgement, not a scientific statement. It's clearly based, despite widespread acceptance of the theory of evolution by natural selection, on the lingering sense of nature as something stable, immutable. 'Natural' equals good, what should be, compared with what is 'unnatural'.
Argument over human nature often descends into haggling over the degree to which genes and environment determine a person or people. In this case both philosophical tendencies are open to reactionary interpretations. Take the argument over homosexuality, whether there is a gay gene or whether it is a choice. Accepting either premise opens the way for the idea that homosexuality can be 'cured'. The point is arguing over the relative 'naturalness' of something gets us nowhere.
The debate should not be over what constitutes human nature. An abstract human nature implies the essence of humanity, repeated in each individual, is something to be ignored or obeyed. In his Theses on Feuerbach, Marx hits on why regarding humanity from the perspective of the abstract individual ultimately falls down. Humanity is the product of human society. We have built our society through conscious labour.
The question is not so much what is human nature but what is human culture.
Nature is an interaction between organic and inorganic bodies. What is consistent in organic bodies is coded in DNA and passed on through reproduction.
Outward expressions of humanity, what we do, what we create, are hardly you'd call natural. Human civilisation is not natural, wait as long as you like, you will not see a skyscraper or an aeroplane form naturally.
The propensity of humans to invent new methods of propulsion or mathematics or even a new social system is not determined by genetics. What made James Watt an inventor, Albert Einstein a mathematician, Karl Marx a revolutionary was not handed down to them through their ancestors genes, otherwise human invention is just a happy accident, which could happen equally at any point in history. Despite being organic bodies, what makes us human, as oppposed to animal clearly lies beyond this.
Nature, human nature is clearly a value judgement, not a scientific statement. It's clearly based, despite widespread acceptance of the theory of evolution by natural selection, on the lingering sense of nature as something stable, immutable. 'Natural' equals good, what should be, compared with what is 'unnatural'.
Argument over human nature often descends into haggling over the degree to which genes and environment determine a person or people. In this case both philosophical tendencies are open to reactionary interpretations. Take the argument over homosexuality, whether there is a gay gene or whether it is a choice. Accepting either premise opens the way for the idea that homosexuality can be 'cured'. The point is arguing over the relative 'naturalness' of something gets us nowhere.
The debate should not be over what constitutes human nature. An abstract human nature implies the essence of humanity, repeated in each individual, is something to be ignored or obeyed. In his Theses on Feuerbach, Marx hits on why regarding humanity from the perspective of the abstract individual ultimately falls down. Humanity is the product of human society. We have built our society through conscious labour.
The question is not so much what is human nature but what is human culture.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Stupid, stupid, stupid... and idiotic
Some small newsbites for you. The new London Metropolitan Police Commissioner is a fan of prison. Ok, he's a fan of other people going there. But, check this out:
I don't believe that we should never do short sentence sentences.
Huh?
I don't believe that we should never do short sentence sentences.
I can see what he's driving at, what the context?
[Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Paul Stephenson] also said there was a need for a "balance between retribution and rehabilitation" in the justice system.
"I believe in both. I don't believe that we should never do short sentence sentences."
Nope, you've lost me completely now. I guess the proof of the pudding will be in the eating. Expect gulags before 2012.
Meanwhile (and you can see the result above) workers have misspelled the word school on a road approaching a high school in North Carolina in the US. The USA claims a 99% literacy rate. Maybe so. It's mildly amusing. More disturbing, the CIA now has a kids' page.
And finally in this collection of and finallies, Richard Littlejohn thinks Chinese factory suicides are funny. Another thing to add to his gravestone.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Can't we all just get along?
Evidently not. Why are there 57 varieties of socialist party? It's a common question put by newbies. There are some good reasons and some real reasons. Sometimes the question is put but the interlocutor is not so innocent. I'm-not-sectarian-not-like-all-you-other-sectarians is a well-worn shill.
Now we learn that there are two varieties of anti-fascism something is twanging in the back of my mind. The latest Graun comment piece on the far-right seems fair enough (btw, doesn't the Guardian have a disurbingly sexual excitement about native fascism?). The fact the author says this:
... annoys me slightly. The inverse is true. Actually it was Unite Against Fascism who chiefly campaigned against Nick Griffin in Barking, Hope not Hate was uppermost in the campaign against Barnbrook in Dagenham. The BNP vote went down in Barking, it went up in Dagenham. A big reason, I think, is the fact that Hope Not Hate hesitates to call a nazi a nazi, while UAF never tires shining a spotlight on the BNP's fascism.
But maybe I'm just being overly suspicious of our NUJ friend. The fact that Hope Not Hate publically opposes a demonstration against the EDL in Bradford suggests we can't all just get along, at least not for the moment. The argument for a demo is simple, and surely compelling.
The EDL want uncontested control of the streets. They want to proclaim themselves representatives of the majority view. Anti-fascists should demonstrate and in greater numbers to show (1) that there is opposition to the far-right and (2) that it represents the majority view. To suggest that the EDL are simply a 'police matter' leaves the field wide open to the fascists. What kind of anti-fascist group would do this? Who would put a matter such as this out of their own hands and into those of the police force?
Even if we could reasonably expect the institutionally racist police force to contain fascist demos, their track record is poor, in Stoke and Dudley. Where there is not a sufficient anti-fascist mobilisation the nazis riot.
It's a messy job but, as with Codnor and Harrow and Tower Hamlets, we can do it.
Now we learn that there are two varieties of anti-fascism something is twanging in the back of my mind. The latest Graun comment piece on the far-right seems fair enough (btw, doesn't the Guardian have a disurbingly sexual excitement about native fascism?). The fact the author says this:
There are two main sections of the anti-fascist movement in Britain. One is Searchlight and its Hope Not Hate campaign, which mobilised more than 1,500 volunteers to help hammer the BNP out of existence from Barking and Dagenham council in May's elections, and delivered a humiliating blow to the BNP's leader Nick Griffin. A rejuvenated Labour party campaign also played its part. The other section of the movement is Unite Against Fascism, which can also mobilise support numbering in the thousands.
... annoys me slightly. The inverse is true. Actually it was Unite Against Fascism who chiefly campaigned against Nick Griffin in Barking, Hope not Hate was uppermost in the campaign against Barnbrook in Dagenham. The BNP vote went down in Barking, it went up in Dagenham. A big reason, I think, is the fact that Hope Not Hate hesitates to call a nazi a nazi, while UAF never tires shining a spotlight on the BNP's fascism.
But maybe I'm just being overly suspicious of our NUJ friend. The fact that Hope Not Hate publically opposes a demonstration against the EDL in Bradford suggests we can't all just get along, at least not for the moment. The argument for a demo is simple, and surely compelling.
The EDL want uncontested control of the streets. They want to proclaim themselves representatives of the majority view. Anti-fascists should demonstrate and in greater numbers to show (1) that there is opposition to the far-right and (2) that it represents the majority view. To suggest that the EDL are simply a 'police matter' leaves the field wide open to the fascists. What kind of anti-fascist group would do this? Who would put a matter such as this out of their own hands and into those of the police force?
Even if we could reasonably expect the institutionally racist police force to contain fascist demos, their track record is poor, in Stoke and Dudley. Where there is not a sufficient anti-fascist mobilisation the nazis riot.
It's a messy job but, as with Codnor and Harrow and Tower Hamlets, we can do it.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Planet Camden - further Bob
Sure enough, as he sat down at his desk he could see a bleeping light on his phone; 20 new messages, 16 from numbers he recognised. This is why he kept his mobile secret from the police commission.
Fortnightly planetary meetings (and quarterly galactic meetings) were a drag. The police commissioner, whoever he or she happened to be that quarter, liked to keep tabs on their chief officers.
The first problem for Bob was he wasn't a chief officer, but a regular rank and file plod. As the only officer on Planet Camden he was obliged to present himself whenever the commission called. The other officers liked to condescend to Bob a little. They were each very powerful, feared, respected and well paid men (1). It also didn't help that he was married to Jenny, better known as Momma Zoom, model turned superstar DJ. What was she doing with a guy like that?
But they were also jealous of him for his beat. Camden was, simultaneously, a feckless arty drug hole, a (2) and a cushy option. How could Bob hang on to his job? Even Bob was a little confused as to this. The commissioners liked to hear about reports and strategies. Each time Bob would have to spin tales about dramatic arrests for unusual crimes with mild prohibitions. Before each meeting he'd plough through various tracts of galactic law to find some conveniently obscure crimes. Typical examples: a sophmore student was arrested for herding protected greyfowl through the student union. Three young Poor were cautioned for failure to shop. A middle-aged Sirian couple (teachers) were fined for excessively loud sex. The Commissioners were just happy to hear them and tick some boxes.
But, deep down, they depended on Bob. They were powerful, wealthy men with children, young adults living, working and/or studying on Camden. Bob took a special interest in their lives. He saw to it they stayed on the straight and narrow, that they completed their expensive causes without breaking too much furniture.
Bob ploughed through his messages. Most were indeed bluff bits of advice, semi-sincere sympathy from his fellow officers. There were a couple of calls from the local press and television. Bob had ducked out of the scene without giving a statement. Bob knew the local journalists and broadcasters well. He realised it couldn't be long until someone doorstepped him. Bob took down notes, numbers and useful facts. But there was one call that threw him. Galactic commissioner. Phone. Urgent... So he did. But it wasn't the usual voice.
Phone calls between planets have never been simple things. Bob dialled up the commissioner's office. While the tachyon relay got warmed up he shuffled off and made a cup of tea. Bob returned, spot on, as the signal reached its goal.
“Hello, Bob, Camden branch, returning the commissioner's call”.
Pause.
“OK, I'll put you through”.
Pause.
“Commissioner?”
“Bob-ob-ob-ob”.
Pause.
“Got a little bit of feedback there” said Bob.
“I'll sort it out, Bob-ob-ob-ob, and get the connectivity turned up-up-up-up”.
Pause.
“There were are... Bob”.
“You're not the old commissioner” said Bob, “promotion?”
“Scandal” said the New Commissioner. “Corruption. I've been transferred from the Ministry of War”.
“I didn't know we had a Ministry of War. Who're we going to have a war with?”
“No matter” said the Commissioner. “I'm calling regarding the possible arson case. Please report”.
Bob gave him a quick update, part improvised as he tried to gather his notes. The Commissioner appeared satisfied, for a moment, but continued.
“How're coping Bob?”
“I'm fine. It's rather... grim, I suppose, but that's job”.
“You've been working on your own for a while Bob” said the Commissioner. “Notice I'm calling you Bob”.
“I have” said Bob, who hadn't until that point.
“We respect you, Bob. We know Camden is not a normal jurisdiction but you've shown you can cover it well”.
“Thank you” said Bob, he smiled a slightly. He began to recognise who the Commissioner was.
The Commissioner continued:
“But this is different. This is the real world...”
Bob's mood changed. He'd this before and bristled a little at the suggestion. Ariadne De Luna, that was the name. High ranking civil servant based in Capella.
“This is the kind of stuff that happens elsewhere... that what I meant... We want to make sure that you have all the help you need to apprehend the criminals responsible”.
Bob chipped in:
“I've got a university team working on the scene”.
“We want you to hire a deputy, Bob. In fact we have some candidates lined up that you could...”
“I've already hired someone” said Bob. “A few days ago, in fact”.
“Oh”, said the Commissioner. “Who?”
Fortnightly planetary meetings (and quarterly galactic meetings) were a drag. The police commissioner, whoever he or she happened to be that quarter, liked to keep tabs on their chief officers.
The first problem for Bob was he wasn't a chief officer, but a regular rank and file plod. As the only officer on Planet Camden he was obliged to present himself whenever the commission called. The other officers liked to condescend to Bob a little. They were each very powerful, feared, respected and well paid men (1). It also didn't help that he was married to Jenny, better known as Momma Zoom, model turned superstar DJ. What was she doing with a guy like that?
But they were also jealous of him for his beat. Camden was, simultaneously, a feckless arty drug hole, a (2) and a cushy option. How could Bob hang on to his job? Even Bob was a little confused as to this. The commissioners liked to hear about reports and strategies. Each time Bob would have to spin tales about dramatic arrests for unusual crimes with mild prohibitions. Before each meeting he'd plough through various tracts of galactic law to find some conveniently obscure crimes. Typical examples: a sophmore student was arrested for herding protected greyfowl through the student union. Three young Poor were cautioned for failure to shop. A middle-aged Sirian couple (teachers) were fined for excessively loud sex. The Commissioners were just happy to hear them and tick some boxes.
But, deep down, they depended on Bob. They were powerful, wealthy men with children, young adults living, working and/or studying on Camden. Bob took a special interest in their lives. He saw to it they stayed on the straight and narrow, that they completed their expensive causes without breaking too much furniture.
Bob ploughed through his messages. Most were indeed bluff bits of advice, semi-sincere sympathy from his fellow officers. There were a couple of calls from the local press and television. Bob had ducked out of the scene without giving a statement. Bob knew the local journalists and broadcasters well. He realised it couldn't be long until someone doorstepped him. Bob took down notes, numbers and useful facts. But there was one call that threw him. Galactic commissioner. Phone. Urgent... So he did. But it wasn't the usual voice.
Phone calls between planets have never been simple things. Bob dialled up the commissioner's office. While the tachyon relay got warmed up he shuffled off and made a cup of tea. Bob returned, spot on, as the signal reached its goal.
“Hello, Bob, Camden branch, returning the commissioner's call”.
Pause.
“OK, I'll put you through”.
Pause.
“Commissioner?”
“Bob-ob-ob-ob”.
Pause.
“Got a little bit of feedback there” said Bob.
“I'll sort it out, Bob-ob-ob-ob, and get the connectivity turned up-up-up-up”.
Pause.
“There were are... Bob”.
“You're not the old commissioner” said Bob, “promotion?”
“Scandal” said the New Commissioner. “Corruption. I've been transferred from the Ministry of War”.
“I didn't know we had a Ministry of War. Who're we going to have a war with?”
“No matter” said the Commissioner. “I'm calling regarding the possible arson case. Please report”.
Bob gave him a quick update, part improvised as he tried to gather his notes. The Commissioner appeared satisfied, for a moment, but continued.
“How're coping Bob?”
“I'm fine. It's rather... grim, I suppose, but that's job”.
“You've been working on your own for a while Bob” said the Commissioner. “Notice I'm calling you Bob”.
“I have” said Bob, who hadn't until that point.
“We respect you, Bob. We know Camden is not a normal jurisdiction but you've shown you can cover it well”.
“Thank you” said Bob, he smiled a slightly. He began to recognise who the Commissioner was.
The Commissioner continued:
“But this is different. This is the real world...”
Bob's mood changed. He'd this before and bristled a little at the suggestion. Ariadne De Luna, that was the name. High ranking civil servant based in Capella.
“This is the kind of stuff that happens elsewhere... that what I meant... We want to make sure that you have all the help you need to apprehend the criminals responsible”.
Bob chipped in:
“I've got a university team working on the scene”.
“We want you to hire a deputy, Bob. In fact we have some candidates lined up that you could...”
“I've already hired someone” said Bob. “A few days ago, in fact”.
“Oh”, said the Commissioner. “Who?”
(1) Despite galactic government ordinances prohibiting discrimination on the grounds of race (there are 3,787 recognised racial categories on government equal opportunity forms), sex (most species make do with two genders, but some have more complicated forms of reproduction requiring up to eight), religion (around 400 are generally recognised, although the breakaways and minority sects are practically countless) and sexuality (with 3,787 species and multiple genders it the variety, like religion, practically countless) most high ranking police officers are still, in earth terms, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Heterosexual Males.
(2) Sometimes, for sport, in commission meetings the chief officers would list the things they'd do to clean up Camden – varying from curfews and public corporal punishment to compulsory nudity and prohibitions on non-representative art.
Some news
Civilisation must burn, if civilisation means abducting and deporting children:
The tories are inhuman childsnatchers. OK a revolution would be best but, short of that, the next time you meet a Tory please kick them in the groin, regardless of the consequences. All tories deserve pain.
The United States has lost twice as many jobs as previously predicted. Oopsie!
The lesson of the last three years is, no matter how many times neo-liberalism is defeated ideologically, things will continue as was unless we put ourselves in the way, throw a real spanner in the works. Another example of this, BP want to reopen the Macondo well... And they probably will, they do own it after all. The only thing to do is dispossess British Petroleum.
A leaked document, exclusively seen by Socialist Worker, shows the government is terrified that ending child detention will give refugees more chance to launch community anti-deportation campaigns.
It says, “Families will continue to live in the community, whilst being fully aware that they are to be removed. It is likely that they will use all means at their disposal to try to avoid being removed.”
It points out that kids “may talk to other children in school about having to return to their country of origin” and that “teachers may become involved in campaigns to stop families being removed”.
And it proposes a vicious solution: “The alternative is not to inform the family of the exact time and date of removal, so they are not prepared.”
The tories are inhuman childsnatchers. OK a revolution would be best but, short of that, the next time you meet a Tory please kick them in the groin, regardless of the consequences. All tories deserve pain.
The United States has lost twice as many jobs as previously predicted. Oopsie!
The lesson of the last three years is, no matter how many times neo-liberalism is defeated ideologically, things will continue as was unless we put ourselves in the way, throw a real spanner in the works. Another example of this, BP want to reopen the Macondo well... And they probably will, they do own it after all. The only thing to do is dispossess British Petroleum.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Freud's Eleven
Inception is a very impressive film, impressive in the sense that the loud parts are deafening, the bright parts blinding and the plot just shouts CONCEPT!
But its not as original as it seems. It is a traditional crime thriller crossed with science fiction. The lead character, Dom Cobb, played by Leonardo DiCaprio is a thief who steals valuable ideas by invading people's dreams. He is a broken man, alienated from his family, his wife is dead. The film is his attempt to finally come home through One Last Job ™. This One Last Job ™ is of course the most fiendishly difficult he's ever had to attempt. He is tasked with implanting and idea, not stealing one.
The plot and acting is adept enough to set up some useful concepts to drive the plot in unusual ways. The thieves have a sedative enabling them (1) to dream and (2) to share these dreams. These are fantastically detailed dreams, whose surrounds are built by an outside 'architect' and populated by the dreamer's subconscious. There are also dreams within dreams, we find this out early on. The mechanics of the crime are (wisely) not explained at length or in detail.
As dreams unfold time is compacted, minutes become weeks and weeks become decades. Each new universe become less and less stable (which is useful to the plot, by the third level of the final heist the action gets rather scatty). The lowest level is limbo, a virtually timeless world of raw subconscious thought.
Cobb's limbo is a nightmarish place. He and his wife once tried to build a paradise there. To begin with things went well, but Cobb fell out of love with their self-made eden. He eventually pursaded Mal to leave with him. Much 'time' had passed. The couple barely escaped with their sense of self. Cobb's wife, Mal, in fact was sent into terminal mental decline. Cobb is racked with guilt and clearly not well. During the final heist the lower levels of his mind threaten to break through into his conscious, disturbing the whole mission.
Aside from the interesting, seemingly Hegelian notion that ideas are independent beings (Cobb describes them as tenacious parasites) the film is exceptionally straight. The premise is not used to explore the psychology of the characters (the motives of the man paying for the heist, only lightly sketched, could have provided an excellent twist) as much as build a series of action sequences, albeit brilliant action sequences; check out the zero gravity brawl. Cobb's team invade a well defended mind in the same way Danny Ocean's team break into a well guarded vault. The tension is well built as the characters have to awake from several dreams happening at different speeds at once.
Enjoy, but don't let the film convince you it's clever.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
A Beatle Enigma
Terence McKenna is an interesting figure from the counter culture. Like CC Jung, his ideas are far more illuminating than practically falsifiable. You actually know more McKenna than you think, you have already heard the Stoned Ape theory of evolution.
His basic observations about altered states are quite valid though. Which gets me onto Albert Goldman and The Beatles. One of Goldman's most infamous suggestions was members of The Beatles, in particular John Lennon, began using heroin much earlier than is usually taken to be. Heroin is a depressant, it lowers consciousness and generally insulates the user from reality, in particular emotional reality. It certainly created the thousand yard stare, the elegant and wasted pose in The Rolling Stones.
Around about 1966 something happened to The Beatles. The band that sung only about love suddenly stopped doing so. None of their 1966 singles are about affairs of the heart. Most of Revolver consists of harsh, sharp evocations of the world as four young men saw it. Nothing is more bleak, final and complete than the lyric Eleanor Rigby.
All of this defies the typical psychedelic experience. LSD is a deeply involving drug on all psychic levels, a powerful consciousness enhancer. Three of the four Beatles had begun using LSD by mid-1966. But John Lennon, psychedelic overlord, was producing particularly distant, indifferent lyrics. None more so than Rain.
The Beatles left off Rubber Soul predicting the Love Militant, but did not take up the theme again for 18 months, with All You Need Is Love. 66 was a strange year for the band. What was truly stirring their minds at the time? I suspect we will always be left guessing.
His basic observations about altered states are quite valid though. Which gets me onto Albert Goldman and The Beatles. One of Goldman's most infamous suggestions was members of The Beatles, in particular John Lennon, began using heroin much earlier than is usually taken to be. Heroin is a depressant, it lowers consciousness and generally insulates the user from reality, in particular emotional reality. It certainly created the thousand yard stare, the elegant and wasted pose in The Rolling Stones.
Around about 1966 something happened to The Beatles. The band that sung only about love suddenly stopped doing so. None of their 1966 singles are about affairs of the heart. Most of Revolver consists of harsh, sharp evocations of the world as four young men saw it. Nothing is more bleak, final and complete than the lyric Eleanor Rigby.
All of this defies the typical psychedelic experience. LSD is a deeply involving drug on all psychic levels, a powerful consciousness enhancer. Three of the four Beatles had begun using LSD by mid-1966. But John Lennon, psychedelic overlord, was producing particularly distant, indifferent lyrics. None more so than Rain.
The Beatles left off Rubber Soul predicting the Love Militant, but did not take up the theme again for 18 months, with All You Need Is Love. 66 was a strange year for the band. What was truly stirring their minds at the time? I suspect we will always be left guessing.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Planet Camden - Old Bob surveys the damage
Dawn, Old Bob arrived back at his office, the Police Station at the top of the High Road. Bob was tired but more so afraid. This kind of thing... well it didn't happen on Camden. Camden was a planned society, a safe place, a conscientious, civic haven. The fire and ambulance services were barely less redundant than law enforcement.
The Underworld had stood for centuries. It began life as a nightclub and alternative cinema. The theatre lived on the ground floor while the music rooms were built into the ground. The first basement was particularly admired as an intimate but sonorous live music venue. All the great Camden bands started there: Chapter 24, The Shining Path, The Government, Covered In Grass, Too Many Grandmas. Even the Bowling Stoned played there no so long ago; what a night that was! In time a third venue was built, a coffee shop which doubled as a poetry and acoustic venue. It lived above the cinema and was nicknamed Heaven.
For generations, too many to count, kids had been coming to the Underworld. It was the centre of Camden's night life; now gone. Shortly after arriving Bob spoke to Professor Fillmore (who was trying out at a poetry open mic night when it happened). Bob could not make head nor tail of the calamity, but the Professor pointed to tell tale signs, explosive projections of wreckage, buckled metal and ferocious heat damage.
Torches in hand, gently pawing over the wreckage of the live stage lighting system the Professor said:
“This wasn't just a dropped cigarette, Bob. Look. It moved too quickly, consumed too much fuel, too much air. You know most of the victims suffocated. I bet you anything their lungs are relatively clean”.
He turned to Bob:
“The fire took the very oxygen they were breathing... and this” the Professor picked something up, “this looks very suspicious”.
“What is it?” asked Bob. “Some kind of...?”
“Device, I'll have my lab team check these out”. The Professor had opened up a small, charred box, holding plastic vials with liquid inside. “I'll have the guys check all of this out, if needs be”.
“You'd do that?” It was a rhetorical question
“For you, Bob. For the people here, who... didn't make it”. The Professor paused and changed tack. “They're fantastic, my undergrads. They're Vegans, mostly freshmen, and women, but they're good. They've got, they've got a good public education system out there. They recently switched to multilingual classes at primary school, but they delay abstract learning until halfway through the course...”
Bob, nodded away, stopped taking notes, wondering where this was going.
“My students are fantastic with their deductive logic” the Professor boasted. “Give them twenty four hours and the right equipment and they'll have a detailed reconstruction of what went on here”.
“Good” nodded Bob, “then that's what they've got. I'll turn this delegate this to you in the meantime” said Bob, making to leave. “I'm going to the mortuary, look at the bodies. Make sure the fire fighters don't touch or move anything. Tell them you have my authority until I return”.
Walking to the door, Bob, preoccupied, felt a hand on his shoulder. “Aaron?”
“Bob”.
“The budget...”
“The budget?”
“Yes...”
“Oh, um, send your bill to the local authorities. They'll pay”.
“OK, and, uh...” The Professor stopped, trying to summon something up. “Minutia”.
“Pardon?”
“Salvador Minutia” said The Professor, “he wrote an excellent paper on the Vegan education system. I'll send it to you”.
“You have my email address, Aaron”.
…..........
Under bright light the hospital morgue was sad and grim. Twenty-five laid out dead. It occurred to Bob after leaving the club it was amazing there weren't more. There were dozens of people, upstairs in the wards. He'd have to interview each of them tomorrow, which by this point was later today. He'd hired a pathologist from Edmonton, the dark side of the Planet Enfield to go through the technical autopsy. Bob was beginning to feel out of his depth.
Bob knew all the victims, some of them very well. Bob knew everybody. He knew the bartender Rheinholdt von Gentsch, working while he was waiting for a Phd grant. He knew Marion Barry, bass player for headliners The Secret Box. The Fruit Lubes were playing at the time. They lost members too, singer Ondes Martinot and violinist Sam Handwich. There were other staff, members of the audience, even a rival promoter succumbed to the fire; Penny Bence from the Hawtrey Arms.
One person couldn't be identified, one strange face (what was left of it). Bob was confounded by this individual with no name, no record, no identifying property. To begin with it wasn't even clear what gender they were. The body seemed to be regressing quickly. It was clearly some kind of non-humanoid living in a cipher.
Bob had little time to ponder the mystery. The autopsies were nearly done. Dawn was barely an hour a way. He'd have to get back to his office soon. No doubt lots of people would be trying to contact him.
The Underworld had stood for centuries. It began life as a nightclub and alternative cinema. The theatre lived on the ground floor while the music rooms were built into the ground. The first basement was particularly admired as an intimate but sonorous live music venue. All the great Camden bands started there: Chapter 24, The Shining Path, The Government, Covered In Grass, Too Many Grandmas. Even the Bowling Stoned played there no so long ago; what a night that was! In time a third venue was built, a coffee shop which doubled as a poetry and acoustic venue. It lived above the cinema and was nicknamed Heaven.
For generations, too many to count, kids had been coming to the Underworld. It was the centre of Camden's night life; now gone. Shortly after arriving Bob spoke to Professor Fillmore (who was trying out at a poetry open mic night when it happened). Bob could not make head nor tail of the calamity, but the Professor pointed to tell tale signs, explosive projections of wreckage, buckled metal and ferocious heat damage.
Torches in hand, gently pawing over the wreckage of the live stage lighting system the Professor said:
“This wasn't just a dropped cigarette, Bob. Look. It moved too quickly, consumed too much fuel, too much air. You know most of the victims suffocated. I bet you anything their lungs are relatively clean”.
He turned to Bob:
“The fire took the very oxygen they were breathing... and this” the Professor picked something up, “this looks very suspicious”.
“What is it?” asked Bob. “Some kind of...?”
“Device, I'll have my lab team check these out”. The Professor had opened up a small, charred box, holding plastic vials with liquid inside. “I'll have the guys check all of this out, if needs be”.
“You'd do that?” It was a rhetorical question
“For you, Bob. For the people here, who... didn't make it”. The Professor paused and changed tack. “They're fantastic, my undergrads. They're Vegans, mostly freshmen, and women, but they're good. They've got, they've got a good public education system out there. They recently switched to multilingual classes at primary school, but they delay abstract learning until halfway through the course...”
Bob, nodded away, stopped taking notes, wondering where this was going.
“My students are fantastic with their deductive logic” the Professor boasted. “Give them twenty four hours and the right equipment and they'll have a detailed reconstruction of what went on here”.
“Good” nodded Bob, “then that's what they've got. I'll turn this delegate this to you in the meantime” said Bob, making to leave. “I'm going to the mortuary, look at the bodies. Make sure the fire fighters don't touch or move anything. Tell them you have my authority until I return”.
Walking to the door, Bob, preoccupied, felt a hand on his shoulder. “Aaron?”
“Bob”.
“The budget...”
“The budget?”
“Yes...”
“Oh, um, send your bill to the local authorities. They'll pay”.
“OK, and, uh...” The Professor stopped, trying to summon something up. “Minutia”.
“Pardon?”
“Salvador Minutia” said The Professor, “he wrote an excellent paper on the Vegan education system. I'll send it to you”.
“You have my email address, Aaron”.
…..........
Under bright light the hospital morgue was sad and grim. Twenty-five laid out dead. It occurred to Bob after leaving the club it was amazing there weren't more. There were dozens of people, upstairs in the wards. He'd have to interview each of them tomorrow, which by this point was later today. He'd hired a pathologist from Edmonton, the dark side of the Planet Enfield to go through the technical autopsy. Bob was beginning to feel out of his depth.
Bob knew all the victims, some of them very well. Bob knew everybody. He knew the bartender Rheinholdt von Gentsch, working while he was waiting for a Phd grant. He knew Marion Barry, bass player for headliners The Secret Box. The Fruit Lubes were playing at the time. They lost members too, singer Ondes Martinot and violinist Sam Handwich. There were other staff, members of the audience, even a rival promoter succumbed to the fire; Penny Bence from the Hawtrey Arms.
One person couldn't be identified, one strange face (what was left of it). Bob was confounded by this individual with no name, no record, no identifying property. To begin with it wasn't even clear what gender they were. The body seemed to be regressing quickly. It was clearly some kind of non-humanoid living in a cipher.
Bob had little time to ponder the mystery. The autopsies were nearly done. Dawn was barely an hour a way. He'd have to get back to his office soon. No doubt lots of people would be trying to contact him.
Connoisseurs of state capitalism note...
The argument that various countries with various political set-ups represent some sort of socialism has to clear one chief hurdle. I suppose even if you don't subscribe to ideas of working class power or self-emancipation (which would totally obliterate the foundation of socialist ideas, but hey) then you surely must regard a socialist society in the midst of a capitalist world as a clear, radical break with that world. A socialist society cannot live permanently, side-by-side with a capitalist one.
Connoisseurs of state capitalism note current Cuban leader Raoul Castro has announced a partial denationalisation of the economy:
Even the slightly observant will note the words "cuts" and "bloated" public sector. The "reforms" (another catchphrase) will almost certainly be to refigure the Cuban economy to further produce for export. While Cuba may be many things it is certainly an integral part of global capitalism.
Connoisseurs of state capitalism note current Cuban leader Raoul Castro has announced a partial denationalisation of the economy:
More Cubans will be allowed to work for themselves and hire their own workers, the country's president has said, while ruling out wholesale reform of the communist economy.
Raúl Castro, who was speaking to parliament at the opening of its biannual session, said the steps were aimed at creating jobs as the government seeks to cut jobs from the public sector over the next five years.
About 95% of all Cubans work for the government and Castro suggested that as many as one in five state employees were redundant in what he called a "bloated" state sector.
Even the slightly observant will note the words "cuts" and "bloated" public sector. The "reforms" (another catchphrase) will almost certainly be to refigure the Cuban economy to further produce for export. While Cuba may be many things it is certainly an integral part of global capitalism.
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