Oh yes they are. Millionaire David Cameron claims £21k a year through the Commons expenses system toward his mortgage. His government claims that £400 a week for three-bedroom accommodation in London (apparently little over £20k a year) is "extravagant" (when actually its fairly normal, thanks to, amongst other things, housing shortages, right to buy etc). Another angle on this is £21k "is slightly more money than a student nurse can expect to get over the course of 3 years to pay for everything, never mind a mortgage".
Roobin's note: Ian Duncan Smith gets his mansion for free.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Some stuff
A little discussion from a branch meeting I want to take up; the trouble with making things up as you go along is you're liable to wander from the point and get snobbily dismissed.
(1) Let's not overestimate how incoherent the Tea Party is. It might not have a 'programme for government' but it expresses the class interests of a large and wealthy middle class (the genuinely middle class America). It is financed by ruling class figures, and so it represents the hegemony of a fraction of the ruling class over the middle class, the kind of ruling class Jacobinism described by Mike Davis in City of Quartz.
The Tea Party is based in a group of people who gained out of resegregation started by the Nixon regime, maintained by presidents since. The chief gain being the diversion of government resources from big cities to the suburbs and then the exurbs. The stars of the Tea Party may not state this but their programme is a hard-right programme for holding down the American working class.
(2) Why has the American left failed to breakthrough? By breakthrough we mean why has there not been one working class party to permanently influence public life? It won't do just to say it could have done but it didn't (but it still could) and then list a series of people and movements (throw in the Black Panthers, Malcolm X, the IWW and Eugene Debs). To fully answer that you'd need an exhaustive history of the American working class, and you're not going to get that here. A good place to start, especially when you're looking for objective obstacles to a left breakthrough, is in the size of the country.
America is big. It is something obvious and simple that can get overlooked. America is big and power is dispersed. In a war of movement, such as a strike or an uprising, there is ample room for the American ruling class, which enjoys all the advantages of organisation, to reorganise in a different area to the insurgents, concentrate their forces and retake the city. For example, the American ruling class has let Los Angeles burn to the ground twice in living memory. The 1965 and 1992 riots strictly speaking precipitated a decline in working class fortunes – miniature examples of disaster capitalism in practice. If San Francisco was a closed shop, San Diego was an open shop. Go back; how was the issue of slavery and control of the west resolved? Through a vast civil war. Building a movement of working class solidarity over such a wide area as the United States is incredibly difficult.
(3) America is big, but the Russian Empire was big, it stood for centuries, and yet it was conquered. What was the objective reason for its downfall? (We know the subjective reason). The rise of imperial competition, culminating in World War One shook the Russian state loose. What possible violent interruption could shake the American state? Who's going to invade the USA? It's hard to see in the short term. Perhaps there will be a second coming for Atzalan, or maybe the Tea Party will get some sort of geograhpical hold, start becoming a separatist movement.
(1) Let's not overestimate how incoherent the Tea Party is. It might not have a 'programme for government' but it expresses the class interests of a large and wealthy middle class (the genuinely middle class America). It is financed by ruling class figures, and so it represents the hegemony of a fraction of the ruling class over the middle class, the kind of ruling class Jacobinism described by Mike Davis in City of Quartz.
The Tea Party is based in a group of people who gained out of resegregation started by the Nixon regime, maintained by presidents since. The chief gain being the diversion of government resources from big cities to the suburbs and then the exurbs. The stars of the Tea Party may not state this but their programme is a hard-right programme for holding down the American working class.
(2) Why has the American left failed to breakthrough? By breakthrough we mean why has there not been one working class party to permanently influence public life? It won't do just to say it could have done but it didn't (but it still could) and then list a series of people and movements (throw in the Black Panthers, Malcolm X, the IWW and Eugene Debs). To fully answer that you'd need an exhaustive history of the American working class, and you're not going to get that here. A good place to start, especially when you're looking for objective obstacles to a left breakthrough, is in the size of the country.
America is big. It is something obvious and simple that can get overlooked. America is big and power is dispersed. In a war of movement, such as a strike or an uprising, there is ample room for the American ruling class, which enjoys all the advantages of organisation, to reorganise in a different area to the insurgents, concentrate their forces and retake the city. For example, the American ruling class has let Los Angeles burn to the ground twice in living memory. The 1965 and 1992 riots strictly speaking precipitated a decline in working class fortunes – miniature examples of disaster capitalism in practice. If San Francisco was a closed shop, San Diego was an open shop. Go back; how was the issue of slavery and control of the west resolved? Through a vast civil war. Building a movement of working class solidarity over such a wide area as the United States is incredibly difficult.
(3) America is big, but the Russian Empire was big, it stood for centuries, and yet it was conquered. What was the objective reason for its downfall? (We know the subjective reason). The rise of imperial competition, culminating in World War One shook the Russian state loose. What possible violent interruption could shake the American state? Who's going to invade the USA? It's hard to see in the short term. Perhaps there will be a second coming for Atzalan, or maybe the Tea Party will get some sort of geograhpical hold, start becoming a separatist movement.
More Camden
Cynthia knocked lightly on the door.
“Daniel... Danny?”
“Mum?”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, Mum, or I wouldn't be speaking to you”.
Cynthia chucked and turned the handle, pushed through the door. She was surprised to see her son sitting upright in bed, reading a book. “Hello Daniel, what're you reading?”
“Life on Erin” said Daniel.
Cynthia approached gently and sat on the edge of the bed. “What's it's all about?”
“It's about all the plants and animals back home, look”. Daniel turned the book around for his Mum to see. They were rather dense pages, dotted with the odd picture.
“That's a bit of a grown up book, isn't it, Daniel?”
“Oh no” said Daniel, “there's nothing rude. It's all about plants and animals. Look, this is a Sea Cat, this is a Clown Fish and this is Kelp”.
Cynthia wondered for a second what Daniel could have meant by rude but decided to pass. She took the book from Daniel, ruffled his hair. “It's time for bed”.
“But I'm excited. I can't wait to go back to school”.
“I'm glad you like it, because it's going to last another eleven years”.
“Sixteen...” said Daniel.
“Sixteen?”
“I want to go to university” said Daniel, beaming.
Cynthia smiled. “Well, before you go to university you've got to go to sleep. Listen, Daniel, Mummy's go to pop out. I know it's late, but I have to go see your sister. Your Aunty Sue and your Uncle Kelly will be keeping an eye on you. They'll be downstairs if you need anything”.
“Is Lucy in trouble?”
“No dear” said Cynthia, touched by uneasiness. She started tucking Daniel in.
“Tell Lucy I love her”.
“I will”. Cynthia turned off Daniel's bedside lamp, kissed him goodnight, and crept to the door. “Goodnight”.
…
When we got there it was utter bedlam. They were all out in the street. They'd just been ejected from the building by these thugs. I was so glad to find Lucy OK. Not everyone got off lightly. I think a few must have been arrested there and then, inside. There were loads of injured people, cuts and bruises, there was somebody concussed I think. Lucy was looking after a boy, Rory I think his name was, bleeding from the head.
She told me all that happened. I told her what we knew, I say we, I'd managed to get twenty of the day shift to come out with me. I said she had to do something quick, there were armed men, just like those inside, heading our way. At that moment a helicopter gathered overhead, quite low and loud.
So Lucy, I remember, gathered everybody together, which took some time, there must have been a couple of hundred people there. Somebody found a wee box for her to stand on, and she made this speech. I was so proud. I wish it had been recorded somehow. But it was about standing firm, respect for our work, the right to live life just as much as anyone on Camden, we the people who do all the work, who hold things together, who actually run things. They... they could not do without us. We would not go back until we had won the respect we deserve. We had to spread the word, go out into the night and win as much support as possible.
We each heard what she was saying. Poor Lucy, though, she had to battle the noise of the helicopter. I was so proud. The only thing that surprised me was that the first person we visited was Tristan Monbiot. He was the Vice Chancellor of the University, supposed to be in overall charge of the library. He also wrote for some liberal outlets. I remember Lucy telling me he'd started a campaign about sweatshops in the Eastern Galaxy or something.
It turns out he was living, for some of the time anyway, at a wee mansion in Bloomsbury Square. He was in at the time, so we paid him a visit. It was a short walk, although we stopped a fair amount of traffic. I suppose, with hindsight, we should have known what to expect from him.
He came out on a balcony to talk to us, we were all down in the stairwell and the street. Come to think of it, I don't remember anyone knocking on the door. He seemed to know who we were and why we were their. Perhaps someone phoned ahead, I don't know. He welcomed us. Told us we were valued members of Camden society, that our cause was just, that any suppression was totally unjustified. He said he would take up our cause, first thing, in tomorrow's evening press.
As this was going on a few of us noticed two of the entrances to the square, north-side it was, being blocked off. The helicopter had followed us too, although it was much higher than before. It was the men from inside library, although there were more of them this time. I tried to warn everyone, but the armed men started a charge. Everyone panicked and ran. I saw a few people trying to get away through the park in the middle of the square. I took my girl, I took Lucy by the hand and we just ran and ran.
A few of us got away. We gathered on the crossroads on Southampton Row, the one after Great Russell Street. I said, there and then, we could get the rest of the day shift to walk out, but we'd have to have more support. That's when we decided to go to the space port, to the docks.
…
Down they went to the south-eastern quarter of the planet. South of the Thames lay the great complex of wharfs, docking bays and launch pads. Still mostly owned by the Camden municipal authority, it was once the biggest single employer on the planet; that was back in the days of chemical propulsion (1). Camden docks were now all anti-matter and employed far fewer people. Even so they formed an immense complex, a dark, intense hive of activity. The docks were still a feared area, desperate and violent (2). Despite the planet's reputation for being free of crime an eye to see and a mind to think knew to avoid the docks, to avoid the lurking muggers, ruthless bootleggers and scowling pimps.
But down they went, Lucy, Cynthia and their crew of rebels, looking for help. Cynthia knew many people who worked down the docks, pilots, drivers, deck hands, cooks and cleaners (3). She knew if they could explain their cause, rally them to their side they'd have a powerful ally. How could the dockers not respond to their call? Though the night, one by one the bright lights of Camden docks went out.
The rebels also found some useful information.
“Yeah, I know who these guys are”. Cynthia and a day shift comrade were talking to a garbage compaction crew. “They're the Special Police Force” said Second Engineer, above the noise of a busy compactor.
“Who are they? What is a special police force?”
“No, you don't have them here, do you? They're a public order force. They belong to the Galactic Federation. They're their stop riots or uprisings and such, specially armed, specially trained; I think they're even genetically modified”.
“They all look the same to me” added a Loader who, until then, had been eavesdropping. “I saw them too. They requisitioned the next dock along; landed about five hours ago. Ten thousand of them, I reckon”.
“But why are they here?” asked the Second Engineer. “They were developed to put down rebellions in the eastern arm”.
Cynthia explained why, it took a while, but she explained why. Half an hour later the compactor was shut off. Six in the morning, almost dawn, an army gathered at the northern gates of the dock complex, ready to retake Camden.
…
After what seemed like hours of rough bundling, kicks and insults, Rory finally found the bag being lifted off his head.
“Where am I?”
Before he could get an answer, let alone some kind of bearing someone whipped the plastic cuffs off his hands with what felt like a knife (his hands were behind his back); his back was straightened and then, boot, he was kicked through a door, into this room. The door slammed behind him. It was a makeshift prison. It looked like a storage cupboard, long empty metal shelves. There were five other people inside, bewildered insurgents.
“Where are we?”
Nobody knew. In desperation Rory tried the door.
“Where am I?”
…
It was with the greatest regret that the Commissioner unleashed the Special Police Force on Planet Camden.
“Madam Commissioner I have grave news from Camden...”
The Galactic Commissioner was not a police officer but a senior civil servant. The role was generally one of mediator. Very different star systems, each with very different legal systems, types of government, came together to provide a basic judicial framework. There had to be a lot of consensus and leeway. This easy-going regime frequently lapsed into corruption. Egregious examples would result in scandals, resignations and, very occasionally, court cases. The Commissioner's predecessor was caught taking kickbacks from the Colombian police department in return for ignoring the frequent flights of bootleg booze, guns and CDs out of the system.
“The situation is getting out of hand...”
“Bob is currently out of action...”
“The symphony incident was particularly dramatic...”
“Look at this broadcast...”
The Galactic commissioner was surrounded on all sides. The emergency meeting of Chiefs of Police (video conference) was unanimous, something had to be done.
“There is a strike brewing on the planet...”
“What's a strike?” asked the Commissioner.
“It is the most dangerous breakdown of public order there is. Its where the indentured refuse to work. They try to use their collective ability to affect wealth creation to gain improvements in pay and conditions. We get them sometimes on our planet. The most fundamental breakdown of law and order. There is only course of action open to you...”
“What's that?”
“You must send in the Special Police Force”.
“The Special Police Force?” (4)
“You must give them full power to act”.
“Full power?”
“Unlimited licence...” said the Chief.
“You know what I mean” added another. “The fate of Western Civilisation, its very integrity rests in your hands”.
(1
“Daniel... Danny?”
“Mum?”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, Mum, or I wouldn't be speaking to you”.
Cynthia chucked and turned the handle, pushed through the door. She was surprised to see her son sitting upright in bed, reading a book. “Hello Daniel, what're you reading?”
“Life on Erin” said Daniel.
Cynthia approached gently and sat on the edge of the bed. “What's it's all about?”
“It's about all the plants and animals back home, look”. Daniel turned the book around for his Mum to see. They were rather dense pages, dotted with the odd picture.
“That's a bit of a grown up book, isn't it, Daniel?”
“Oh no” said Daniel, “there's nothing rude. It's all about plants and animals. Look, this is a Sea Cat, this is a Clown Fish and this is Kelp”.
Cynthia wondered for a second what Daniel could have meant by rude but decided to pass. She took the book from Daniel, ruffled his hair. “It's time for bed”.
“But I'm excited. I can't wait to go back to school”.
“I'm glad you like it, because it's going to last another eleven years”.
“Sixteen...” said Daniel.
“Sixteen?”
“I want to go to university” said Daniel, beaming.
Cynthia smiled. “Well, before you go to university you've got to go to sleep. Listen, Daniel, Mummy's go to pop out. I know it's late, but I have to go see your sister. Your Aunty Sue and your Uncle Kelly will be keeping an eye on you. They'll be downstairs if you need anything”.
“Is Lucy in trouble?”
“No dear” said Cynthia, touched by uneasiness. She started tucking Daniel in.
“Tell Lucy I love her”.
“I will”. Cynthia turned off Daniel's bedside lamp, kissed him goodnight, and crept to the door. “Goodnight”.
…
When we got there it was utter bedlam. They were all out in the street. They'd just been ejected from the building by these thugs. I was so glad to find Lucy OK. Not everyone got off lightly. I think a few must have been arrested there and then, inside. There were loads of injured people, cuts and bruises, there was somebody concussed I think. Lucy was looking after a boy, Rory I think his name was, bleeding from the head.
She told me all that happened. I told her what we knew, I say we, I'd managed to get twenty of the day shift to come out with me. I said she had to do something quick, there were armed men, just like those inside, heading our way. At that moment a helicopter gathered overhead, quite low and loud.
So Lucy, I remember, gathered everybody together, which took some time, there must have been a couple of hundred people there. Somebody found a wee box for her to stand on, and she made this speech. I was so proud. I wish it had been recorded somehow. But it was about standing firm, respect for our work, the right to live life just as much as anyone on Camden, we the people who do all the work, who hold things together, who actually run things. They... they could not do without us. We would not go back until we had won the respect we deserve. We had to spread the word, go out into the night and win as much support as possible.
We each heard what she was saying. Poor Lucy, though, she had to battle the noise of the helicopter. I was so proud. The only thing that surprised me was that the first person we visited was Tristan Monbiot. He was the Vice Chancellor of the University, supposed to be in overall charge of the library. He also wrote for some liberal outlets. I remember Lucy telling me he'd started a campaign about sweatshops in the Eastern Galaxy or something.
It turns out he was living, for some of the time anyway, at a wee mansion in Bloomsbury Square. He was in at the time, so we paid him a visit. It was a short walk, although we stopped a fair amount of traffic. I suppose, with hindsight, we should have known what to expect from him.
He came out on a balcony to talk to us, we were all down in the stairwell and the street. Come to think of it, I don't remember anyone knocking on the door. He seemed to know who we were and why we were their. Perhaps someone phoned ahead, I don't know. He welcomed us. Told us we were valued members of Camden society, that our cause was just, that any suppression was totally unjustified. He said he would take up our cause, first thing, in tomorrow's evening press.
As this was going on a few of us noticed two of the entrances to the square, north-side it was, being blocked off. The helicopter had followed us too, although it was much higher than before. It was the men from inside library, although there were more of them this time. I tried to warn everyone, but the armed men started a charge. Everyone panicked and ran. I saw a few people trying to get away through the park in the middle of the square. I took my girl, I took Lucy by the hand and we just ran and ran.
A few of us got away. We gathered on the crossroads on Southampton Row, the one after Great Russell Street. I said, there and then, we could get the rest of the day shift to walk out, but we'd have to have more support. That's when we decided to go to the space port, to the docks.
…
Down they went to the south-eastern quarter of the planet. South of the Thames lay the great complex of wharfs, docking bays and launch pads. Still mostly owned by the Camden municipal authority, it was once the biggest single employer on the planet; that was back in the days of chemical propulsion (1). Camden docks were now all anti-matter and employed far fewer people. Even so they formed an immense complex, a dark, intense hive of activity. The docks were still a feared area, desperate and violent (2). Despite the planet's reputation for being free of crime an eye to see and a mind to think knew to avoid the docks, to avoid the lurking muggers, ruthless bootleggers and scowling pimps.
But down they went, Lucy, Cynthia and their crew of rebels, looking for help. Cynthia knew many people who worked down the docks, pilots, drivers, deck hands, cooks and cleaners (3). She knew if they could explain their cause, rally them to their side they'd have a powerful ally. How could the dockers not respond to their call? Though the night, one by one the bright lights of Camden docks went out.
The rebels also found some useful information.
“Yeah, I know who these guys are”. Cynthia and a day shift comrade were talking to a garbage compaction crew. “They're the Special Police Force” said Second Engineer, above the noise of a busy compactor.
“Who are they? What is a special police force?”
“No, you don't have them here, do you? They're a public order force. They belong to the Galactic Federation. They're their stop riots or uprisings and such, specially armed, specially trained; I think they're even genetically modified”.
“They all look the same to me” added a Loader who, until then, had been eavesdropping. “I saw them too. They requisitioned the next dock along; landed about five hours ago. Ten thousand of them, I reckon”.
“But why are they here?” asked the Second Engineer. “They were developed to put down rebellions in the eastern arm”.
Cynthia explained why, it took a while, but she explained why. Half an hour later the compactor was shut off. Six in the morning, almost dawn, an army gathered at the northern gates of the dock complex, ready to retake Camden.
…
After what seemed like hours of rough bundling, kicks and insults, Rory finally found the bag being lifted off his head.
“Where am I?”
Before he could get an answer, let alone some kind of bearing someone whipped the plastic cuffs off his hands with what felt like a knife (his hands were behind his back); his back was straightened and then, boot, he was kicked through a door, into this room. The door slammed behind him. It was a makeshift prison. It looked like a storage cupboard, long empty metal shelves. There were five other people inside, bewildered insurgents.
“Where are we?”
Nobody knew. In desperation Rory tried the door.
“Where am I?”
…
It was with the greatest regret that the Commissioner unleashed the Special Police Force on Planet Camden.
“Madam Commissioner I have grave news from Camden...”
The Galactic Commissioner was not a police officer but a senior civil servant. The role was generally one of mediator. Very different star systems, each with very different legal systems, types of government, came together to provide a basic judicial framework. There had to be a lot of consensus and leeway. This easy-going regime frequently lapsed into corruption. Egregious examples would result in scandals, resignations and, very occasionally, court cases. The Commissioner's predecessor was caught taking kickbacks from the Colombian police department in return for ignoring the frequent flights of bootleg booze, guns and CDs out of the system.
“The situation is getting out of hand...”
“Bob is currently out of action...”
“The symphony incident was particularly dramatic...”
“Look at this broadcast...”
The Galactic commissioner was surrounded on all sides. The emergency meeting of Chiefs of Police (video conference) was unanimous, something had to be done.
“There is a strike brewing on the planet...”
“What's a strike?” asked the Commissioner.
“It is the most dangerous breakdown of public order there is. Its where the indentured refuse to work. They try to use their collective ability to affect wealth creation to gain improvements in pay and conditions. We get them sometimes on our planet. The most fundamental breakdown of law and order. There is only course of action open to you...”
“What's that?”
“You must send in the Special Police Force”.
“The Special Police Force?” (4)
“You must give them full power to act”.
“Full power?”
“Unlimited licence...” said the Chief.
“You know what I mean” added another. “The fate of Western Civilisation, its very integrity rests in your hands”.
(1
) All interplanetary and interstellar travel and freight is conducted using anti-matter and/or tachyon propulsion. Given the risks of anti-matter leakage many planets proscribe anti-matter for entry or exit of the gravity well. For many years Camden used a geostationary lift for some passenger travel, while most freight was hoisted into orbit by huge shuttle craft or powerful tugs (Lucy's Dad was killed piloting a garbage tug). Though never officially discussed the ill effect of continual large launches was widely known. The whole area was shrouded in a toxic smog. Few people who ever worked there took out more than a ten year indenture because they were unlikely to survive. Wages were consequently temptingly high. Though the nearest residential areas were over fifty miles away, sometimes the smog would reach settled areas of the planet. One notorious occasion, a (two day) summer was blighted by The Great Stink, when a muggy photochemical haze descended on Camden's central belt. The good citizens were outraged. Camden's docks and launch bays were rapidly made anti-matter compatible. This pleased many Galactic freight and transit corporations, who were allowed to lease parts of the dock on long terms.
(2) Not to mention windswept. Great amounts of energy are expended across the complex. The docks are mostly metal, plastic and glass, with a great number of tall buildings, obscuring the sunlight. At any one time the area can be between three to five degrees hotter or colder than the rest of the planet. Arrivals and departures are frequently major climatic events.
(3) She knew them, of course, through John's old job, but also through the small widows municipal pension. Although the pension barely covered the heating bill Cynthia frequently attended the pension holders AGM.
(4) Chapter 6...
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Fun with the Filth
Here we go:
More than 100,000 people were stopped and searched by police under counter-terrorism powers last year but none of them were arrested for terrorism-related offences, according to Home Office figures published today...
The bulletin shows that the use of section 44 counter-terrorism stop and searches, which allowed the police to randomly search anyone without grounds for suspicion in a designated area, declined sharply in advance of a ruling earlier this year by the European court of human rights that it was unlawful...
The figures show that 506 people were arrested as a result of the 101,248 searches and none of these arrests had anything to do with terrorism.
I was stopped and searched once under Section 44 of the 2000 Terrorism Act (not last year, I hasten to add). Although the officer searching me didn't know which act it came from or what he was supposed to be looking for (the answer is "articles of a kind which could be used in connection with terrorism"), he eventually stole one of the badges off my hat... and the world could breathe freely once again.
Bear in mind, folks, that fascism as a state system was the importation of colonial methods of rule into the metropolis during a time of crisis. Unless we act decisively we can expect Abu Ghraib in every town centre before this shake up is through.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Whither the Puppet People?
Let's chew the fat.
The trouble is the British do appear to be a bunch of pitiable dupes, puppet people. Just one more example, another insult thrown in our faces, the likely collapse of the BA dispute. Witness:
Not only that, but:
In other words Walsh's mission is complete. He won't have smashed Bassa, but he will have reduced it to the level of a business union. Working people suffer so many insults. Perhaps the worst is being marched all the way up the hill by (£100 grand a year) leaders who have no intention helping them win.
Of course, thirty odd years ago no one in their right mind would have suggested such a thing. Unions and the British working class were a scourge on capitalism. What's changed? Well, hey, I'd be (an even bigger) fool and an egotist to prattle on about Modern British history like some sage. I think one thing worth bringing up is the notion of dependence.
Hegemony is not just a matter of force and fraud, dependence is part of the equation. The Tories are currently attacking people on housing benefits, single parents, the disabled hardest because they are dependent. Their oppressor is also their benefactor. If the public sector unions do not fight job losses and service cuts, if they swallow the lie that, oh well, the private sector will make up the shortfall, they will make the working class even more dependent on big business and finance. There will be a de facto investment strike by the capitalist class until either we or they have won.
Let's not forget, the dependence of the union rank and file on full-timers is killing the class struggle at the moment. Do you think for a second that the BA cabin crew will accept this deal if they thought they did not have to? Of course not.
We need union breakthroughs in the sectors where members are strong, the firefighters, the underground, the rails in general, even the posties could make a comeback (they do have sectional strength). Above all we have to crawl out from under our rock. Traditional union structures are important, but they are just not going to stand up to the stress of the next twelve months (however they turn out).
Any socialist with blood in their veins must be inspired by the fightback in France. Inspired enough perhaps to say to friends and workmates, “We need to do the same.”
But most of us will also have met the argument that “it would be nice, but it won’t happen here”.
A string of commentators (and some British trade union leaders) agree that there is something fundamentally different about workers on different sides of the Channel.
The French are portrayed as ready to build barricades at the slightest excuse, while the British are pitiable dupes who will suffer any insult.
The trouble is the British do appear to be a bunch of pitiable dupes, puppet people. Just one more example, another insult thrown in our faces, the likely collapse of the BA dispute. Witness:
An appalling sell-out is on the table at British Airways (BA), where cabin crew have been in dispute for nearly a year—and their Unite union backs it.
Workers must organise now to build a huge no vote and reject the deal.
It does not reverse the job cuts that sparked the dispute. It does not guarantee the
full reinstatement of workers’ staff travel discounts—and promises harsher terms for those workers who struck.
It enshrines the new “mixed fleet”, where workers will be employed on lower pay, worse conditions and have separate bargaining rights from the rest of crew.
Perhaps most shocking of all, it guarantees nothing for those crew who have been disciplined, suspended or sacked after fighting to defend their jobs and conditions.
Not only that, but:
The letter says Walsh will “recommend” restoring remaining concessions including seniority—but only if workers meet a number of conditions.
First is “acceptance and implementation of the agreement”. Second is a host of offensive demands regarding the “behaviour” of Unite and its cabin crew section Bassa.
These include demanding that the union’s communications are “more balanced and measured”, and that is more “understanding to the needs of the company”.
In other words Walsh's mission is complete. He won't have smashed Bassa, but he will have reduced it to the level of a business union. Working people suffer so many insults. Perhaps the worst is being marched all the way up the hill by (£100 grand a year) leaders who have no intention helping them win.
Of course, thirty odd years ago no one in their right mind would have suggested such a thing. Unions and the British working class were a scourge on capitalism. What's changed? Well, hey, I'd be (an even bigger) fool and an egotist to prattle on about Modern British history like some sage. I think one thing worth bringing up is the notion of dependence.
Hegemony is not just a matter of force and fraud, dependence is part of the equation. The Tories are currently attacking people on housing benefits, single parents, the disabled hardest because they are dependent. Their oppressor is also their benefactor. If the public sector unions do not fight job losses and service cuts, if they swallow the lie that, oh well, the private sector will make up the shortfall, they will make the working class even more dependent on big business and finance. There will be a de facto investment strike by the capitalist class until either we or they have won.
Let's not forget, the dependence of the union rank and file on full-timers is killing the class struggle at the moment. Do you think for a second that the BA cabin crew will accept this deal if they thought they did not have to? Of course not.
We need union breakthroughs in the sectors where members are strong, the firefighters, the underground, the rails in general, even the posties could make a comeback (they do have sectional strength). Above all we have to crawl out from under our rock. Traditional union structures are important, but they are just not going to stand up to the stress of the next twelve months (however they turn out).
Monday, October 25, 2010
Round the Mulberry Bush
Iain Duncan Smith thinks that people in Merthyr Tydfil (where there are 1,670 unemployed people and 39 job vacancies, all temporary and part-time) should get on the bus to look for work in Cardiff. Where there are 15,000 people chasing 1,700 jobs. When this government says Big Society they actually mean Big Commute.
Actually, the solution to mass unemployment runs thus: "get several hundred thousand unemployed people from Stoke commuting to Birmingham everyday. Then the unemployed from Birmingham can commute to Leicester, Leicester's unemployed can go to Milton Keynes, Milton Keynes' unemployed can commute to London and London's unemployed can bludgeon [Ian Duncan Smith] to death with their shoes".
Thank you, Gary.
Actually, the solution to mass unemployment runs thus: "get several hundred thousand unemployed people from Stoke commuting to Birmingham everyday. Then the unemployed from Birmingham can commute to Leicester, Leicester's unemployed can go to Milton Keynes, Milton Keynes' unemployed can commute to London and London's unemployed can bludgeon [Ian Duncan Smith] to death with their shoes".
Thank you, Gary.
Arise, Planet Camden
“Rory”.
“Lucy”.
“Rory? What're you doing here?”
“I'm on shift?”
Rory was on shift.
“Aren't you part time?”
“Supposed to be”.
“Supposed to be?”
“Well” said Rory, assuming a newscaster-like voice, “my shift was supposed to finish not long after I saw you earlier today”.
“I know”.
“I know you know” insisted Rory. “I've been waiting for someone to take over, but no one's come”.
“No one?” Lucy was shocked, genuinely. “So how long have you been on shift now?”
“Eleven hours”.
“Didn't you...? Haven't you...? Who's your line manager?”
“Mr... hang on” said Rory. A customer had arrived at the checkout. The customer handed Rory a book; KM Crowe - Water Wave Propagation over Uneven Surfaces. Rory joked, “A bit of light reading?”
“It's mine” said the customer, “my Phd. I wouldn't have written it if I thought I'd have to teach it”.
“Ah well” sighed Rory, “such is life”. He logged it out and handed it back with a printed receipt.
“Thank you”.
“You're welcome”. Rory turned to Lucy again. “Where was I...? My line manager... Mr McLaren”.
“Him...”
“He comes in and out, usually every half-hour or so. I haven't seen in in over an hour though. You can't get to him at the best of time... Hang on what're you doing here?”
“We're staging a walk out”.
“A what?”
“A walk out. It started in the cleaning department. McLaren was there too”.
“But you can't” said Rory.
“Can't we?” asked Lucy. “We're doing it anyway”.
“But why?”
“Why? They're cutting all our shifts. The management making us work half-time. We can't live on that”.
“But, but they must have their reasons” Rory insisted.
“I bet they do” said Lucy abruptly. “But we have ours. We calling everybody out”.
“But that means the library will close”.
“Exactly” said Lucy, pouncing on Rory's statement. “We've just been over to the audio department, they're cutting back there too. I saw one of the managers. They said 'you can't do this'. I told him, 'we walk out and nothing works, you walk out and the world gets lighter'. They're cutting back in the audio department, archiving, electricians, maintenance... They're clearly cutting back on customer service as well. If they keep going there won't be a library left to close”.
“But, the indenture” said Rory, looking bewildered now. “It's a contract. It means we can't leave”.
“It also means they can't replace us” said Lucy. “If we get together, if we organise we'll be a force to be reckoned with. You don't want to work eleven hours without a break, not for the next two years, do you?”
“No” said Rory.
“Then join us, and bring more customer service staff while you're at it. We want this place shut down by dawn”.
“Dawn?” said Rory. “We better get busy”. He yelled so the stragglers and night owls could hear. “Sorry folks, we're shutting this place down. Please drop your books off in the overnight slot”.
…
So the shut-down spread, and spread quickly. After the first half-hour or word got round. People came looking for Lucy and her crew, wanting to join the rebellion. The idea, as it evolved was, at the top of the next hour, for everyone to march as a group to the Central Management Office on the top floor (directly above the main reception area) and present their case.
As the rebels swept through the building they gathered grievances, all of which were written down. The abiding theme was each group had found their indenture changed without notice or consultation. This had to stop. From now on all contract changes were to be negotiated between management and Combined Staff Organisation, as it was becoming known.
As the rebellion grew it naturally split into groups, which would search the many and various back rooms and dark corners of the building for more staff to bring out. The insurgents kept in touch first by phone, then by walkie talkies lent to them by striking security staff (who, as they moved, disabled the CCTV system).
Lucy was the first to raise concerns about the day-shift. The day-shift was much bigger, and included most of the catering staff. The rebels had to get the day-shift onside, otherwise it'd all be for nought.
“Mum... Mum?”
Lucy's Mum answered the phone, at last. “Oh, hi sweetie, what's up? I've had a nightmare getting Daniel to go to bed, he's still so excited about school. Oh, I could tell you... You're at work, right?”
“Yes, well... no, well... sort of”.
“Sort of?”
“We've walked off” said Lucy.
“What'd you mean walked off?”asked Cynthia.
“The shifts, Mum, they're cutting our shifts”.
“What, all of them?”
“All of them” said Lucy. “They're saying we're down to half-time”.
“But we can't survive on half-time, we can hardly get by as it is”.
“Aye Mum, that's why we're walking off. We're refusing to work until they change us back or... or do something. The other departments are walking off too. You wouldn't believe it, they're putting everyone through it, jobs, hours, pay cuts”.
“Well, what're you going to do?” asked Cynthia.
“We're all going to the Central Management Office, all at once. They have to listen to us then”.
“That's great, dear...”
“Mum” Lucy interrupted. “I need you to start ringing round the day shift”.
“It's the middle of the night, girl” Cynthia objected, “half of them will be asleep”.
“You didn't know what was going on, they don't know what's going on, you have to tell them, Ma, otherwise if they turn up for shift tomorrow we're done for”.
There was a pause.
“Mum...”
“All right, I'm with you. Where shall I start?”
“Lucy”.
“Rory? What're you doing here?”
“I'm on shift?”
Rory was on shift.
“Aren't you part time?”
“Supposed to be”.
“Supposed to be?”
“Well” said Rory, assuming a newscaster-like voice, “my shift was supposed to finish not long after I saw you earlier today”.
“I know”.
“I know you know” insisted Rory. “I've been waiting for someone to take over, but no one's come”.
“No one?” Lucy was shocked, genuinely. “So how long have you been on shift now?”
“Eleven hours”.
“Didn't you...? Haven't you...? Who's your line manager?”
“Mr... hang on” said Rory. A customer had arrived at the checkout. The customer handed Rory a book; KM Crowe - Water Wave Propagation over Uneven Surfaces. Rory joked, “A bit of light reading?”
“It's mine” said the customer, “my Phd. I wouldn't have written it if I thought I'd have to teach it”.
“Ah well” sighed Rory, “such is life”. He logged it out and handed it back with a printed receipt.
“Thank you”.
“You're welcome”. Rory turned to Lucy again. “Where was I...? My line manager... Mr McLaren”.
“Him...”
“He comes in and out, usually every half-hour or so. I haven't seen in in over an hour though. You can't get to him at the best of time... Hang on what're you doing here?”
“We're staging a walk out”.
“A what?”
“A walk out. It started in the cleaning department. McLaren was there too”.
“But you can't” said Rory.
“Can't we?” asked Lucy. “We're doing it anyway”.
“But why?”
“Why? They're cutting all our shifts. The management making us work half-time. We can't live on that”.
“But, but they must have their reasons” Rory insisted.
“I bet they do” said Lucy abruptly. “But we have ours. We calling everybody out”.
“But that means the library will close”.
“Exactly” said Lucy, pouncing on Rory's statement. “We've just been over to the audio department, they're cutting back there too. I saw one of the managers. They said 'you can't do this'. I told him, 'we walk out and nothing works, you walk out and the world gets lighter'. They're cutting back in the audio department, archiving, electricians, maintenance... They're clearly cutting back on customer service as well. If they keep going there won't be a library left to close”.
“But, the indenture” said Rory, looking bewildered now. “It's a contract. It means we can't leave”.
“It also means they can't replace us” said Lucy. “If we get together, if we organise we'll be a force to be reckoned with. You don't want to work eleven hours without a break, not for the next two years, do you?”
“No” said Rory.
“Then join us, and bring more customer service staff while you're at it. We want this place shut down by dawn”.
“Dawn?” said Rory. “We better get busy”. He yelled so the stragglers and night owls could hear. “Sorry folks, we're shutting this place down. Please drop your books off in the overnight slot”.
…
So the shut-down spread, and spread quickly. After the first half-hour or word got round. People came looking for Lucy and her crew, wanting to join the rebellion. The idea, as it evolved was, at the top of the next hour, for everyone to march as a group to the Central Management Office on the top floor (directly above the main reception area) and present their case.
As the rebels swept through the building they gathered grievances, all of which were written down. The abiding theme was each group had found their indenture changed without notice or consultation. This had to stop. From now on all contract changes were to be negotiated between management and Combined Staff Organisation, as it was becoming known.
As the rebellion grew it naturally split into groups, which would search the many and various back rooms and dark corners of the building for more staff to bring out. The insurgents kept in touch first by phone, then by walkie talkies lent to them by striking security staff (who, as they moved, disabled the CCTV system).
Lucy was the first to raise concerns about the day-shift. The day-shift was much bigger, and included most of the catering staff. The rebels had to get the day-shift onside, otherwise it'd all be for nought.
“Mum... Mum?”
Lucy's Mum answered the phone, at last. “Oh, hi sweetie, what's up? I've had a nightmare getting Daniel to go to bed, he's still so excited about school. Oh, I could tell you... You're at work, right?”
“Yes, well... no, well... sort of”.
“Sort of?”
“We've walked off” said Lucy.
“What'd you mean walked off?”asked Cynthia.
“The shifts, Mum, they're cutting our shifts”.
“What, all of them?”
“All of them” said Lucy. “They're saying we're down to half-time”.
“But we can't survive on half-time, we can hardly get by as it is”.
“Aye Mum, that's why we're walking off. We're refusing to work until they change us back or... or do something. The other departments are walking off too. You wouldn't believe it, they're putting everyone through it, jobs, hours, pay cuts”.
“Well, what're you going to do?” asked Cynthia.
“We're all going to the Central Management Office, all at once. They have to listen to us then”.
“That's great, dear...”
“Mum” Lucy interrupted. “I need you to start ringing round the day shift”.
“It's the middle of the night, girl” Cynthia objected, “half of them will be asleep”.
“You didn't know what was going on, they don't know what's going on, you have to tell them, Ma, otherwise if they turn up for shift tomorrow we're done for”.
There was a pause.
“Mum...”
“All right, I'm with you. Where shall I start?”
Friday, October 22, 2010
Help London firefighters beat the scabs
More details here. Tory boss Brian Coleman (and fat sack of crap) reckons he will get 2,000 London firefighters to sign up to new contracts (under threat of the sack), contracts that will cut night time cover to London's citizens. He probably won't get that many, but he will get some.
Meanwhile, private company Asset Co, which owns London's fire engines under a PFI scheme (I bet you didn't know that), which has lobbying connections to Coleman, is aiming to run 27 scab crews out of 27 stations in London during tomorrow's strike.
Our fire fighers are there for us, ready to jump into burning buildings to save lives. Now you have to be there for them. Give your support to the FBU pickets tomorrow, 9am. Especially important are these stations:
Likely to have some scab operation going on. The fire authority is using every bullying tactic in order to get its way. This dispute is the first in a battle over the heart and soul of our society. Let's get off to a flying start.
Meanwhile, private company Asset Co, which owns London's fire engines under a PFI scheme (I bet you didn't know that), which has lobbying connections to Coleman, is aiming to run 27 scab crews out of 27 stations in London during tomorrow's strike.
Our fire fighers are there for us, ready to jump into burning buildings to save lives. Now you have to be there for them. Give your support to the FBU pickets tomorrow, 9am. Especially important are these stations:
Beckenham, Croydon, Dagenham, East Ham, Enfield, Euston, Hammersmith, Hendon, Heston, Hillingdon, Holloway, Homerton, Lewisham, North Kensington, Old Kent Road, Plumstead, Poplar, Shoreditch, Sidcup, Southall, Southgate, Stratford, Surbiton, Tooting, Walthamstow, Wembley and Westminster.
Likely to have some scab operation going on. The fire authority is using every bullying tactic in order to get its way. This dispute is the first in a battle over the heart and soul of our society. Let's get off to a flying start.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
BBC News: Tory Pravda
Nick Robinson, former president of Oxford University's Tory Association, telling us just what 'story' the Chancellor is writing (is there a happy ending, Nick?). Pavlov's Newshound then gets a bit upset. He's not ashamed of himself. Why should he be? He's a rich man (£100k pa I heard), and, in this world, being rich means being right.
Be generous with your outrage
We are fighting a protean enemy, more exactly we are fighting a centaur, part man, part beast. This is the beast in action:
This is new footage of the Bolton demo in March. It features Alan Clough, 63, who was arrested on 'suspicion' of "verbally and physically threatening a police officer". You can see how 'threatened' those robocops were, can't you? All charges were dropped on discovery of this film.
Alan is circled at the start of the film. Eighteen seconds in he is punched in the face, recoils and falls to the ground, whereupon he is set upon by several officers with batons. This was his 'arrest'.
This is, of course, manifest evidence of 'our' police's outlook. They would rather see race war than class unity. Police on that day mauled and violated anti-fascists but looked on dumbly when the fascists came to spread their mayhem.
November 6th...
This is new footage of the Bolton demo in March. It features Alan Clough, 63, who was arrested on 'suspicion' of "verbally and physically threatening a police officer". You can see how 'threatened' those robocops were, can't you? All charges were dropped on discovery of this film.
Alan is circled at the start of the film. Eighteen seconds in he is punched in the face, recoils and falls to the ground, whereupon he is set upon by several officers with batons. This was his 'arrest'.
This is, of course, manifest evidence of 'our' police's outlook. They would rather see race war than class unity. Police on that day mauled and violated anti-fascists but looked on dumbly when the fascists came to spread their mayhem.
November 6th...
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The banality of evil
No, I'm not going to watch a TV or read a newspaper today. I can't bear it, sitting around waiting for social armageddon to wash over us... Oh the deficit, the deficit, something has to be done about the deficit... it's inevitable... look into my eyes, not around my eyes, above my eyes, into my eyes, it... is... inevitable... And so on and so forth, month after month.
George Monbiot's back (OK, I broke my rule for him); our ever reliable weathervain is on form, with a simple and concise historical outline of the strategy this government is using. Speed is of the essence in disaster capitalism. We must move quickly too. As a class we have three months, tops, to begin ascending the peak of class struggle, social unrest.
The French working class has the momentum it needs to topple King Sarko and his so-called reforms. In London we have the firefighters and tubies in struggle, as well as various and sundry quite serious actions around the country, a surprising number in the private sector. Good luck to all taking industrial action; it's our job to knit these together into a coherent movement.
George Monbiot's back (OK, I broke my rule for him); our ever reliable weathervain is on form, with a simple and concise historical outline of the strategy this government is using. Speed is of the essence in disaster capitalism. We must move quickly too. As a class we have three months, tops, to begin ascending the peak of class struggle, social unrest.
The French working class has the momentum it needs to topple King Sarko and his so-called reforms. In London we have the firefighters and tubies in struggle, as well as various and sundry quite serious actions around the country, a surprising number in the private sector. Good luck to all taking industrial action; it's our job to knit these together into a coherent movement.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
This week's News. Of. Interest.
OK, armageddon's coming tomorrow, but let's look at what's distracting the puppet people on this dark night. The Graun has gone slightly bonkers and run an comment piece called Navy needs protecting to protect us all. 'Tang sarn it, it all began back in Nineteen Dickedy-Two, we had to say Dickedy, because the Kaiser had stolen our word twenty... and if we don't protect our navy he'll come back for thirty, and forty, who knows maybe even fifty.
Which gimp did they unchain to write this piece?
Can you feel it, that feather knocking you down?
Elsewhere, the mildly nazi/wholly nuts Mel Gibson is to star in The Hangover 2. He presumably needs the money and couldn't get the Converse trainers gig. It might tide him over until Passion of the Christ 2 is released.
Similarly, the Nevada Tea Party is losing momentum... Good.
According to Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson, "Wayne Rooney is adamant he wants to go". Wow, Wayne Rooney can spell 'go'!
President Sarkozy is appealing for calm while he tries to rob the French working class. We, of course, just have to overlook the fact that French police are using rubber bullets on students and riot tactics on pickets. In all seriousness don't hesitate, comrades, take France, it's yours!
Which gimp did they unchain to write this piece?
John Muxworthy is founder and chief executive of the UK National Defence Association (UKNDA). He served in the Royal Navy for 32 years, spanning the Indonesian confrontation, Cod 'wars' and the Falklands war.
Can you feel it, that feather knocking you down?
Elsewhere, the mildly nazi/wholly nuts Mel Gibson is to star in The Hangover 2. He presumably needs the money and couldn't get the Converse trainers gig. It might tide him over until Passion of the Christ 2 is released.
Similarly, the Nevada Tea Party is losing momentum... Good.
According to Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson, "Wayne Rooney is adamant he wants to go". Wow, Wayne Rooney can spell 'go'!
President Sarkozy is appealing for calm while he tries to rob the French working class. We, of course, just have to overlook the fact that French police are using rubber bullets on students and riot tactics on pickets. In all seriousness don't hesitate, comrades, take France, it's yours!
Monday, October 18, 2010
Did you see this?
Graham Coxon is now selling Converse trainers. I hate to link to such a piece of shit but how else can I prove it's true? He must have needed the money or something. Here's a relevant song:
Things that make you go, hmm
There are many ways of defining a party. A roughly acceptable version goes thus; membership comes out of support, cadre comes out of membership, leadership comes out of cadre. This a two way process as the leadership organise the cadre, who organise the membership, who organise the support. If this process breaks down in either direction the party fails in its task. If this breakdown persists the party will come apart.
The Labour Party is special. It is the only mass party in Britain to ever have a direct link to the working class. It matters where the Labour Party gets it leadership and cadre from and how it develops them. This is not because sons of toil automatically make better MPs and councillors. If the Labour Party is drawing its leadership from the working class then it is much easier for the class to influence the Labour Party. If the Labour Party is filling its ranks with people outside the organised working class it makes severing that link much easier.
So, when you see that Ed Milliband was born, went to school, went to university, became a party researcher, became an MP, became leader of the Labour Party it should be cause for concern. Take a quick browse through the Shadow Cabinet biography you find a lawyer (Harriet Harman) an economics researcher (Yvette Cooper) an economic adviser and journalist (Ed Balls) a visiting lecturer (Sadiq Khan) a speech-writer and solicitor (Douglas Alexander) lobbyist and councillor (John Denham)... You could go on. The point is for every Alan Johnson (who, let's not forget, thinks trade unionists come from “planet zog”) there are dozens of Blairite baked beans.
None of this is a definitive answer as to whether the Labour Party is still linked to the working class, but, if leadership comes from cadre (and cadre from membership) it does beg the question. It also is important with regard to the united front. If there has been a minor surge in Labour support and membership on the basis that people want to see an opposition to the Tories (and there probably has been) we need to, as they say in the business, relate to this. But an opposition to the Tory cuts can't just include Labour Party members and supporters, it has to include cadre, otherwise such an opposition will only get a leavening of Labour support. If the link between the Labour Party and the working class has been broken we are all in deeper shit.
The Labour Party is special. It is the only mass party in Britain to ever have a direct link to the working class. It matters where the Labour Party gets it leadership and cadre from and how it develops them. This is not because sons of toil automatically make better MPs and councillors. If the Labour Party is drawing its leadership from the working class then it is much easier for the class to influence the Labour Party. If the Labour Party is filling its ranks with people outside the organised working class it makes severing that link much easier.
So, when you see that Ed Milliband was born, went to school, went to university, became a party researcher, became an MP, became leader of the Labour Party it should be cause for concern. Take a quick browse through the Shadow Cabinet biography you find a lawyer (Harriet Harman) an economics researcher (Yvette Cooper) an economic adviser and journalist (Ed Balls) a visiting lecturer (Sadiq Khan) a speech-writer and solicitor (Douglas Alexander) lobbyist and councillor (John Denham)... You could go on. The point is for every Alan Johnson (who, let's not forget, thinks trade unionists come from “planet zog”) there are dozens of Blairite baked beans.
None of this is a definitive answer as to whether the Labour Party is still linked to the working class, but, if leadership comes from cadre (and cadre from membership) it does beg the question. It also is important with regard to the united front. If there has been a minor surge in Labour support and membership on the basis that people want to see an opposition to the Tories (and there probably has been) we need to, as they say in the business, relate to this. But an opposition to the Tory cuts can't just include Labour Party members and supporters, it has to include cadre, otherwise such an opposition will only get a leavening of Labour support. If the link between the Labour Party and the working class has been broken we are all in deeper shit.
Planet Camden - continued
Thom reports to Bob
Bob and Thom standing in the remains of the Theatre.
Bob: So there's no way Johnny could have been shot by this other man?
Thom: There was no other man.
Bob: Huh? How can there be no other man?
Thom: There's no way to be sure but I spoke to the security guard on duty...
Bob: What's his name?
Thom: Her name. Her name, Tristessa Le Bois, regular staff. She was on CCTV watch at the time. There are four cameras covering this part of the building...
Bob: Any in the theatre?
Thom: No, why would they have CCTV in the theatre?
Bob: Why would they have CCTV in the whole building, what's to take, who's to take it?
[Pause]
Thom: Well, that aside, there are four sets of cameras on this floor, one of them covering 360 degrees in the hallway, one on the stairwell, one by the box office and one by the lifts... five, sorry, there's another in the covered walkway...
Bob: [shaking his head] Madness...
Thom: Maybe so, but you have to pass through at least two of them to get to the Theatre. The security guard showed me footage of Thom making his way from the college courtyard, through the main doors, down a set of stairs and along the covered walkway (the one you can see if you turn left out of here). No one entered the room after after Johnny.
Bob: No one?
Thom: No one.
Bob: What about through the box office?
Thom: No one. The box office was open, but it was very quiet.
Bob: Check that again, Thom. We should review the recording in non-visible frequencies.
Thom: A hunch?
Bob: Just a hunch. Also, what about the guy behind the box office?
Thom: Woman, Leanne Bieber, another regular staff member. The interesting thing is she was not first on the scene, in fact she claims to have heard nothing.
Bob: Interesting. Who was the first to arrive?
Thom: The security guard. It was her break. Ms Le Bois came down to the box office to get a chocolate bar from the vending machine when she says she heard faint cries for help coming from the Theatre. She found the one of the witnesses trying to crawl up the steps to the main entrance.
Bob: I see. So, how do we know Johnny shot himself.
Thom: Its simple, if you know what to look for. I took some photos of Johnny to the ballistics and propulsion lab. Johnny was using a photonic assault rifle...
Bob: Hence he was able to fire off so many shots in such a short time.
Thom: The rifle emits a concentrated burst of energy. It was developed on Earth for military use, designed for close range combat, particularly urban combat. It is consistently deadly over short distances, but loses its accuracy and power as the range extends. If you look...
Thom leads Bob down the set of steps in the middle of the Theatre to where Johnny's body is still lying, slumped awkwardly by the lectern. They kneel by his body.
Thom: [points] See the... [pause]. Sorry... See the scorch mark on the side of Johnny's head. It's on the right hand side.
Bob: Uh huh?
Thom: Johnny is, was right-handed. The mark is also small and clean. He was shot from point blank range.
Bob: Are you OK? [Puts a hand on Thom's shoulder].
Thom: [containing a short surge of emotion] Yes. [sighs].
Bob: It's OK... You can tell me...
Bob and Thom stand up again. Thom, looking down at Johnny.
Thom: I'd thought about it, about what happened and pictured it in my mind. [Regards Bob again] But now that I see it it's all so... so...
Bob: Real?
Thom: No, it's not real, not real it all. Things aren't happening like they're supposed to; like on TV.
Bob: TV?
Thom: Yeah.
Pause.
Bob: C'mon, let's go.
Lovers meet
Bob met Jenny by the Lovers' Statue (1) on the mezzanine floor of St Pancras inter-galatic terminal. It was getting late in the day. The sun was setting. Late in the week too, it was almost Winter Solstice.
Bob and Jenny hadn't seen each other since yesterday afternoon, Bob had not slept in that time. They led busy lives, Jenny especially. They both wanted to grab a moment together.
“I've missed you”.
“I've missed you too” said Jenny.
They kissed and held each other gratefully.
“You look wonderful” said Bob.
Jenny, Momma Zoom was dressed in smart, flat shoes, blue, flared jeans, a white, wrinkled blouse and a brown suede jacket, lined with piles of fake fur (quite plush and realistic). Her hair was held back by a maroon headscarf. Bob was still wearing yesterday's uniform, black leather shoes, a thin black and white suit without tie. Bob was carrying his hat, a black flat top cap with the minimal insignia on the front denoting his role on Planet Camden. Bob was always bashful about the cap.
“You're lovely and warm” said Bob.
“I know” said Jenny, “aren't you cold?”
“I am” said Bob. The terminal was mostly made of glass, plastic and marble. What little heat got up in the day was fast leaking away. Bob, a Pictan, was vulnerable to the cold.
“Get in, then! Get changed... What've you been doing? You look shattered”.
“It's the case”.
“What, the fire?”
“You've not heard?” Bob leant back slightly, half-breaking their embrace.
“About what?”
“The shooting in the Bloomsbury Theatre” said Bob. “We reckon they're connected. They must be”.
“What's the connection?”
“Music”.
“Music?”
“We're working on it”.
“We?”
“I've hired a deputy”.
“Fantastic” said Jenny, smiling. She freed a hand, patted Bob's chest. “It's about time. What's their name?”
“Thom. I think his name's Thom... McCartney?”
“Oh, I know him, Thom, from the drama course”.
“That's right” said Bob.
“You remember, don't you, the... hang on...”
A booming announcement broke over the tannoy, drowning out Jenny's voice. She waited for itto finish.
“Do you...? Do you remember the undergrad production last year, the one we went to?” said Jenny.
“Oh yeah” said Bob, feigning to remember. “Thom's a method actor” he added, for some authentic detail.
“He was a bit of a ham, I thought... He's from Earth, isn't he?”
“That's right”, Bob nodded. “Another Earthling”.
“How'd he get here, then? Isn't there...?”
“An embargo” said Bob, finishing her sentence. “Yes. I think it's something to do...”
Jenny chided, “don't interrupt”.
“Sorry, dear” said Bob, sheepish.
“But, anyway...” Jenny tried to recover her train of thought. “So, why do you think music is the connection?”
“It's all we've got so far” said Bob, “as a link that is. They must be connected. Hey, you didn't see anything strange happen at your gig last night?”
“No” said Jenny, “I mean we had a bit of a technical hitch, but that got sorted out real quick”.
“So, it went well?”
“Oh, brilliant, I did three hours in the end. One of the DJs didn't turn up, but I was right on form. I did three-quarters of an hour of roots-dance stuff, soca, bhangra, funk... I didn't know how the kids would react, Earth music just doesn't make it out here. But they loved it, absolutely loved it.” (2)
“That's great” said Bob, “wonderful”.
“Listen, love” Jenny broke off their hug to talk business. “I've got to go to a meeting later. This record company wants me to remix a some songs from this rock band. I haven't heard them yet, it'll be interesting what they bring me. Have you got the tickets for the recital?”
“Right here” said Bob, tapping his jacket pocket.
“Eight-thirty at the Roundhouse...”
“I'll see you there” said Bob. “Love you”.
“I loved you too”.
Bob and Jenny kissed and then parted, turning round occasionally to smile and wave.
Moments after leaving his sight, Jenny thought to herself out loud under her breath, “Hang on... Music?”
Bob, Home
Bob was almost home. It was a beautiful home, a three storey flat at the top of Haverstock Hill, on the way to the Hemstede. He'd shared it with Jenny and their children (and two generations of cats) for the past twenty years. It was a happy place and Bob was happy to be there, almost home, when the phone rang.
“Hello, Bob here”. Bob let off a big sigh. It was the local news channel.
“I told you we've already put out statements regarding both cases... We cannot say at this moment in time... I can't... Oh, really... No, I'll be there... I just... I have to change, it's been a long day. Thanks, Dave”.
Bob put the phone back in his pocket, took out his keys and went through the door.
“Must ring Thom...”
Footage
Bob took a taxi to the LBC news studio. It was a twenty-minute journey, traffic was still a little heavy, left over from rush hour. Bob thought about taking a little nap but was worried about being double charged. Sleep would have to wait. The taxi driver was rough on the gear stick, lurching back and forth.
“Wait there” said Bob to the taxi driver. “I won't be long. Five, ten minutes tops”.
“OK”.
“Hi Bob”.
Bob forgot to show his ID at reception. Luckily he knew the receptionist. “Oh, hi Emma, say hi to Steve for me”. He blundered on, upstairs to the VT department. On the way up it occurred to Bob how anachronistic, “Video Tape”, who used that any more? He trudged down the hall.
“Hi Bob”.
“Hi Steve”.
“Hi Bob”.
“Hello Emma”.
He keep bumping into people he knew, many ex-students, friends of his. Bob was a popular man. Even so the building seemed profoundly empty. After getting a little lost for a bit (Bob was really flaking) he reached the VT department, knocked on the door.
“Come in, oh, hey, Bob, take a seat”. Dave McFarlane was another of Bob's contacts at the Camden branch of the London Broadcasting Corporation. He worked there as technical staff. Bob knew Dave's (rather open) secret. Dave was also a popular blogger, a feared and revered culture critic, proprietor of online gossip column Release the Hounds. His job at the LBC put him in a prime spot to gather insider info (3).
“Thanks Dave”.
“Cup of tea?”
“No thanks, Dave” said Bob. “Sorry I'm not much fun at the moment. Let's get down to business”.
“Good job I've got it cued up, let's go”.
Video quality. Two men are sitting, calm and comfortable, in mid-light in front of a black cloth background.
Mark: Good evening, citizens of the London star system. My name is Mark, this [gesturing] is my associate, Joey. We represent a new force in politics. For decades now a stink has been rising over our home worlds, the slow rising stench of decadence and weakness. Once western civilisations were strong, pioneering, the western peoples driven by a will to power to raise their civilisation across the galaxy; today presents such a sad contrast.
Faced with the rebellion of inferior peoples our leaders have turned the other cheek. Not only do they cede land, planets rightfully ours by conquest, but they invite the degenerates into our home. Our culture has been swamped, our economy weakened, the very purity of our blood, with which we used to defend an empire, diluted.
This cannot continue. We will not let it stand.
Joey: We are speaking the truth, but it is a truth none dare recognise, such is the weight of oppressive multiculturalism. But actions speak louder than words. By the time you get this message you will have seen our organisation in action. We will attack the rot and degeneration at it source. By this time next week intend to make Camden a living hell, immigrants, degenerates, sexual, social and political should quake in fear. We have dozens of operatives placed around Camden, ready to strike. No tribe is save, no venue is secure, no art will be spared until it is purged of all foreign influence.
Mark: This is not the last you will here from us.
Return to studio.
Bob: We have to keep this quiet, for now. You understand?
Bob and Thom over the phone
“Are you getting all this, Thom?” asked Bob.
“Yes, I got the attachment you sent me”.
“Mark and Joey, do you recognise them?”
“Yes” said Thom, “I know both of them. But Mark, he's called Gideon and the other one, I don't know his name, but I saw him, the night of the fire...”
“Yeah?”
“He was curating an outdoor art piece”.
“Really?”
“He said he was from Earth...”
“Another one” said Bob, “what is it about your planet?”
“I don't know, Bob” said Thom, sounding a little irritated. “So, pseudonym do you think?”
“Did you see the look in their eyes?” asked Thom. “They looked like Johnny with the, with the Dream Machine. I think we should pursue the occult angle”.
“Really?” said Bob, not sounding so sure. “I take it you know, what's was his name?”
“Gideon”.
“I take it you know where Gideon lives, where he... associates. We have to apprehend him”.
“See” said Thom, “you're getting the hang of it”.
“Good old method acting” added Bob. There was a pause, before Thom pitched in with:
“How did the station get hold of the footage?”
“I'll ask” said Bob, he flashed a grin at the
“See, its grainy, like old video, but it's obviously now in digital... Was it made on Camden? You'd think it was, but...”
“I'll check”, reiterated Bob.
“Bob, the gig tonight...”
“The recital you mean?”
“It can't go ahead” said Thom. “Those people are in danger. They must be warned. We can't let it go ahead”.
“It's in half an hour, Thom. Meet me there”.
The Roundhouse
“Have you seen this man?”
Bob was shuffling up and down outside the Roundhouse, showing a picture to people in the queue, milling in the street.
“Have you seen this man?”
No luck. The queue was quite thin; the a normal-looking crowd for an event like this, several Goths, towering over a few Radioheads, Young Royals and the odd unplacable. The night though seemed strangely slack. Where was Thom? Where was Jenny for that matter? Bob had raced to the venue from the LBC offices.
“The Roundhouse and step on it!” Bob couldn't believe it, he actually said step on it. “I know a short cut. Don't go by Euston Road”.
“OK boss”.
“Where's Thom? What's keeping him?” Bob was about to stop and sit down for a breather when he saw Thom bowling up in the distance. He'd added a trench coat to his faux-detective get up. Bob thought to himself, “he's deep in the role, but what's he thinking about Johnny, Gideon; is he gay?”
“Are you gay?”
“What?”
“Sorry” said Bob. “I was thinking about something... Let's under some light”.
The pair found a seat under a street lamp. They sat.
“Oh, I needed that” Bob grunted.
“So” asked Thom, “there's nothing suspicious happening here then?”
“No, nothing. I've checked top to bottom. Spoke to all the staff, management, security, ticket office, backstage. There's nothing here; just a classical recital... What kept you, Thom?”
“Something's happening down at the library” said Thom. “There's a big crowd of people outside, blocking the main road. Total gridlock. I was on a transit, but got off to have a look. There was this huge crowd, all listening to this girl, beautiful girl. She was talking about something, I couldn't get the gist of what she was saying but...”
“Focus, Thom” insisted Bob; “remember your role, your motivation. Don't lose focus, not now”.
“You're right, anyway, I... Is that, Gideon?” Thom pointed to the figure lurking, shuffling along limply on the other side of the street. “It is, let's go”.
Bob and Thom standing in the remains of the Theatre.
Bob: So there's no way Johnny could have been shot by this other man?
Thom: There was no other man.
Bob: Huh? How can there be no other man?
Thom: There's no way to be sure but I spoke to the security guard on duty...
Bob: What's his name?
Thom: Her name. Her name, Tristessa Le Bois, regular staff. She was on CCTV watch at the time. There are four cameras covering this part of the building...
Bob: Any in the theatre?
Thom: No, why would they have CCTV in the theatre?
Bob: Why would they have CCTV in the whole building, what's to take, who's to take it?
[Pause]
Thom: Well, that aside, there are four sets of cameras on this floor, one of them covering 360 degrees in the hallway, one on the stairwell, one by the box office and one by the lifts... five, sorry, there's another in the covered walkway...
Bob: [shaking his head] Madness...
Thom: Maybe so, but you have to pass through at least two of them to get to the Theatre. The security guard showed me footage of Thom making his way from the college courtyard, through the main doors, down a set of stairs and along the covered walkway (the one you can see if you turn left out of here). No one entered the room after after Johnny.
Bob: No one?
Thom: No one.
Bob: What about through the box office?
Thom: No one. The box office was open, but it was very quiet.
Bob: Check that again, Thom. We should review the recording in non-visible frequencies.
Thom: A hunch?
Bob: Just a hunch. Also, what about the guy behind the box office?
Thom: Woman, Leanne Bieber, another regular staff member. The interesting thing is she was not first on the scene, in fact she claims to have heard nothing.
Bob: Interesting. Who was the first to arrive?
Thom: The security guard. It was her break. Ms Le Bois came down to the box office to get a chocolate bar from the vending machine when she says she heard faint cries for help coming from the Theatre. She found the one of the witnesses trying to crawl up the steps to the main entrance.
Bob: I see. So, how do we know Johnny shot himself.
Thom: Its simple, if you know what to look for. I took some photos of Johnny to the ballistics and propulsion lab. Johnny was using a photonic assault rifle...
Bob: Hence he was able to fire off so many shots in such a short time.
Thom: The rifle emits a concentrated burst of energy. It was developed on Earth for military use, designed for close range combat, particularly urban combat. It is consistently deadly over short distances, but loses its accuracy and power as the range extends. If you look...
Thom leads Bob down the set of steps in the middle of the Theatre to where Johnny's body is still lying, slumped awkwardly by the lectern. They kneel by his body.
Thom: [points] See the... [pause]. Sorry... See the scorch mark on the side of Johnny's head. It's on the right hand side.
Bob: Uh huh?
Thom: Johnny is, was right-handed. The mark is also small and clean. He was shot from point blank range.
Bob: Are you OK? [Puts a hand on Thom's shoulder].
Thom: [containing a short surge of emotion] Yes. [sighs].
Bob: It's OK... You can tell me...
Bob and Thom stand up again. Thom, looking down at Johnny.
Thom: I'd thought about it, about what happened and pictured it in my mind. [Regards Bob again] But now that I see it it's all so... so...
Bob: Real?
Thom: No, it's not real, not real it all. Things aren't happening like they're supposed to; like on TV.
Bob: TV?
Thom: Yeah.
Pause.
Bob: C'mon, let's go.
Lovers meet
Bob met Jenny by the Lovers' Statue (1) on the mezzanine floor of St Pancras inter-galatic terminal. It was getting late in the day. The sun was setting. Late in the week too, it was almost Winter Solstice.
Bob and Jenny hadn't seen each other since yesterday afternoon, Bob had not slept in that time. They led busy lives, Jenny especially. They both wanted to grab a moment together.
“I've missed you”.
“I've missed you too” said Jenny.
They kissed and held each other gratefully.
“You look wonderful” said Bob.
Jenny, Momma Zoom was dressed in smart, flat shoes, blue, flared jeans, a white, wrinkled blouse and a brown suede jacket, lined with piles of fake fur (quite plush and realistic). Her hair was held back by a maroon headscarf. Bob was still wearing yesterday's uniform, black leather shoes, a thin black and white suit without tie. Bob was carrying his hat, a black flat top cap with the minimal insignia on the front denoting his role on Planet Camden. Bob was always bashful about the cap.
“You're lovely and warm” said Bob.
“I know” said Jenny, “aren't you cold?”
“I am” said Bob. The terminal was mostly made of glass, plastic and marble. What little heat got up in the day was fast leaking away. Bob, a Pictan, was vulnerable to the cold.
“Get in, then! Get changed... What've you been doing? You look shattered”.
“It's the case”.
“What, the fire?”
“You've not heard?” Bob leant back slightly, half-breaking their embrace.
“About what?”
“The shooting in the Bloomsbury Theatre” said Bob. “We reckon they're connected. They must be”.
“What's the connection?”
“Music”.
“Music?”
“We're working on it”.
“We?”
“I've hired a deputy”.
“Fantastic” said Jenny, smiling. She freed a hand, patted Bob's chest. “It's about time. What's their name?”
“Thom. I think his name's Thom... McCartney?”
“Oh, I know him, Thom, from the drama course”.
“That's right” said Bob.
“You remember, don't you, the... hang on...”
A booming announcement broke over the tannoy, drowning out Jenny's voice. She waited for itto finish.
“Do you...? Do you remember the undergrad production last year, the one we went to?” said Jenny.
“Oh yeah” said Bob, feigning to remember. “Thom's a method actor” he added, for some authentic detail.
“He was a bit of a ham, I thought... He's from Earth, isn't he?”
“That's right”, Bob nodded. “Another Earthling”.
“How'd he get here, then? Isn't there...?”
“An embargo” said Bob, finishing her sentence. “Yes. I think it's something to do...”
Jenny chided, “don't interrupt”.
“Sorry, dear” said Bob, sheepish.
“But, anyway...” Jenny tried to recover her train of thought. “So, why do you think music is the connection?”
“It's all we've got so far” said Bob, “as a link that is. They must be connected. Hey, you didn't see anything strange happen at your gig last night?”
“No” said Jenny, “I mean we had a bit of a technical hitch, but that got sorted out real quick”.
“So, it went well?”
“Oh, brilliant, I did three hours in the end. One of the DJs didn't turn up, but I was right on form. I did three-quarters of an hour of roots-dance stuff, soca, bhangra, funk... I didn't know how the kids would react, Earth music just doesn't make it out here. But they loved it, absolutely loved it.” (2)
“That's great” said Bob, “wonderful”.
“Listen, love” Jenny broke off their hug to talk business. “I've got to go to a meeting later. This record company wants me to remix a some songs from this rock band. I haven't heard them yet, it'll be interesting what they bring me. Have you got the tickets for the recital?”
“Right here” said Bob, tapping his jacket pocket.
“Eight-thirty at the Roundhouse...”
“I'll see you there” said Bob. “Love you”.
“I loved you too”.
Bob and Jenny kissed and then parted, turning round occasionally to smile and wave.
Moments after leaving his sight, Jenny thought to herself out loud under her breath, “Hang on... Music?”
Bob, Home
Bob was almost home. It was a beautiful home, a three storey flat at the top of Haverstock Hill, on the way to the Hemstede. He'd shared it with Jenny and their children (and two generations of cats) for the past twenty years. It was a happy place and Bob was happy to be there, almost home, when the phone rang.
“Hello, Bob here”. Bob let off a big sigh. It was the local news channel.
“I told you we've already put out statements regarding both cases... We cannot say at this moment in time... I can't... Oh, really... No, I'll be there... I just... I have to change, it's been a long day. Thanks, Dave”.
Bob put the phone back in his pocket, took out his keys and went through the door.
“Must ring Thom...”
Footage
Bob took a taxi to the LBC news studio. It was a twenty-minute journey, traffic was still a little heavy, left over from rush hour. Bob thought about taking a little nap but was worried about being double charged. Sleep would have to wait. The taxi driver was rough on the gear stick, lurching back and forth.
“Wait there” said Bob to the taxi driver. “I won't be long. Five, ten minutes tops”.
“OK”.
“Hi Bob”.
Bob forgot to show his ID at reception. Luckily he knew the receptionist. “Oh, hi Emma, say hi to Steve for me”. He blundered on, upstairs to the VT department. On the way up it occurred to Bob how anachronistic, “Video Tape”, who used that any more? He trudged down the hall.
“Hi Bob”.
“Hi Steve”.
“Hi Bob”.
“Hello Emma”.
He keep bumping into people he knew, many ex-students, friends of his. Bob was a popular man. Even so the building seemed profoundly empty. After getting a little lost for a bit (Bob was really flaking) he reached the VT department, knocked on the door.
“Come in, oh, hey, Bob, take a seat”. Dave McFarlane was another of Bob's contacts at the Camden branch of the London Broadcasting Corporation. He worked there as technical staff. Bob knew Dave's (rather open) secret. Dave was also a popular blogger, a feared and revered culture critic, proprietor of online gossip column Release the Hounds. His job at the LBC put him in a prime spot to gather insider info (3).
“Thanks Dave”.
“Cup of tea?”
“No thanks, Dave” said Bob. “Sorry I'm not much fun at the moment. Let's get down to business”.
“Good job I've got it cued up, let's go”.
Video quality. Two men are sitting, calm and comfortable, in mid-light in front of a black cloth background.
Mark: Good evening, citizens of the London star system. My name is Mark, this [gesturing] is my associate, Joey. We represent a new force in politics. For decades now a stink has been rising over our home worlds, the slow rising stench of decadence and weakness. Once western civilisations were strong, pioneering, the western peoples driven by a will to power to raise their civilisation across the galaxy; today presents such a sad contrast.
Faced with the rebellion of inferior peoples our leaders have turned the other cheek. Not only do they cede land, planets rightfully ours by conquest, but they invite the degenerates into our home. Our culture has been swamped, our economy weakened, the very purity of our blood, with which we used to defend an empire, diluted.
This cannot continue. We will not let it stand.
Joey: We are speaking the truth, but it is a truth none dare recognise, such is the weight of oppressive multiculturalism. But actions speak louder than words. By the time you get this message you will have seen our organisation in action. We will attack the rot and degeneration at it source. By this time next week intend to make Camden a living hell, immigrants, degenerates, sexual, social and political should quake in fear. We have dozens of operatives placed around Camden, ready to strike. No tribe is save, no venue is secure, no art will be spared until it is purged of all foreign influence.
Mark: This is not the last you will here from us.
Return to studio.
Bob: We have to keep this quiet, for now. You understand?
Bob and Thom over the phone
“Are you getting all this, Thom?” asked Bob.
“Yes, I got the attachment you sent me”.
“Mark and Joey, do you recognise them?”
“Yes” said Thom, “I know both of them. But Mark, he's called Gideon and the other one, I don't know his name, but I saw him, the night of the fire...”
“Yeah?”
“He was curating an outdoor art piece”.
“Really?”
“He said he was from Earth...”
“Another one” said Bob, “what is it about your planet?”
“I don't know, Bob” said Thom, sounding a little irritated. “So, pseudonym do you think?”
“Did you see the look in their eyes?” asked Thom. “They looked like Johnny with the, with the Dream Machine. I think we should pursue the occult angle”.
“Really?” said Bob, not sounding so sure. “I take it you know, what's was his name?”
“Gideon”.
“I take it you know where Gideon lives, where he... associates. We have to apprehend him”.
“See” said Thom, “you're getting the hang of it”.
“Good old method acting” added Bob. There was a pause, before Thom pitched in with:
“How did the station get hold of the footage?”
“I'll ask” said Bob, he flashed a grin at the
“See, its grainy, like old video, but it's obviously now in digital... Was it made on Camden? You'd think it was, but...”
“I'll check”, reiterated Bob.
“Bob, the gig tonight...”
“The recital you mean?”
“It can't go ahead” said Thom. “Those people are in danger. They must be warned. We can't let it go ahead”.
“It's in half an hour, Thom. Meet me there”.
The Roundhouse
“Have you seen this man?”
Bob was shuffling up and down outside the Roundhouse, showing a picture to people in the queue, milling in the street.
“Have you seen this man?”
No luck. The queue was quite thin; the a normal-looking crowd for an event like this, several Goths, towering over a few Radioheads, Young Royals and the odd unplacable. The night though seemed strangely slack. Where was Thom? Where was Jenny for that matter? Bob had raced to the venue from the LBC offices.
“The Roundhouse and step on it!” Bob couldn't believe it, he actually said step on it. “I know a short cut. Don't go by Euston Road”.
“OK boss”.
“Where's Thom? What's keeping him?” Bob was about to stop and sit down for a breather when he saw Thom bowling up in the distance. He'd added a trench coat to his faux-detective get up. Bob thought to himself, “he's deep in the role, but what's he thinking about Johnny, Gideon; is he gay?”
“Are you gay?”
“What?”
“Sorry” said Bob. “I was thinking about something... Let's under some light”.
The pair found a seat under a street lamp. They sat.
“Oh, I needed that” Bob grunted.
“So” asked Thom, “there's nothing suspicious happening here then?”
“No, nothing. I've checked top to bottom. Spoke to all the staff, management, security, ticket office, backstage. There's nothing here; just a classical recital... What kept you, Thom?”
“Something's happening down at the library” said Thom. “There's a big crowd of people outside, blocking the main road. Total gridlock. I was on a transit, but got off to have a look. There was this huge crowd, all listening to this girl, beautiful girl. She was talking about something, I couldn't get the gist of what she was saying but...”
“Focus, Thom” insisted Bob; “remember your role, your motivation. Don't lose focus, not now”.
“You're right, anyway, I... Is that, Gideon?” Thom pointed to the figure lurking, shuffling along limply on the other side of the street. “It is, let's go”.
(1) A Fabian Dedalus design.
(2) The gig was very well attended. Although free, an estimated 5-10 thousands revellers attended. You can find reviews of the gig in several contemporary magazines (print and online), including Boosh-Boosh-Poosh, Drmrllpls, Liquid Weirdness, The Kaleidoscope Train Wreck and the Guardian Weekend edition.
(3) The Release the Hounds newsgroup was and still is roundly resented by news broadcasters, greatly feared by the entertainment industry and widely loved by the public. Everybody reads it. The group was started by Dave (who went by the handle Evil Smithers, although that particular icon disappeared several years ago) and some friends from work as a contest to see who could get the most outrageous celebrity lie into circulation. Dave won when he got the story (slightly tame by later standards) that popular screen actor and notorious musical dilettante Jimmy Doop had gone bald as a cue ball, and was using GM turtle wax to restore his famous locks, repeated in two supermarket magazines. A tremendous scandal (not to mention court case) was unleashed. The story was almost traced back to Dave and Co when, in a fabulous twist, the story turned out to be true. Since then Release the Hounds has concentrated on leaking true stories, of which they have a plentiful supply. It is thought that some now even come from established media groups playing a sophisticated game of bluff and counter-bluff in public relations.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Friday laffs
The first one is self-evident. But, also, check out this story from the UAF website. The new BNP splinter group is not racist, oh no. Some of their best friends are from stock photos.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Have the Americans rallied to sanity yet?
I suppose in this case they're trying their best to. Christine O'Donnell (not a witch) the Tea Party candidate for Delaware's Senatorship is trailing her Democratic opponent (also not a witch) by 15%. She has apparently fumbled her first TV debate.
Which is a bit funny, I suppose, but being slow on the uptake never harmed Baby Bush. More disconcerting:
I don't hold a candle for the Democratic candidate. Even so who can't feel a twinge of sympathy for the guy, having to wrestle this demented chimney sweep? A movement to restore perspective in public debate is welcome and long overdue. Insane rhetoric and hyperbole are symptoms of a lack of clarity, ultimately of political passivity on the part of the population. This encourages politicians to see their job not as leadership but a combination of superior political manoeuvring and dry psephology.
In one of several incidents reminiscent of Sarah Palin's embarrassing television interview with CBS during the 2008 White House race, O'Donnell looked blank when asked to name a recent Supreme Court ruling with which she disagreed. "There are lots," she said, but admitted she could not recall any.
Which is a bit funny, I suppose, but being slow on the uptake never harmed Baby Bush. More disconcerting:
With such a commanding lead,[Chris] Coons had been expected to play safe and avoid being overly critical of O'Donnell. But he quickly dispensed with that strategy and accused her of holding "extreme positions" and of lying about him.
O'Donnell in turn called Coons a Marxist, in part because of a self-portrait when he was a student and because she said he favoured higher taxes.
I don't hold a candle for the Democratic candidate. Even so who can't feel a twinge of sympathy for the guy, having to wrestle this demented chimney sweep? A movement to restore perspective in public debate is welcome and long overdue. Insane rhetoric and hyperbole are symptoms of a lack of clarity, ultimately of political passivity on the part of the population. This encourages politicians to see their job not as leadership but a combination of superior political manoeuvring and dry psephology.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Unite Against Fascism: November 6th demo
Unite Against Fascism has called a national demonstration in London on November the 6th. It is an A to B march around a quite general issue, not as urgent as an anti-EDL demo. It is a vital mobilisation however, for three reasons as far as I can see.
(1) Before any anti-EDL mobilisation the police and local council (and, sadly, now Hope not Hate) attempt by various means to demobilise opposition to the EDL. In the police's case it is due to their (virtually public) preference for race war over class unity. Senior officers stated to a former cabinet minister not long ago that they see the EDL as a physical break on the left in Britain.
On November the 6th they can do no such thing. This demo is sponsored by the TUC and MCB (amongst many other groups). It will be a very broad event. This will be a golden, unimpeded opportunity to assemble the coalition needed to take on the nazis in the future.
(2) A large demo will squash any pretentions HnH have to being mainstream (in comparison to UAF's 'perhiperal' nature). Hope not Hate are not mainstream but simply right wing.
(3) The state is taking a keen interest in Unite Against Fascism, and has arrested a number of key figures on dubious charges. The overwhelming number of UAF supporters arrested at Bolton were released without charge. A recent case, taken to court, shows just how flimsy and corrupt the police have been with regard to people's rights (the person in question was cleared of all charges).
The police seem to imagine that fighting anti-fascism will be like conducting a colonial war, arrest a few chiefs and the natives will scatter. They are wrong, however, we should do our utmost to keep officers and supporters of UAF from the police's clutches. A large demonstration will make it harder for the police to pursue Unite Against Fascism.
(1) Before any anti-EDL mobilisation the police and local council (and, sadly, now Hope not Hate) attempt by various means to demobilise opposition to the EDL. In the police's case it is due to their (virtually public) preference for race war over class unity. Senior officers stated to a former cabinet minister not long ago that they see the EDL as a physical break on the left in Britain.
On November the 6th they can do no such thing. This demo is sponsored by the TUC and MCB (amongst many other groups). It will be a very broad event. This will be a golden, unimpeded opportunity to assemble the coalition needed to take on the nazis in the future.
(2) A large demo will squash any pretentions HnH have to being mainstream (in comparison to UAF's 'perhiperal' nature). Hope not Hate are not mainstream but simply right wing.
(3) The state is taking a keen interest in Unite Against Fascism, and has arrested a number of key figures on dubious charges. The overwhelming number of UAF supporters arrested at Bolton were released without charge. A recent case, taken to court, shows just how flimsy and corrupt the police have been with regard to people's rights (the person in question was cleared of all charges).
The police seem to imagine that fighting anti-fascism will be like conducting a colonial war, arrest a few chiefs and the natives will scatter. They are wrong, however, we should do our utmost to keep officers and supporters of UAF from the police's clutches. A large demonstration will make it harder for the police to pursue Unite Against Fascism.
Yesterday's tactic, today's excuse
If times are moving fast there's no point simply going with the flow, a change in direction can leave us floundering.
Unions should co-ordinate strikes, we argue for this and its great when union leaderships agree with this, but this argument can get inverted if we're not careful. If getting the full agreement of numerous national unions is the overriding priority then we are bound to move at the slowest pace and, if widespread national co-ordination is essential, if and when one union withdraws the rest will fall too.
Another tricky idea is winning public opinion. Unions should make great efforts to win over public opinion, for one thing it means greater solidarity and a greater chance of winning. But should the RMT wait until it's won over public opinion before launching industrial action over ticket office closures? Of course not.
At the moment civil servants are facing government attacks on their Compensation Scheme. The government is trying to make it easier and cheaper to sack them. What is the PCS doing? It's putting out general campaign material showing the public there is an alternative. This is a laudable thing, but it will be in vain if there's no strike action soon.
Unions should co-ordinate strikes, we argue for this and its great when union leaderships agree with this, but this argument can get inverted if we're not careful. If getting the full agreement of numerous national unions is the overriding priority then we are bound to move at the slowest pace and, if widespread national co-ordination is essential, if and when one union withdraws the rest will fall too.
Another tricky idea is winning public opinion. Unions should make great efforts to win over public opinion, for one thing it means greater solidarity and a greater chance of winning. But should the RMT wait until it's won over public opinion before launching industrial action over ticket office closures? Of course not.
At the moment civil servants are facing government attacks on their Compensation Scheme. The government is trying to make it easier and cheaper to sack them. What is the PCS doing? It's putting out general campaign material showing the public there is an alternative. This is a laudable thing, but it will be in vain if there's no strike action soon.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Awake at night
The capitalist lies awake at night, afraid of these kinds of moments, haunted by "the spectre of May 1968". Sarkozy, in between reviving Vichy-esque race war, is trying to squeeze the French working class like lemons, a raft of 'reforms' (do you remember when reform was a positive word), the centre piece of which will be (if he gets away with it) raising the retirement age to 67.
But who's squeezing who right now?
Several unions in France have voted for rolling strikes, students are expected to be on future demos. The government is worried, and so should it be. The same can happen here, the French have just as many do nothing union leaders and fat, useless, allegedly red politicians. Our only job at the moment is to get from the ballot to the picket line and make it stick.
But who's squeezing who right now?
Several unions in France have voted for rolling strikes, students are expected to be on future demos. The government is worried, and so should it be. The same can happen here, the French have just as many do nothing union leaders and fat, useless, allegedly red politicians. Our only job at the moment is to get from the ballot to the picket line and make it stick.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The raw evil of the EDL
This is quite an upsetting watch, although all those who suggest ignoring the EDL is some kind of strategy should; note also this is the police 'controlling' the situation. You cannot ignore fascist bullies. They must be stood up to.
Friday, October 08, 2010
This week's actually existing news...
Tales of interest, our dumb world, etc... An inquiry finds no evidence Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab adopted extremist views while at University College London... probably because of all the stupid fucking anarchists there (ahem, they're autonomists, Roobin)... But seriously, if it turns out he was radicalised on the toilet it'll be curtains for the plumbing industry.
Students apparently drink less alcohol than young workers (although a lot of students are in work these days, so who knows). If this is the case then its further proof today's young people are the merely the third-worst generation, behind Generation X and, of course, the Baby Boomers (the most evil and selfish target market in history).
See here for a bland article wrapped around an interesting point; philosophy is a naturally urban pursuit. Philosophy can only be developed in dialogue between theory and practice. It is a collective pursuit, hence the city is the natural home of philosophy.
It is also perfectly possible to take philosophy out of the universities and bring it to the street and the workplace. Everyone is, in some sense a philosopher. Everyone rationalises what they do and what goes on around them into some kind of worldview, however higgledy-piggledy or unacknowledged. For example, the light of my life I know is a fairly consistent agnostic (both spritually and philosophically).
The ideological struggle is the starting point of reforming human theory and practice. We are currently attempting to revise the philosophical outlook of the progressive class to make its outlook homogenous, to co-ordinate its actions directly toward a specific goal (self-emancipation). Bolshevism is the ultimate urban philosophy.
Students apparently drink less alcohol than young workers (although a lot of students are in work these days, so who knows). If this is the case then its further proof today's young people are the merely the third-worst generation, behind Generation X and, of course, the Baby Boomers (the most evil and selfish target market in history).
See here for a bland article wrapped around an interesting point; philosophy is a naturally urban pursuit. Philosophy can only be developed in dialogue between theory and practice. It is a collective pursuit, hence the city is the natural home of philosophy.
It is also perfectly possible to take philosophy out of the universities and bring it to the street and the workplace. Everyone is, in some sense a philosopher. Everyone rationalises what they do and what goes on around them into some kind of worldview, however higgledy-piggledy or unacknowledged. For example, the light of my life I know is a fairly consistent agnostic (both spritually and philosophically).
The ideological struggle is the starting point of reforming human theory and practice. We are currently attempting to revise the philosophical outlook of the progressive class to make its outlook homogenous, to co-ordinate its actions directly toward a specific goal (self-emancipation). Bolshevism is the ultimate urban philosophy.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Further Camden
So, who was Johnny, what's his background?
He's, was a Vegan. I think he was from Yanqui. He was about my age, maybe born a few weeks later than me.
Weeks?
Galactic time. He was a Radiohead, although I thought there was a touch of Young Royalty about him.
How so?
He was quite... aristocratic, you know, sort of poised, uptight... mean and a little gossipy.
How did he end up a Radiohead?
He's a musician, sorry, composer; very alert to musical tone and context and so on. The radio could be on, if I was say working on some stuff, writing; he would bowl in an criticise the descending chromatic bass line. “What's wrong with ascending counterpoint, are we so bereft?”
Was he a music student?
Yes, he was. Music major.
What was his minor?
You know, I don't know. He didn't talk much about his classes, except to slag off people, students, even the teachers. I'd ask him about stuff sometimes, but he'd usually change the subject.
Was he a good composer?
Oh, you bet. Musical scores were his thing.
Did Johnny have any other interests...?
He was into occultism, really into it. He described it as an intellectual curiosity, but, when I think about it, there was nothing else he was really interested in. You'd bring up something vaguely connected and, boom, off he's go; symbolism, numerology, lost speech. You know, we didn't really talk, not properly. I saw, I peered into his bedroom once. He was out, which didn't happen often. His room was just across the hall from the bathroom. I just happened to see the door open. He had a huge poster, a pentagram stuck above his bed.
Also, yes, he had this machine, a little box full of lights. He called it his Dream Machine, said it elevated him to an alternative mental state. He showed me how it works once. It's like a little penny arcade, flashing different shapes and colours at you really quickly. It didn't really do anything for me, I must say.
How did you and Johnny meet?
It was through a First-Year project. Our tutor, drama tutor, set a final semester task of producing a devised piece. It ended up being a bawdy little comedy. I quite liked it. The group decided to commission a score, make it a museum. That's where Johnny came in.
How did you end up sharing a flat?
It was a last minute thing, really. Halls are for first years, so we had to move out. There were five of us from the drama course supposed to move into this flat. We had it all sorted, contract signed, all before the end of the semester. There was a couple and, of course, they had an argument. It was the end of year ball. One of them, the girl, I think, got off with one of the guys, someone else fancied them. It was a total mess, and we lost our deposit.
So it was a last minute thing. I hardly knew Johnny, but we ended in this flat, it was a house really. A lovely place, right in the middle of Camden. We were quite lucky. A relation of Johnny's owned the place. We got it cheap too.
Did you meet this relative?
No. It was all done, all the paperwork, bits and bobs, through Johnny.
How did the pair of of get on in this flat?
We tolerated each other. He was clean, quiet and intelligent enough company when he was around.
Would you have described him as a friend?
In a hale-fellow-well-met kind of way. I didn't hate him.
So, did you notice anything usual about Johnny, did anything about his manner change in the time before his death?
No... although he seemed very excited, excited/disturbed by this fire in the Underworld.
…
“This isn't getting very far, is it?” asked Old Bob.
“You need to interview more people” said Thom, “build up a picture” Bob and Thom were back in the office. Bob was drafting notes while Thom sorted out some paperwork. “You know, I have a theory, it might just...”
“Hold that thought” said Bob, “the phone's ringing”. It was the Commissioner. “Hello there, back so soon?”
“I've heard news of a mass shooting. What's going on Bob?”
“It's all in hand...”
“I beg your pardon, officer!” The Commissioner flared. “There have been two large scale murders in less than a day. I repeat; what's going on?”
“We believe they are connected” chimed Thom.
“Who is this?”
“This is Thom” said Bob, “my new Deputy”.
“Four years on the force back home, ma'am”.
“Which force?” asked the Commissioner.
“Earth, ma'am”.
“Earth? Isn't there an embargo on that whole system?”
“I'm here on a scholarship” said Thom.
“He was highly recommended” Bob added, catching up with the ruse.
“Well, they start them young there” sighed the Commissioner. “Down to business. What have you got?”
“Music” said Thom. “The targets were music venues, a theatre and a nightclub. Also, one of the victims of the shooting was in fact the perpetrator. His name was Johnny Palin, a music student. I used to share a flat with him. We will be interviewing his friends and associates shortly, we're also trying to get a trace out on the gun he used. There are no weapons shops on Camden, it must have either been imported or sold on the black market”.
The Commissioner was surprised;
“There's a black market on Camden?”
“In a manner of speaking yes. Chalton Street and the Thames Lock. It's very well known. You can get all sorts of bargains there”.
“Anyway, press on” said the Commissioner, containing her bemusement, “what about forensics?”
“We have assembled teams at both scenes” said Bob.
There was a short pause before Thom added. “Professor Aaron Fillmore from the Domestic Chemistry Faculty is helping, along with some graduate students. I've been meaning to ask; they're currently giving us all their spare time. They want to catch these crooks as much we do. Would it be possible to put them on a little stipend, at least cover their costs?”
“Oh no, by all means” said the Professor. “Send me over a request form. I'll even draft them on the force, grant them the powers they need... Anything else?”
“Nothing else” said Thom.
“We'll be in touch with any updates” said Bob.
“Good work Thom, excellent find Bob” said the Commissioner, before hanging up.
“I didn't know you were a officer back home?”
“I told you” said Thom, “I can act”.
…
The testimony below was collected from an interview with one of the survivors of the Theatre Massacre (there were three in total). They have asked not to be identified.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. The only reason I know was I looked at the clock at the back of the hall at the beginning and end. It's stuck in my mind: 11.33 at the start, 11.36 at the end.
The lecture was started. I was wide awake, but a few people seemed to be yawning and sagging. A few people I know skipped class, which was a good call in the end. The door at the back closed, a few of us turned to look (that's when I got that glimpse of the clock). It was Johnny. The lecturer, Mr Meadway stopped, I think. It was a bit of a surprise to see him late, but still; Johnny said something like:
“Don't mind me”.
And the lecturer got back on with the class. Thinking about it now I can remember hearing this clicking and clacking behind my head, which was Johnny getting set up. I didn't give it a second thought though, why would you?
A few seconds later I saw Mr Meadway look up from his text. He said:
“Johnny?”
There was these two zaps, first his chest, then his head blew open. It seemed to be happening in, like, slow motion. I couldn't help but feel my senses tingle before the shock kicked in, it was astonishing. I'll never forget it.
Again, it was in this slow arc I turned... You could see Johnny with this gun, this huge gun in his hands and an incredible, inflamed look on his face. Then he just started letting off rounds, everywhere. I crouched down as low as I could. I don't know how any of it missed me. There were bits of wood and metal and glass flying everywhere.
There was a pause. I could see Johnny through a gap in one of the seats. There was about twenty or so people in the room, in different rows. Johnny started looking along each for survivors, I presume. He found one woman, bang, dead. This happened and a couple of people bolted, they must have been trying to get to the door, but they didn't stand a chance. One guy used the distraction, tried to wrest the gun off Johnny, he almost managed it too. Guthrie Douglas-Addington, yes that was his name. I knew him a bit, see. Guthrie got shot in the chest. I think he's still in hospital.
I was down the front of the room. There was a fire exit. I tried creeping toward it while this was going on. I got to the point where I had to make a run for it, last five or so metres. I almost got to the door. I felt this pop, this bursting sensation in my right knee and just collapsed, like my legs had disappeared.
I was on my front. I couldn't get up but I could see out the corner of my eye Johnny approaching. I don't know how I felt. It was all so strange. My heart was going, blood pounding. My head, I couldn't think. I had no thoughts.
Then there was this click. I closed my eyes... But then I heard this voice. It was a man's voice, coming from the back of the room. He said:
“That'll do Johnny”.
Johnny said, “I understand”.
Another bang, but I was still alive. I eventually looked up, Johnny was dead.
He's, was a Vegan. I think he was from Yanqui. He was about my age, maybe born a few weeks later than me.
Weeks?
Galactic time. He was a Radiohead, although I thought there was a touch of Young Royalty about him.
How so?
He was quite... aristocratic, you know, sort of poised, uptight... mean and a little gossipy.
How did he end up a Radiohead?
He's a musician, sorry, composer; very alert to musical tone and context and so on. The radio could be on, if I was say working on some stuff, writing; he would bowl in an criticise the descending chromatic bass line. “What's wrong with ascending counterpoint, are we so bereft?”
Was he a music student?
Yes, he was. Music major.
What was his minor?
You know, I don't know. He didn't talk much about his classes, except to slag off people, students, even the teachers. I'd ask him about stuff sometimes, but he'd usually change the subject.
Was he a good composer?
Oh, you bet. Musical scores were his thing.
Did Johnny have any other interests...?
He was into occultism, really into it. He described it as an intellectual curiosity, but, when I think about it, there was nothing else he was really interested in. You'd bring up something vaguely connected and, boom, off he's go; symbolism, numerology, lost speech. You know, we didn't really talk, not properly. I saw, I peered into his bedroom once. He was out, which didn't happen often. His room was just across the hall from the bathroom. I just happened to see the door open. He had a huge poster, a pentagram stuck above his bed.
Also, yes, he had this machine, a little box full of lights. He called it his Dream Machine, said it elevated him to an alternative mental state. He showed me how it works once. It's like a little penny arcade, flashing different shapes and colours at you really quickly. It didn't really do anything for me, I must say.
How did you and Johnny meet?
It was through a First-Year project. Our tutor, drama tutor, set a final semester task of producing a devised piece. It ended up being a bawdy little comedy. I quite liked it. The group decided to commission a score, make it a museum. That's where Johnny came in.
How did you end up sharing a flat?
It was a last minute thing, really. Halls are for first years, so we had to move out. There were five of us from the drama course supposed to move into this flat. We had it all sorted, contract signed, all before the end of the semester. There was a couple and, of course, they had an argument. It was the end of year ball. One of them, the girl, I think, got off with one of the guys, someone else fancied them. It was a total mess, and we lost our deposit.
So it was a last minute thing. I hardly knew Johnny, but we ended in this flat, it was a house really. A lovely place, right in the middle of Camden. We were quite lucky. A relation of Johnny's owned the place. We got it cheap too.
Did you meet this relative?
No. It was all done, all the paperwork, bits and bobs, through Johnny.
How did the pair of of get on in this flat?
We tolerated each other. He was clean, quiet and intelligent enough company when he was around.
Would you have described him as a friend?
In a hale-fellow-well-met kind of way. I didn't hate him.
So, did you notice anything usual about Johnny, did anything about his manner change in the time before his death?
No... although he seemed very excited, excited/disturbed by this fire in the Underworld.
…
“This isn't getting very far, is it?” asked Old Bob.
“You need to interview more people” said Thom, “build up a picture” Bob and Thom were back in the office. Bob was drafting notes while Thom sorted out some paperwork. “You know, I have a theory, it might just...”
“Hold that thought” said Bob, “the phone's ringing”. It was the Commissioner. “Hello there, back so soon?”
“I've heard news of a mass shooting. What's going on Bob?”
“It's all in hand...”
“I beg your pardon, officer!” The Commissioner flared. “There have been two large scale murders in less than a day. I repeat; what's going on?”
“We believe they are connected” chimed Thom.
“Who is this?”
“This is Thom” said Bob, “my new Deputy”.
“Four years on the force back home, ma'am”.
“Which force?” asked the Commissioner.
“Earth, ma'am”.
“Earth? Isn't there an embargo on that whole system?”
“I'm here on a scholarship” said Thom.
“He was highly recommended” Bob added, catching up with the ruse.
“Well, they start them young there” sighed the Commissioner. “Down to business. What have you got?”
“Music” said Thom. “The targets were music venues, a theatre and a nightclub. Also, one of the victims of the shooting was in fact the perpetrator. His name was Johnny Palin, a music student. I used to share a flat with him. We will be interviewing his friends and associates shortly, we're also trying to get a trace out on the gun he used. There are no weapons shops on Camden, it must have either been imported or sold on the black market”.
The Commissioner was surprised;
“There's a black market on Camden?”
“In a manner of speaking yes. Chalton Street and the Thames Lock. It's very well known. You can get all sorts of bargains there”.
“Anyway, press on” said the Commissioner, containing her bemusement, “what about forensics?”
“We have assembled teams at both scenes” said Bob.
There was a short pause before Thom added. “Professor Aaron Fillmore from the Domestic Chemistry Faculty is helping, along with some graduate students. I've been meaning to ask; they're currently giving us all their spare time. They want to catch these crooks as much we do. Would it be possible to put them on a little stipend, at least cover their costs?”
“Oh no, by all means” said the Professor. “Send me over a request form. I'll even draft them on the force, grant them the powers they need... Anything else?”
“Nothing else” said Thom.
“We'll be in touch with any updates” said Bob.
“Good work Thom, excellent find Bob” said the Commissioner, before hanging up.
“I didn't know you were a officer back home?”
“I told you” said Thom, “I can act”.
…
The testimony below was collected from an interview with one of the survivors of the Theatre Massacre (there were three in total). They have asked not to be identified.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. The only reason I know was I looked at the clock at the back of the hall at the beginning and end. It's stuck in my mind: 11.33 at the start, 11.36 at the end.
The lecture was started. I was wide awake, but a few people seemed to be yawning and sagging. A few people I know skipped class, which was a good call in the end. The door at the back closed, a few of us turned to look (that's when I got that glimpse of the clock). It was Johnny. The lecturer, Mr Meadway stopped, I think. It was a bit of a surprise to see him late, but still; Johnny said something like:
“Don't mind me”.
And the lecturer got back on with the class. Thinking about it now I can remember hearing this clicking and clacking behind my head, which was Johnny getting set up. I didn't give it a second thought though, why would you?
A few seconds later I saw Mr Meadway look up from his text. He said:
“Johnny?”
There was these two zaps, first his chest, then his head blew open. It seemed to be happening in, like, slow motion. I couldn't help but feel my senses tingle before the shock kicked in, it was astonishing. I'll never forget it.
Again, it was in this slow arc I turned... You could see Johnny with this gun, this huge gun in his hands and an incredible, inflamed look on his face. Then he just started letting off rounds, everywhere. I crouched down as low as I could. I don't know how any of it missed me. There were bits of wood and metal and glass flying everywhere.
There was a pause. I could see Johnny through a gap in one of the seats. There was about twenty or so people in the room, in different rows. Johnny started looking along each for survivors, I presume. He found one woman, bang, dead. This happened and a couple of people bolted, they must have been trying to get to the door, but they didn't stand a chance. One guy used the distraction, tried to wrest the gun off Johnny, he almost managed it too. Guthrie Douglas-Addington, yes that was his name. I knew him a bit, see. Guthrie got shot in the chest. I think he's still in hospital.
I was down the front of the room. There was a fire exit. I tried creeping toward it while this was going on. I got to the point where I had to make a run for it, last five or so metres. I almost got to the door. I felt this pop, this bursting sensation in my right knee and just collapsed, like my legs had disappeared.
I was on my front. I couldn't get up but I could see out the corner of my eye Johnny approaching. I don't know how I felt. It was all so strange. My heart was going, blood pounding. My head, I couldn't think. I had no thoughts.
Then there was this click. I closed my eyes... But then I heard this voice. It was a man's voice, coming from the back of the room. He said:
“That'll do Johnny”.
Johnny said, “I understand”.
Another bang, but I was still alive. I eventually looked up, Johnny was dead.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The Big Society will mean people getting what they deserve...
Or so David Cameron will say today. This is apparently people getting what they deserve:
This isn't just unfortunate necessity (it's not necessary for one thing) this is what she deserves, you understand? Where is this lucious Central London pad you might ask, Chelsea, Fitzrovia, Park Lane? No, Queen's Park.
Tories are wicked, heinous fuckers. If people are supposed to get what they deserve then Cameron should find his head on a spike.
Some time next April, Paloma Johnston, a single mother with two children under four, will see her monthly benefit payments cut by about £180, making it impossible for her to continue paying the rent on her small, two-bedroom flat in central London...
Since last August she has been renting a compact two-bedroom flat in a Victorian terraced street in Queen's Park, west London, from a private landlord for £335 a week. Although she would prefer to be living in council housing or in a subsidised housing association property, social housing stock is in severe shortage and waiting lists stretch for years. She has no choice but to rent in the private sector.
The housing benefit she gets almost covers her rent, but under the reformed system, which will begin to be enforced next April, payments in her area will be capped at £290 a week, leaving her with a monthly shortfall of £180. "I won't be able to afford the rent so I think my landlord will ask me to leave – but I have nowhere else to go," she says.
This isn't just unfortunate necessity (it's not necessary for one thing) this is what she deserves, you understand? Where is this lucious Central London pad you might ask, Chelsea, Fitzrovia, Park Lane? No, Queen's Park.
Tories are wicked, heinous fuckers. If people are supposed to get what they deserve then Cameron should find his head on a spike.
Camden
A pleasant interlude
After dropping Daniel off Lucy went down to the Library. Ok, it was where she worked, but she wasn't due on shift for several hours. She wanted to see her Mum, though... and she had a book to return.
The library wasn't far away. If you were in Equatorial Camden it was never far away, being the size that it was. Lucy popped in through the President's Cross entrance, a little side door, and made for the Non-fiction wing, Galactic History section, almost a mile away (1).
“Hey Rory”. Lucy peeled up to the main desk in Galactic History. “I've got my book”, placing it down.
“Ah, Lucy, I've got just the thing for you” said Rory, smiling. Rory was a friend of Lucy and Juan, an MA student (Literary Theory and History).
“Really?”
“Ancient history” said Rory. He pointed to a trolley behind his desk, stuffed full of books. “I've got a selection of short works from pre-contact societies, just in, freshly translated”.
“Hmm” said Lucy, nodding. “What kind of stuff?”
Rory went to pick up a few books. “I've got some stuff from Earth, pre-contact, some of them pre-space flight” he said from over his shoulder. “I spoke to a couple of the translators. They say Earth had a really bitter history...”
“Are you working here now?” asked Lucy.
“Part-time, two days, paid and everything”. Rory returned to the desk with some books. “None too soon, they cut my grant this year”.
“Oh no” Lucy shrugged.
“It's all right. Look, which do any of them leap out at you. Which one takes your fancy?”
“What's this one?”
“It's an old manifesto, very influential in its time. I've had a flick through it. It's quite short, quite poetic too”.
“Poetic?”
“Yeah, river-deep mountain-high kind of stuff. The history of all hitherto existing societies, and so on... I don't know what its about but its an urgent read”.
“I'll take it” said Lucy. “Thank you”.
Lucy and her Mum, and their boss
Lucy's Mum was finishing up in the Art History and Photography archive. She'd been on since six in the morning and now the job was almost done. Lucy found her triumphantly propped up over a hoover chatting to another member of staff.
“So I says to her... Hey Lucy, my girl... Sorry, I'll be with you in a second”. Cynthia turned turned to her daughter. Her workmate stayed, hovering. “So, how was he, is Daniel OK? How did he do?”
“Fine”said Lucy, “he was happy and excited. He had all his stuff with him. He looked so cute”.
“No tears?”
“None at all” said Lucy.
“Shows how much he misses us, doesn't it?” said Cynthia. “I remember your first day at school. You didn't want me to go. You cried your eyes out. Two days later you were all fine”.
“Excuse me” butted in a voice. “You don't look too busy. Why aren't you in uniform, Lucy? What's this language you're speaking? I don't want to hear it, Common Tongue only” (2). It was Mr McLaren, the Chief Section Manager: a short, tanned, well-groomed and oddly young looking man. What was he doing here? McLaren scowled at Lucy. “Hmm?”
“I'm not on shift” said Lucy. “I'm on nights at the moment”.
“Then why are you here?” asked Mr McLaren.
“My brother, Daniel, it's his first day at school...”
“Is this his school?” asked McLaren, butting in.
“No, but...”
“She's come to drop me the keys, Mr McLaren, keys to the house” said Cynthia. “Give 'em here”.
Lucy passed over a set of keys.
“What's that? A book? What's it doing in your hands?”
“I'm a member of the library” said Lucy, who clutched her new book to her chest.
“Only students, alumni and special guests can join the library” said McLaren. “Give it here”. He held out his hand.
“I am a student, South Camden Technical College” said Lucy. She put the book safely in her bag before fetching her student card as proof.
McLaren snatched it from her hands, squinted at it for a second “Huh, that dump... Well, enjoy it while it lasts. Your student days are the best days of your lives. Tonight, however, will be the worst night of your life. If you're one second late I'll dock your pay”. Mr McLaren handed back Lucy's card before turning on his heel.
Lucy whispered to her Mum “short-man syndrome, and he's a classics graduate... Keys?”
Cynthia handed Lucy back her keys.
“I heard that” yelled McLaren, still walking away. “You've still got half an hour. Don't let me keep you, ladies”.
An urgent read
Lucy took the train home. She needed some rest before her shift. The train was quiet, it was after rush-hour. Lucy took out her book for a flick through. It was about forty pages long, give or take quite a few introduction and addenda. It certainly looked like high, poetic stuff:
“A spectre is haunting the continent... Modern society society has sprouted from the ruins... The exploiters have pitilessly torn asunder the old ties that bound man to his 'natural superiors'...”
Lucy, tired, had not wanted to read, found the words compelling. She was normally a slow reader, who liked to savour the words in front of her. She kept reading the first chapter, picking up momentum:
“Uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions... All that is solid melts into air... The exploiter is like the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the power of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells... Epidemic of overproduction...”
Something was ringing a bell. Was that what caused her family to come to Camden? Stations came and went as she read. Something else hit home:
“The exploited are without property, relations with their loved ones no longer have anything in common with the exploiters' family relations... Law, family, religion are so many exploitative prejudices...”
Lucy remembered something. She thought of her Dad, something he said not long before he died (Lucy's Mum had just found she was pregnant with Daniel). It was late, Lucy was sitting up in bed. It was a school night. She was supposed to be asleep but felt restless. Lucy put her light on and took up a book to read.
She could hear her Mum and Dad talking through the walls. It wasn't normal. She could catch scraps of what they were saying. They sounded distressed, Dad especially. It seemed they were worried about the future. Lucy put her ear to the wall, listened more intently. She heard her Dad say:
“I've barely been home for the last three weeks; shift after shift. I have to be up before six again tomorrow. I have to get up, go to the port and do my job, hauling stuff up there whether I want to or not... You call that a free man?”
Lucy thought about it and felt a little guilty when it occurred:
“I'm only going to get three hours rest, and I'm going to have to do this again tomorrow”.
The beginning of the shift
Lucy put her book away. She'd already finished it, although it hadn't really time to sink in. The dozen or so cleaners began assembling round Mr McLaren, crammed together in his office, as they did every shift change. They were waiting for the night shift orders, where they'd go, what they'd do when they got there. McLaren had a different speech in mind. He grabbed a plastic chair from a stack and stood on it to make his announcement.
“Before I begin, I've had some complaints from customers. As you know, you are here to make the library experience as comfortable and pleasing for the customers who use this facility, who pay good money for this experience. Despite the fact there are many books in many, many languages, in this building workers must speak Common Language at all times: no exceptions”.
“But...”
Mr McLaren, ignoring Lucy's blurt, pressed on. “No buts. I have informed your line managers to monitor you very strictly on this. This is important. We must present a united front... Any questions...?”
Lucy half-raised her hand.
“Moving on” said Mr McLaren, brusquely. “As you know, you are agency workers, not employees of the Library. The Library is part of the University complex, which is currently undergoing funding restructuring. The Library is not exempt from this process and neither are you. The Library can no longer afford to employ you all on full-time work...”
Gasps from the cleaners.
“From next week on you will each be going to half-time or less...”
Lucy stood on tiptoe and yelled, “you can't do this”.
“It's either that or we have to let seven of you go...”
“We're struggling on our wages as it is” Lucy replied. This turned some heads:
“Yes, she's right”.
“I can't do this, eh? I'm the manager! I've been given strict orders to...”
“You can't do this, and we won't let you!”
Cries of “yes! She's right”.
“Is that so?” said Mr McLaren, turning cold. “Well, Lucy, what are you going to do?”
After an aching moment, Lucy said, “I'll show you. Come on”. Lucy gestured to the other cleaners. “Follow me. If you want to do something about it follow me”. She led the entire shift out of the room, leaving Mr McLaren alone and perplexed on his plastic seat.
After dropping Daniel off Lucy went down to the Library. Ok, it was where she worked, but she wasn't due on shift for several hours. She wanted to see her Mum, though... and she had a book to return.
The library wasn't far away. If you were in Equatorial Camden it was never far away, being the size that it was. Lucy popped in through the President's Cross entrance, a little side door, and made for the Non-fiction wing, Galactic History section, almost a mile away (1).
“Hey Rory”. Lucy peeled up to the main desk in Galactic History. “I've got my book”, placing it down.
“Ah, Lucy, I've got just the thing for you” said Rory, smiling. Rory was a friend of Lucy and Juan, an MA student (Literary Theory and History).
“Really?”
“Ancient history” said Rory. He pointed to a trolley behind his desk, stuffed full of books. “I've got a selection of short works from pre-contact societies, just in, freshly translated”.
“Hmm” said Lucy, nodding. “What kind of stuff?”
Rory went to pick up a few books. “I've got some stuff from Earth, pre-contact, some of them pre-space flight” he said from over his shoulder. “I spoke to a couple of the translators. They say Earth had a really bitter history...”
“Are you working here now?” asked Lucy.
“Part-time, two days, paid and everything”. Rory returned to the desk with some books. “None too soon, they cut my grant this year”.
“Oh no” Lucy shrugged.
“It's all right. Look, which do any of them leap out at you. Which one takes your fancy?”
“What's this one?”
“It's an old manifesto, very influential in its time. I've had a flick through it. It's quite short, quite poetic too”.
“Poetic?”
“Yeah, river-deep mountain-high kind of stuff. The history of all hitherto existing societies, and so on... I don't know what its about but its an urgent read”.
“I'll take it” said Lucy. “Thank you”.
Lucy and her Mum, and their boss
Lucy's Mum was finishing up in the Art History and Photography archive. She'd been on since six in the morning and now the job was almost done. Lucy found her triumphantly propped up over a hoover chatting to another member of staff.
“So I says to her... Hey Lucy, my girl... Sorry, I'll be with you in a second”. Cynthia turned turned to her daughter. Her workmate stayed, hovering. “So, how was he, is Daniel OK? How did he do?”
“Fine”said Lucy, “he was happy and excited. He had all his stuff with him. He looked so cute”.
“No tears?”
“None at all” said Lucy.
“Shows how much he misses us, doesn't it?” said Cynthia. “I remember your first day at school. You didn't want me to go. You cried your eyes out. Two days later you were all fine”.
“Excuse me” butted in a voice. “You don't look too busy. Why aren't you in uniform, Lucy? What's this language you're speaking? I don't want to hear it, Common Tongue only” (2). It was Mr McLaren, the Chief Section Manager: a short, tanned, well-groomed and oddly young looking man. What was he doing here? McLaren scowled at Lucy. “Hmm?”
“I'm not on shift” said Lucy. “I'm on nights at the moment”.
“Then why are you here?” asked Mr McLaren.
“My brother, Daniel, it's his first day at school...”
“Is this his school?” asked McLaren, butting in.
“No, but...”
“She's come to drop me the keys, Mr McLaren, keys to the house” said Cynthia. “Give 'em here”.
Lucy passed over a set of keys.
“What's that? A book? What's it doing in your hands?”
“I'm a member of the library” said Lucy, who clutched her new book to her chest.
“Only students, alumni and special guests can join the library” said McLaren. “Give it here”. He held out his hand.
“I am a student, South Camden Technical College” said Lucy. She put the book safely in her bag before fetching her student card as proof.
McLaren snatched it from her hands, squinted at it for a second “Huh, that dump... Well, enjoy it while it lasts. Your student days are the best days of your lives. Tonight, however, will be the worst night of your life. If you're one second late I'll dock your pay”. Mr McLaren handed back Lucy's card before turning on his heel.
Lucy whispered to her Mum “short-man syndrome, and he's a classics graduate... Keys?”
Cynthia handed Lucy back her keys.
“I heard that” yelled McLaren, still walking away. “You've still got half an hour. Don't let me keep you, ladies”.
An urgent read
Lucy took the train home. She needed some rest before her shift. The train was quiet, it was after rush-hour. Lucy took out her book for a flick through. It was about forty pages long, give or take quite a few introduction and addenda. It certainly looked like high, poetic stuff:
“A spectre is haunting the continent... Modern society society has sprouted from the ruins... The exploiters have pitilessly torn asunder the old ties that bound man to his 'natural superiors'...”
Lucy, tired, had not wanted to read, found the words compelling. She was normally a slow reader, who liked to savour the words in front of her. She kept reading the first chapter, picking up momentum:
“Uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions... All that is solid melts into air... The exploiter is like the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the power of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells... Epidemic of overproduction...”
Something was ringing a bell. Was that what caused her family to come to Camden? Stations came and went as she read. Something else hit home:
“The exploited are without property, relations with their loved ones no longer have anything in common with the exploiters' family relations... Law, family, religion are so many exploitative prejudices...”
Lucy remembered something. She thought of her Dad, something he said not long before he died (Lucy's Mum had just found she was pregnant with Daniel). It was late, Lucy was sitting up in bed. It was a school night. She was supposed to be asleep but felt restless. Lucy put her light on and took up a book to read.
She could hear her Mum and Dad talking through the walls. It wasn't normal. She could catch scraps of what they were saying. They sounded distressed, Dad especially. It seemed they were worried about the future. Lucy put her ear to the wall, listened more intently. She heard her Dad say:
“I've barely been home for the last three weeks; shift after shift. I have to be up before six again tomorrow. I have to get up, go to the port and do my job, hauling stuff up there whether I want to or not... You call that a free man?”
Lucy thought about it and felt a little guilty when it occurred:
“I'm only going to get three hours rest, and I'm going to have to do this again tomorrow”.
The beginning of the shift
Lucy put her book away. She'd already finished it, although it hadn't really time to sink in. The dozen or so cleaners began assembling round Mr McLaren, crammed together in his office, as they did every shift change. They were waiting for the night shift orders, where they'd go, what they'd do when they got there. McLaren had a different speech in mind. He grabbed a plastic chair from a stack and stood on it to make his announcement.
“Before I begin, I've had some complaints from customers. As you know, you are here to make the library experience as comfortable and pleasing for the customers who use this facility, who pay good money for this experience. Despite the fact there are many books in many, many languages, in this building workers must speak Common Language at all times: no exceptions”.
“But...”
Mr McLaren, ignoring Lucy's blurt, pressed on. “No buts. I have informed your line managers to monitor you very strictly on this. This is important. We must present a united front... Any questions...?”
Lucy half-raised her hand.
“Moving on” said Mr McLaren, brusquely. “As you know, you are agency workers, not employees of the Library. The Library is part of the University complex, which is currently undergoing funding restructuring. The Library is not exempt from this process and neither are you. The Library can no longer afford to employ you all on full-time work...”
Gasps from the cleaners.
“From next week on you will each be going to half-time or less...”
Lucy stood on tiptoe and yelled, “you can't do this”.
“It's either that or we have to let seven of you go...”
“We're struggling on our wages as it is” Lucy replied. This turned some heads:
“Yes, she's right”.
“I can't do this, eh? I'm the manager! I've been given strict orders to...”
“You can't do this, and we won't let you!”
Cries of “yes! She's right”.
“Is that so?” said Mr McLaren, turning cold. “Well, Lucy, what are you going to do?”
After an aching moment, Lucy said, “I'll show you. Come on”. Lucy gestured to the other cleaners. “Follow me. If you want to do something about it follow me”. She led the entire shift out of the room, leaving Mr McLaren alone and perplexed on his plastic seat.
(1) Directions to Galactic History section from the President's Cross entrance – Head straight through the Reference section, past Statistics, Galactic and Local by-law, Post office and the Newspaper archive until you reach the Central Reception hall (you'll know you're there by the large clock on the south wall, opposite the main desk underneath the skylights). Head up the left-hand spiral-staircase to the Non-fiction wing. Take the third sliding door on the right on the mezzanine level.
(2) Common Tongue/Common Language is the official lingua franca of the known galaxy, although it is only really common in the Western Systems, and even then only really for official purposes. It is a synthetic language, designed to put each culture at an equal disadvantage. It was developed through a galactic century of research, debate and, eventually compromise. All workplaces are officially required to use it, there is no statutory responsibility,however, on employers to tutor employees in Common Tongue. It is a relatively simple construction. Most galactic citizens are able to manage conversation after 30 hours of tuition.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Feory
We are Jacobins. We are the most resolute section of the current progressive class. The Jacobin principle is organisation, not advocacy. A revolutionary party does not simply propagandise revolution, it does its utmost to bring one about. Revolutionaries do make revolutions (although not in the sense that Che Guevara is said to have meant).
The recent Right to Work march was an example of the Jacobin principle (as well as the danger we have consistently faced for the last decade). The TUC should have called that march. It didn't, and expert lobbying of the TUC would not have shifted it. Someone else had to do the work. The danger is, of course, that revolutionaries get sucked into doing the work of broad organisations.
The next step is strike action. At this present time there is absolutely no problem in winning strike ballots, although they always have to be won. The difficulty is getting from the ballot to the picket and making the strike stick. The job, then is to gather together as many union members to push for strike action regardless of any legal niceties - the world won't wait. We have to put this network together.
This done will also bridge the gap between where we are and where we need to be. A general strike is the goal on the horizon. Quite often one meets two types of people, inside and outside workplaces, who call for a general strike - the ultra left and the disenchanted. With either its an excuse, whether they mean it or not; its a general strike or nothing. If people are striking generally (to coin a neat phrase) then the general strike will become real.
The recent Right to Work march was an example of the Jacobin principle (as well as the danger we have consistently faced for the last decade). The TUC should have called that march. It didn't, and expert lobbying of the TUC would not have shifted it. Someone else had to do the work. The danger is, of course, that revolutionaries get sucked into doing the work of broad organisations.
The next step is strike action. At this present time there is absolutely no problem in winning strike ballots, although they always have to be won. The difficulty is getting from the ballot to the picket and making the strike stick. The job, then is to gather together as many union members to push for strike action regardless of any legal niceties - the world won't wait. We have to put this network together.
This done will also bridge the gap between where we are and where we need to be. A general strike is the goal on the horizon. Quite often one meets two types of people, inside and outside workplaces, who call for a general strike - the ultra left and the disenchanted. With either its an excuse, whether they mean it or not; its a general strike or nothing. If people are striking generally (to coin a neat phrase) then the general strike will become real.
Friday, October 01, 2010
Planet Camden - delayed but not denied
Thom left the house about quarter to ten in the morning; actually it was twenty five to ten, earlier than Thom thought. A few cups of tea had done the trick, sort of. It had been a heavy night, fun heavy, out with the guys from the company. It almost got a little wild. Somewhere about the spirit bar, yes the spirit bar, things got a little hazy. Were those people trying to make him sick?
Anyway, Thom had a lingering, meaty hangover, but a few cups of tea had done the trick, sort of, and now he was hungry. Johnny had stayed home, working on his music, and so didn't share his pain. He also wasn't hungry and so Thom was heading out alone to get some breakfast.
Still a bit greasy, Thom hadn't fully washed since he got up. He eventually decided to skip the shower and incorporate the slight ripeness into his act: Thom was a method actor. It was a bit odd going for breakfast on your own. It would be less odd if he went in character, as someone else. Working-retro was in. The synthetic-futurist wave was beginning to crash, the really cutting edge people were developing deep retro, delving into unappreciated eras and locations. Kids were appearing round town in old-fashioned work clothes, boots, dungarees, cardigans, canvas, suede, many and various leathers.
So, after careful consideration Thom stepped out as Eduardo, a loader from the heyday of the old the galactic port.
It was still a beautiful morning, the sun was now high, casting ripples through the trees lining Albert Street (1). Thom lived near the equator. It was a sunny, deceptively suburban road, but still slap bang in the middle of Camden high-life. Thom thought he had landed on his feet, getting a place on the equator. He wanted to live there for another cycle at least.
It was warm for the time of the year, Thom wondered if he should leave his cut-off jacket behind. It was too much effort at this point, and he was only going round the corner to Mr Trepper's Red Orchestra Café.
The café was on the corner of Mornington Crescent, in sight of the station. It was owned and run by Mr Trepper. He was a former cellist in the Mariner Valley Philharmonic, hence the Cafe's name. But his establishment was popular amongst students (who called him Mr T) for other reasons; partly the cheap all-day breakfasts, all the salts, lipids and proteins you could asked for, piled high, but also for his stories of the Martian resistance and the Free State (2). Mr Trepper knew Thom but forgave him his Earthly origins. He liked artists and actors.
Thom pushed the door, sniff-sniff, something interesting was cooking. The cafe looked quiet, a few people sitting at odd tables.
“Thom... Thom...? Thom, just the person I wanted to see”.
Thom was about to ask “who me?” when a voice boomed from the kitchen:
“Is that Thom?”
It was a Martian voice, a spotted, bald head loomed into view. It was Mr Trepper. “You don't look like Thom, you look like a piece of crap. Good night was it?”
“I'm in character” said Thom, elbows flat, leaning over the counter. “I'm Eduardo, a dock worker”.
“Ha! You smell one, fool” said Mr T. “I want you to try something, one second”. Trepper disappeared back into the kitchen. “I'm getting into baking” he said, before appearing again with what looked like some pastries on a plate. “Here, have a bite”. He put the plate on the counter.
Thom reached out but recoiled.
“They're a bit hot. Have a... thing, here”.
Thom used a napkin to pick up the pastry. He took a bite.
“Its pork... chilli... and strawberry”.
“It's interesting” said Thom, putting the pastry back down.
“It's all experimental at the moment” said Trepper, by way of an alibi.
“No, I like it” Thom insisted. “It's just a bit unusual”.
“It's experimental”. Trepper picked up the plate and took it back into the kitchen, muttering “sweet and sour, sweet and sour, sweet and sour and sharp”.
“Can I...?”
“I know, Thom; all day breakfast” said Trepper from over his shoulder. “Take a seat... All day breakfast! Leo, be a mensch and get cooking!”
Thom sat at a nearby table. There was a nearby tabloid, a morning free sheet, which Thom grabbed and began flicking through. In through the door, that moment, came Old Bob, looking preoccupied.
“Bob, Bob...”
“Oh, hi Thom”. Bob tipped his hat in acknowledgement, he stopped. “How's the old acting going? I heard you've got a new production in the pipeline”.
“Yeah” said Thom, “it's another devised piece. At the moment it's shaping up to be a pastoral thing; a lumberjack, a park ranger, there's a haunting as well... and, you'll be pleased to know, Johnny's not doing the score”
“I see, are you the lumberjack, then?”
Thom thought for a second. He could be.
“Sounds, it sounds... Will you excuse me a second?” Bob brushed past. “Back in a moment”.
Thom got on with the paper again. The fire was the big story. Awful looking pictures, blacked out, charred. The fire must have been ferocious. Police refused to comment at this stage on the origin of the fire, but university experts suggest... Where was Bob? Thom turned to look. Bob was ordering something at the counter. Moments later he came over with two cups of tea.
“You know, Thom, you are just the person I want to speak to”.
Thom looked up from his paper. “You know I get a lot of that these days... No comment, what's going on, Bob?”
“Well, if I knew...” Bob shrugged. “Listen, you were at the Underworld last night, weren't you?” Bob handed Thom one of the cups.
“Thanks” said Thom. “I was in the bar, not the club. But how did you know that?”
“Your mate, Bea, from the acting club”.
“She's a sculptor” said Thom.
“Anyway” said Bob, “some of your guys were at Jenny's rave on the heath. She had an after-party at our house. I wish she'd told me. The house is an absolute tip. I wanted to get some sleep”. Bob sighed and took a sip of tea.
“Well, you've got to get busy”.
“I know”said Bob. “But, where to start?”
“Well” said Thom, a little surprised. “Have you got any suspects?”
“I don't know” said Bob. “Who would want to bomb a nightclub?”
“Money” suggested Thom, “revenge? It might even be politics”.
“Politics? What's fire bombing got to do with politics?”
“Terrorism, that's what they call it on Earth”.
“Of course” said Bob, “you're from Earth! How'd you get here? Isn't your whole system cut off at the moment?”
“There's supposed to be an arms embargo” said Thom. “I don't know why. Earth is an arms exporter”.
“That'd be what they're trying to stop”said Bob. “We don't want your weapons getting out here... Which begs the question...”
“What did the arsonists use to start the fire?” said Thom. “Have you got a forensics team?”
“Professor Fillmore's helping on that front” said Bob. “Forensics...”
“What about the rest of your squad, what're they doing?”
“Squad? It's just me...”
Thom ploughed on. “You need a list of suspects, each with motive and opportunity...”
“Right...?”
“And witness, my friends. Get them in to speak on the record...”
“On the record” said Bob. “What if they can't or don't want to?”
“Use your authority” said Thom.
“Authority? You can't just detain people against their will, even if it's just to question them”.
“Why not? You're a police officer”.
“It's not right” Bob insisted. “Governance can only work through the consent of the governed”.
“Whatever” said Thom. “Speak to the witnesses. Their evidence will help build up a picture”. Thom and Bob's food arrived. Bob ordered what looked too Thom like an Ursa wrap. “Thank you” said Thom to the waiter. “Are you having that with tea?”
“It's mint and ginger...” said Bob, “refreshing. Listen, Thom, would you like a job?”
…
Thom was gone. Johnny was glad. He had things to do. He didn't want that idiot hanging round. He had things to do.
Johnny was sick of it all, the falseness, the decadence, keeping quiet. He had a strange feeling, it had been growing for while. He felt like a robot. He was living at the back of his head, looking through his eyes. His body no longer belonged to him. He didn't know why. There were his hands, he knew his hands, but they felt like a robot's hands. That's it! Johnny was a robot, an automaton, his will was not his own.
He had to do something. It came to him, sitting at home, in his room, staring at a computer screen dotted with quavers and minims. He had to confront the problem. By some strange design his next class was due that day: eleven o'clock, music theory followed by a tutor session.
Johnny had felt strange ever since that time, not long ago, he started surfing nativist websites (part of a project into fringe cultures). Being a Radiohead, Johnny was disturbed by the politics but enthralled by the strange passion, the sound and imagery the nativists used to get their message across (3). He could see and believe in the benefits of an inclusive society, but he couldn't deny the bland, soapy conformity, the listlessness and atrophy all around him. The indulgent rich, the apathetic and ugly poor, he hated them all.
Johnny read more and more about this world, with mounting fascination. He mentioned it once or twice to friends and classmates, purely as an aesthetic aside; they took it as such and paid him little mind. The fire at the underworld was important, it was a sign, an important sign.
Johnny had an emergency kit, a little black box he put under his bed. He couldn't remember how he got it. The last few weeks, or was it months, he kept bumping into people claiming to be nativists, at college, on the street, in restaurants and bars. They were strange men (and one woman), unremarkable yet uncanny. Johnny had become quite withdrawn and yet where he went they seemed to seek him out. They all wanted to know him, to spread the message, pass things on to him.
Is that where he got this thing from? That guy, last night in the library gave him something, said there would be a sign. On his way out Johnny tucked the box under his arm.
Johnny took the bus to class, only a ten minute ride. It was placid enough, apart from the strange smell of fried food and sweat (and was that piss?), the school kids shouting at the back (shouldn't they be in school?), the smart looking yuppie barking into his phone (if he's that well off why doesn't he take a taxi?), the sudden lurch every time the bus stopped (stupid driver). Johnny knew what he had to do.
Off at the campus on Gower Street, busy across the main courtyard. It was quite cold and yet there were students sitting out on the lawn. Up the steps, through the doors, right, down the steps, through another pair of doors to the theatre main stage. The class was about to start. Most people were there, some were late, but it was now or never. Standing at the back of the room, nobody noticed Johnny, quietly and quickly assemble his photonic assault rife; nobody noticed until it was too late.
Anyway, Thom had a lingering, meaty hangover, but a few cups of tea had done the trick, sort of, and now he was hungry. Johnny had stayed home, working on his music, and so didn't share his pain. He also wasn't hungry and so Thom was heading out alone to get some breakfast.
Still a bit greasy, Thom hadn't fully washed since he got up. He eventually decided to skip the shower and incorporate the slight ripeness into his act: Thom was a method actor. It was a bit odd going for breakfast on your own. It would be less odd if he went in character, as someone else. Working-retro was in. The synthetic-futurist wave was beginning to crash, the really cutting edge people were developing deep retro, delving into unappreciated eras and locations. Kids were appearing round town in old-fashioned work clothes, boots, dungarees, cardigans, canvas, suede, many and various leathers.
So, after careful consideration Thom stepped out as Eduardo, a loader from the heyday of the old the galactic port.
It was still a beautiful morning, the sun was now high, casting ripples through the trees lining Albert Street (1). Thom lived near the equator. It was a sunny, deceptively suburban road, but still slap bang in the middle of Camden high-life. Thom thought he had landed on his feet, getting a place on the equator. He wanted to live there for another cycle at least.
It was warm for the time of the year, Thom wondered if he should leave his cut-off jacket behind. It was too much effort at this point, and he was only going round the corner to Mr Trepper's Red Orchestra Café.
The café was on the corner of Mornington Crescent, in sight of the station. It was owned and run by Mr Trepper. He was a former cellist in the Mariner Valley Philharmonic, hence the Cafe's name. But his establishment was popular amongst students (who called him Mr T) for other reasons; partly the cheap all-day breakfasts, all the salts, lipids and proteins you could asked for, piled high, but also for his stories of the Martian resistance and the Free State (2). Mr Trepper knew Thom but forgave him his Earthly origins. He liked artists and actors.
Thom pushed the door, sniff-sniff, something interesting was cooking. The cafe looked quiet, a few people sitting at odd tables.
“Thom... Thom...? Thom, just the person I wanted to see”.
Thom was about to ask “who me?” when a voice boomed from the kitchen:
“Is that Thom?”
It was a Martian voice, a spotted, bald head loomed into view. It was Mr Trepper. “You don't look like Thom, you look like a piece of crap. Good night was it?”
“I'm in character” said Thom, elbows flat, leaning over the counter. “I'm Eduardo, a dock worker”.
“Ha! You smell one, fool” said Mr T. “I want you to try something, one second”. Trepper disappeared back into the kitchen. “I'm getting into baking” he said, before appearing again with what looked like some pastries on a plate. “Here, have a bite”. He put the plate on the counter.
Thom reached out but recoiled.
“They're a bit hot. Have a... thing, here”.
Thom used a napkin to pick up the pastry. He took a bite.
“Its pork... chilli... and strawberry”.
“It's interesting” said Thom, putting the pastry back down.
“It's all experimental at the moment” said Trepper, by way of an alibi.
“No, I like it” Thom insisted. “It's just a bit unusual”.
“It's experimental”. Trepper picked up the plate and took it back into the kitchen, muttering “sweet and sour, sweet and sour, sweet and sour and sharp”.
“Can I...?”
“I know, Thom; all day breakfast” said Trepper from over his shoulder. “Take a seat... All day breakfast! Leo, be a mensch and get cooking!”
Thom sat at a nearby table. There was a nearby tabloid, a morning free sheet, which Thom grabbed and began flicking through. In through the door, that moment, came Old Bob, looking preoccupied.
“Bob, Bob...”
“Oh, hi Thom”. Bob tipped his hat in acknowledgement, he stopped. “How's the old acting going? I heard you've got a new production in the pipeline”.
“Yeah” said Thom, “it's another devised piece. At the moment it's shaping up to be a pastoral thing; a lumberjack, a park ranger, there's a haunting as well... and, you'll be pleased to know, Johnny's not doing the score”
“I see, are you the lumberjack, then?”
Thom thought for a second. He could be.
“Sounds, it sounds... Will you excuse me a second?” Bob brushed past. “Back in a moment”.
Thom got on with the paper again. The fire was the big story. Awful looking pictures, blacked out, charred. The fire must have been ferocious. Police refused to comment at this stage on the origin of the fire, but university experts suggest... Where was Bob? Thom turned to look. Bob was ordering something at the counter. Moments later he came over with two cups of tea.
“You know, Thom, you are just the person I want to speak to”.
Thom looked up from his paper. “You know I get a lot of that these days... No comment, what's going on, Bob?”
“Well, if I knew...” Bob shrugged. “Listen, you were at the Underworld last night, weren't you?” Bob handed Thom one of the cups.
“Thanks” said Thom. “I was in the bar, not the club. But how did you know that?”
“Your mate, Bea, from the acting club”.
“She's a sculptor” said Thom.
“Anyway” said Bob, “some of your guys were at Jenny's rave on the heath. She had an after-party at our house. I wish she'd told me. The house is an absolute tip. I wanted to get some sleep”. Bob sighed and took a sip of tea.
“Well, you've got to get busy”.
“I know”said Bob. “But, where to start?”
“Well” said Thom, a little surprised. “Have you got any suspects?”
“I don't know” said Bob. “Who would want to bomb a nightclub?”
“Money” suggested Thom, “revenge? It might even be politics”.
“Politics? What's fire bombing got to do with politics?”
“Terrorism, that's what they call it on Earth”.
“Of course” said Bob, “you're from Earth! How'd you get here? Isn't your whole system cut off at the moment?”
“There's supposed to be an arms embargo” said Thom. “I don't know why. Earth is an arms exporter”.
“That'd be what they're trying to stop”said Bob. “We don't want your weapons getting out here... Which begs the question...”
“What did the arsonists use to start the fire?” said Thom. “Have you got a forensics team?”
“Professor Fillmore's helping on that front” said Bob. “Forensics...”
“What about the rest of your squad, what're they doing?”
“Squad? It's just me...”
Thom ploughed on. “You need a list of suspects, each with motive and opportunity...”
“Right...?”
“And witness, my friends. Get them in to speak on the record...”
“On the record” said Bob. “What if they can't or don't want to?”
“Use your authority” said Thom.
“Authority? You can't just detain people against their will, even if it's just to question them”.
“Why not? You're a police officer”.
“It's not right” Bob insisted. “Governance can only work through the consent of the governed”.
“Whatever” said Thom. “Speak to the witnesses. Their evidence will help build up a picture”. Thom and Bob's food arrived. Bob ordered what looked too Thom like an Ursa wrap. “Thank you” said Thom to the waiter. “Are you having that with tea?”
“It's mint and ginger...” said Bob, “refreshing. Listen, Thom, would you like a job?”
…
Thom was gone. Johnny was glad. He had things to do. He didn't want that idiot hanging round. He had things to do.
Johnny was sick of it all, the falseness, the decadence, keeping quiet. He had a strange feeling, it had been growing for while. He felt like a robot. He was living at the back of his head, looking through his eyes. His body no longer belonged to him. He didn't know why. There were his hands, he knew his hands, but they felt like a robot's hands. That's it! Johnny was a robot, an automaton, his will was not his own.
He had to do something. It came to him, sitting at home, in his room, staring at a computer screen dotted with quavers and minims. He had to confront the problem. By some strange design his next class was due that day: eleven o'clock, music theory followed by a tutor session.
Johnny had felt strange ever since that time, not long ago, he started surfing nativist websites (part of a project into fringe cultures). Being a Radiohead, Johnny was disturbed by the politics but enthralled by the strange passion, the sound and imagery the nativists used to get their message across (3). He could see and believe in the benefits of an inclusive society, but he couldn't deny the bland, soapy conformity, the listlessness and atrophy all around him. The indulgent rich, the apathetic and ugly poor, he hated them all.
Johnny read more and more about this world, with mounting fascination. He mentioned it once or twice to friends and classmates, purely as an aesthetic aside; they took it as such and paid him little mind. The fire at the underworld was important, it was a sign, an important sign.
Johnny had an emergency kit, a little black box he put under his bed. He couldn't remember how he got it. The last few weeks, or was it months, he kept bumping into people claiming to be nativists, at college, on the street, in restaurants and bars. They were strange men (and one woman), unremarkable yet uncanny. Johnny had become quite withdrawn and yet where he went they seemed to seek him out. They all wanted to know him, to spread the message, pass things on to him.
Is that where he got this thing from? That guy, last night in the library gave him something, said there would be a sign. On his way out Johnny tucked the box under his arm.
Johnny took the bus to class, only a ten minute ride. It was placid enough, apart from the strange smell of fried food and sweat (and was that piss?), the school kids shouting at the back (shouldn't they be in school?), the smart looking yuppie barking into his phone (if he's that well off why doesn't he take a taxi?), the sudden lurch every time the bus stopped (stupid driver). Johnny knew what he had to do.
Off at the campus on Gower Street, busy across the main courtyard. It was quite cold and yet there were students sitting out on the lawn. Up the steps, through the doors, right, down the steps, through another pair of doors to the theatre main stage. The class was about to start. Most people were there, some were late, but it was now or never. Standing at the back of the room, nobody noticed Johnny, quietly and quickly assemble his photonic assault rife; nobody noticed until it was too late.
(1)Thom and Jonny were sophmore students at the university. Though they lived in the same halls they only met after Thom blundered into an argument of Johnny's. Thom was leading a devised piece that was developing into a musical. The company decided to hook up with a composer-librettist team put together by the lecturer, Johnny and a guy named Ian. Things were going well, rehearsals were progressing, the story was developing into a comedy of manners concerning a family of hill-billies who get rich after they strike dark matter under their asteroid dirt-farm. Everything seemed fine until an argument spilled over, Johnny put his foot down over Ian's lyrics, regarding a scene where a lead character farts in a lift. The argument raged on for several weeks, putting the production in severe jeopardy. As one of the leaders of the piece Thom acted as a mediator, resolving the issue, eventually, to everyone's satisfaction. The production was changed to a story about the erotic adventures of a traveller in an isolated Buddhist land: working title 9 ½ Weeks in Tibet.
(2)Several cycles ago Mars was invaded and occupied by Earth armies. Though the dispute was formally over access to interstellar space lanes, the first things secured by the Earthlings were the open cast mines, Mars being fantastically mineral rich. Martian society was initially overrun. Before the war Mars was a ramshackle federal republic, consisting mostly of mining outposts, farming communities on the Vastitas Borealis and huge stretches of motorway and irrigation channels (the few Martian cities are found by the Tharsis Bulge). In short time an armed resistance grew, first in the cities then out on the plains. Mr Trepper was a teen cello prodigy at the time. He joined the resistance, part of a column of saboteurs and bank robbers working out of Acreaus Mons.
The struggle has lasted almost ten (Earth, five Mars) bitter years, costing many lives. There is currently a galactic embargo on the whole system.
(3) Though many western galactic nativists are simply straight bigots, much of its imagery and several of its hard cadre are drawn from mystic cult networks. Popular nativist interests include numerology, transubstantiation, lost speech and, in particular astral projection and invasion; the belief that an enlightened mind can invade and subsume a lesser consciousness.
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