The only topic in town

The police have admitted there's just something about children that makes you want to hit them, then crush them, kettle them, then charge them with horses... then lie about it.

The bullshitter in chief had this to say:

"While protesters should be able to march peacefully to highlight their concerns, they should not be able to seriously disrupt the lives of Londoners and prevent them going about their daily business. People have a right to go to work, go shopping or sight see without fear of violence and disorder."

Work, shop and look at stuff, the three things you 'have a right' to do, according to Spokesman Plod.

Aside from the deliberate blindness over police violence, it is another example of the pernicious neo-liberal 'tolerance' pervading mainstream politics. Everyone has the right to protest, it's just no one has the right for their protest to have an effect. Apart from revenge, Wednesday's kettle in Central London was motivated by the state's desire to isolate the students from the rest of London (which is a shame for the police because news travels over police lines, but hey-ho). It is worth repeating, our students cannot use so-called democratic means, they have been shut out of mainstream politics by all three parties. They must resort to direct action, be that walkouts, sit-downs, marches or occupations.

This means someone's life must be disrupted. N'er mind, eh?

Police officer = liar

The London Metropolitan Police Force denied using horses to charge crowds on Wednesday's demo. They lied.



Also, more evidence regarding the bait van. This was the vandalised van 12 minutes before it was abandoned in the middle of the demo. Does this look like an "intimidating" situation to you?

Up and down the land

Over one hundred thousand students took part in yesterday's day of action against tuition fees. Overall it was a great success, with occupations, walkout and marches going on up and down the land. Here is a selection of voices/moments from the day:

Soas

The occupation in SOAS is one of many acts by all of those who are going to be negatively affected by the cuts we are to be shackled with. The actions the government wish to effect are a few weeks away, we will remain committed to expressing our views concerning the *right* to a non-elitist, non-corporate education system before and beyond (if necessary) the coming 'act'. We reiterate our absolute solidarity with those who have been subject to confinement-without-release within the arms of the law, for the best part of a freezing day. The expression of opposition to government should not be pre-figured as a criminal act. The police took up what is known as a 'Kettle' formation within an hour of the arrival of the protestors- thousands (yes, thousands) of whom are high school children. While the physical presence and movement of the protestors is part of the expression of their opinion, the physical presence of the police and their deeply intimidating formation marks their antipathy to such expression...

Central London

Met Commissioner said during the press conference that he had "no record" of police officers on horseback charging at protesters during yesterday's demonstrations.

But here's an account received by email from Dylan, who says that he was at Downing Street yesterday at around 6pm among the protesters:

Police in riot helmets were gradually pushing us back on foot, but when that proved ineffectual, they brought forward a line of horses. Assuming the horses were just there for show, we continued protesting. Then the horses charged. This sounds like a complete exaggeration but there's no other word for it. The horses charged forward at a canter, through the crowd. I pulled my friend out of the way just in time, but I saw a girl, around sixteen or seventeen, get trampled. I didn't see her get up. Another man was trampled and immediately helped up by other protesters.

Dylan adds:

Earlier I had also noticed an incident in which a police officer was clearly out of control. A girl at the front of the crowd, nearest the police, was yelling, "Peaceful protest, peaceful protest!". He screamed "FUCK OFF!" and punched her in the face. It's interesting how, despite the presence of reporters at the scene, none of this has been in the news...

Oxford

An 800 strong student march has ended in the occupation of one of Oxford's most famous buildings. The picture postcard view of the dreaming spires was shattered at about 1pm, when a 20ft Free education' and 'Fight the cuts' banners were hung from the top windows of the Radcliffe Camera, the round building made famous in countless TV shows and films.

Passing marchers vaulted the ornate fence and rush into the building, leaving a large police contingent and university staff to watch helplessly.

Around 300 protesters entered the historic monument to chants of 'education is a right, let's kick 'em out and fight, fight, fight'.

A sound system was also taken inside and after an initial victory dance the occupiers debated the terms of the occupation.

Immediate proposals were to demand the university declares its complete opposition to rises in education fees and any and all cuts to the public sector. Also agreed was solidarity with anyone arrested in the Millbank withhunt.

The protesters included school students, FE students, HE students, lecturers, trade unionists and also members of the public who had joined the noisy march earlier.

Several attempts at entry by the police have already been beaten, and despite the presence of riot vans and police horses outside free food is being distributed and a quiet area is available for those who were studying in the building when the occupation started...

Central London

Students from universities, FE colleges and schools are still either protesting or kettled by the police in Whitehall.

Helen, 14, came to the protest in Whitehall from a school in West London, in uniform with her friends. She told Socialist Worker, “About half of the school walked out today at lunchtime. The teachers didn't try to stop us, but we're worried that tomorrow we'll get done for skiving. We're here to save education. It's hardly like we're having a day off."

Her friend, who is 15 was arrested. Helen added, “They're arresting people for doing absolutely nothing. If we hurt the police we would go to prison, but I've seen them hitting and lashing out and it's us that get arrested. Its not fair."

Daniel came from and FE college in south London. He said, “When I got in to college today community support officers were outside. They tried to stop us assembling for the protest. But they failed and we came here to peacefully protest.

"But everywhere I look there are police. I don't understand why they're wearing helmets and hitting people when we’re here to stop the government not just from wrecking our lives, but for the lives of our younger brothers and sisters. In south London kids from our school get stopped and searched all the time. It’s like they've got it in for us.”

While some protesters are still kettled in Whitehall others are now blockading Westminster bridge.

Live!

Reports from the students' Day X. If you're working in London no excuses get to Whitehall ASAP. There are thousands upon thousands of students holding the line. Don't let the police beat your children off the streets.

Newsgripe

Because, between elections, you're not allowed to do anything or say anything to a politician. S'true, just ask Vince Cable:

Vince Cable has denied breaking promises on university fees, saying the Lib Dems are bound by the coalition deal - not pre-election pledges.

What really matters, in the 21st century is not strictly representative democracy (hey, have the Lib Dems been banging on about that years as well, or do I just have the memory of a goldfish?)... no, what matters is backroom deals and a nice few portfolios [Minister for Paperclips, Undersecretary for Tartan Paint]. Election promises aren't binding? I guess legally they're not, but if politicians don't have to honour what they say during the 6-4 week period every 4-5 years when they are obliged to seek popular approval why should the public respect the results of general elections, or any elections? What is left of any democratic notion in government? Are we an elective dictatorship or just a dictatorship? Will the Britain's students have anything to lose this Wednesday if they don't just kick a few windows in but burn the Lib Dem HQ to the ground?

Planet Camden - skipping a few scenes

Big Dave's lesson

Dave's apartment was dark, darker than most single flats. Though there was still a fair amount of light to be gathered outside inside was dark, the curtains (big, heavy curtains) were drawn. Through the hallway, past the kitchen into the front the way was lit periodically by small candles (coloured candles, red, orange, yellow, green...). Thom and Jenny had to step carefully as they were left on difficult parts of the floor, in between various piles of books. The ceiling was supported, it seemed, by bookshelves, barely an inch of wall space; every shelf was filled to busting with books, pamphlets, journals and tomes. The ambiance, the set up, it reminded Thom of the library.

“I guess we better sit” said Dave.

Thom: “We don't have to whisper now, surely?”

“Can't take that chance...” said Dave.

Though the room was fair-sized it seemed much smaller. The furniture was designed for Goth living, far too big for Jenny or Thom to comfortably sit.

“Here you go”. Dave offered them each a pile of sturdy hardbacks to sit on, atlases, photo albums and so on. “Sorry, I sold my regular furniture last year. My grant didn't come through and...”

“I think we'll stand” said Thom. Jenny agreed. Dave slouched in a rickety old swivel chair next to his computer terminal.

“Why's it so dark in here?”

“Because I've got all the lights off” said Dave, who rubbed his brow in frustration.

“By why?” Thom repeated.

Dave leant forward. “Because you need any cover you can get, darkness, stillness, ambient sound... Actually, that's a good idea”. Dave turned round, clicked on the mouse, the computer, on standby, flickered into life. He pulled up an album, it was an extended duet between a dulcimer and a harpsichord (3). Dave's sound system broke into life, it was surround sound. Both Jenny and Thom thought it was quite beautiful.

Thom had a little pocket recorder that he brought with him for interviews. “You don't mind if I?”

“I think it's fairly essential” said Dave, “go ahead”.

Thom attached a directional microphone, placed the device on one of Dave's piles and switched the machine on. “So... the music?”

“It keeps them distracted, the music. It scrambles their operation, even consonant sound troubles them. They crave uniform chaos. That's their ultimate goal”. Though Dave's voice had raised a little he was still speaking very softly. “Let me adjust the sound”. He turned the music down a little.

“Whose ultimate goal?”

“Mark and Joey” said Dave, as if it were obvious.

“So, who are they?” Thom pressed.

“Not who” said Dave, “but what”.

“I don't understand”.

“Mark and Joey are not people, at least not in the sense... You can't pursue them, not physically. Are you aware of the concept of Galactic Gnosticism?” Dave leant forward and rested his chin on his cupped hands.

“I am, a bit” said Thom.

“Well, that's a start but, for the record” said Dave, pointing at the recorder, “Galactic Gnosticism is based upon this notion of The Fall of primordial energy into matter. Everyone knows that matter and energy are the different aspects of being. The universe, the one universe we know of was born out of impurity. The moment it began to truly inflate it was not smooth, but uneven. From this one fact you get the entire natural history of the universe, our universe”. Dave sat back again. He remembered he was lecturer. “Are you with me so far?”

Jenny and Thom both nodded. By this point they were both sat on the floor.

“Gnosticism stands out against this fact. Followers of this religion, philosophy, whatever you want to call it, cannot abide the strange order we live in. Stars, planets, life, intelligent life and all its products are, to them, illogical and perverted, and so must fall. Followers of this Gnosticism are bound to raise themselves above the dualism of the corrupt universe. But there are two branches of the Gnostic order. One which...”

“Mark and Joey” said Jenny in an excited spasm of understanding.

“Exactly” smiled Dave. “Although these are ultimately just names. The first order wants to see the universe returned to the moment of singularity, pure energy. The second order will attempt to push entropy to its logical conclusion, pure, inert, undifferentiated matter”.

“What's this got to do with what's happening now?” asked Thom, who knew a fair amount of this and was keen for Dave to get to the point.

“The people you are dealing with, well, they're no longer people. They are clearly very advanced practitioners, although advanced is a very relative term, both states of being are actually atavistic. They are also connected with the Nativist movement. Nativism is, of course, a lumpen, disparate movement, obsessed with purity, albeit a specific kind of 'purity'... The key theme is despair”.

“Despair?”

“Despair” said Dave, “Gnosticism, ironically, gives substance to diffuse bigotry. Intelligent life gives meaning to being. As it develops and expands it creates an increasingly rational order within the greater spontaneous order. This is the living threat to entropy and/or the big crunch. Mark and Joey are invading the minds of people who have lost, for want of a better word, their faith in the rationality of the world around them. Their victims are alienated beings who have lost control. They despair”.

“What're you saying?” asked Thom, feeling a strangeness rising within. Thom stood.

“Look around you” said Dave. “I am, I was a a Phd student about to complete his Doctorate, six years in the making. Only now the course, the whole department is being shut down. Funding's being cut for everything except engineering and commercial science. Now, six months down the line”, Dave's voice rose, getting angrier. “See this?” He plucked a piece of paper off his computer table. “This is my application form for a bar job, a bar job!”

“All right, all right” said Jenny, rising too.

“What am I going to do?” asked Dave, back in his familiar whisper.

“How do we stop them?” asked Jenny.

“I don't know” said Dave, with a sigh.

Saturday facts

For one thing Saturday is named for the Roman god of harvests, Saturnus. Saturn is being explored in great detail by the Cassini probe. Left is the elaborate route the Cassini-Huygens probe took to get to the planet. It had to use gravitational slingshots in order to reach Saturn with enough fuel on board to navigate the system. It was launched in 1997 and is estimated to have another seven years of life left in it.

Cassini (and the Huygens lander) were of course follow ups to the great Voyager mission. Both the follow-ups to Jupiter and Saturn have been outstanding successes. Humanity has yet to return to Uranus or Neptune. We are not likely to in the near future. A mission to the last planet was sketched in 2005, but has since been withdrawn (such a mission apparently will have to set off in 2016). There are things to be explored out there. The most pressing interest would be to explore and explain Neptune's violent weather (fast winds and giant, turbulent storms). Another object of inquiry would be Triton, first to sample its nitrogen (and possibly ice) geysers, but second to explain why it is a large, regular moon in a retrograde orbit.



One final thing, regarding the distances we are dealing with; Neptune was discovered in 1846. It has an orbital period of 165 years. Next year will be the first (Neptunian) anniversary of its discovery.

Music 'n' Stuff

Blood Red Shoes: Light It Up.



The Naked and Famous: Punchin in a Dream.

David Cameron to British film industry: "loosen the bowels of your imagination".

Because unless you come up with something that has merchandise potential you're not getting the funding:

David Cameron has seen the future of British cinema and it is big and bespectacled, bankrolled by Hollywood and sold around the globe. If the UK film industry is to survive and prosper, the prime minister suggested today, it needs to make more films like Harry Potter.

Cameron made his comments at prime minister's question time in response to a question about investment in UK film from Richard Harrington, the Tory MP for Watford. Harrington's constituency is the home of Leavesden Studios, which has just been bought by Hollywood giant Warner Bros.

"I think one of the keys to Warner's success in your constituency is the Harry Potter film franchise which they have been making," said Cameron. "There is a great tip and key for film-makers here. That is, we have got to make films that people want to watch and films which will benefit beyond themselves as they will also encourage people to come and visit our country."

Yet another example of the destructive crudity of this government. David Cameron wants British films to mimic the success of the Harry Potter series. Given all the other attempts to mimic the success of Harry Potter (The Golden Compass, Eragon, Narnia etc) I wonder if he'd make just about the worst film producer ever. And what a way to estimate art; did it make loads of money and have lots of spin-off merchandise or not? I wonder how David Cameron thinks visual art was made for the previous 4 million years, or perhaps that's just some kind of extended historical anomaly to his mind?

Either way, if these priorities gain the upper hand, when you go to the cinema take a bucket and prepare for more crap.

This weeks news in else...

Parade to distract joyless citizenry.

Chancellor to provide urgent aid to impoverished bankers. The aid has been called into question though after suspicions rose that everyone is bankrupt. How can everyone be bankrupt? Well it's actually to do with a deadly amount of overcapacity that cannot be destroyed without taking several major countries down with it. But in the short term it's to do with government bonds. Here's a brief explanation.

As more and more of Britain's trade union leaders shame themselves and evade their responsibilities (Sally Hunt being the latest example, turning her back on the Millbank demonstrators) even the Portuguese have managed to put together a general strike.

You are here

We are on a runaway train

Is almost the right metaphor. Ireland, the model country, the example of how to slash and burn your way out of recession is now... still in recession, and struggling to pay its debt (bonds running at a punishing total of 8.1%). The Irish state is running to various international institutions (although denying it). But, advocates of neoliberal globalisation take note, under terms of a prior agreement, the British state could be liable to hand over £8 billion; another load strapped to the back of working people.

The British economy (and society) is plowing headlong to an Irish fate. But remember, we are not all in it together. The rich have prospered beyond their wildest dreams during this recession (this is their vanity rag admitting such). We do have to apply the brakes, but never forget the rich aren't on the train.

From last week but n'er mind

Until a few weeks ago as far as I was concerned Paul O'Grady was a man who entertained grannies. He still is, but he's also developed a going concern as daytime TV's answer to Jim Larkin (see above). Some points:

(1) Ok, so it's not a honed political statement (why would it be?), but why aren't student and trade union leaders saying things like this? It should not come down to a TV presenter to give representation to students. (2) For at least the next week we cannot push this issue hard enough; drop everything else you can afford to put down and push the issue of tuition fees and student rebellion. (3) Mr O'Grady doesn't have to say these things. He could choose to keep his head down and make a lot of TV execs very happy. He will certainly piss a lot of people in the TV industry off with his broadcasts.

Student yobs smash windows

If you know any of these mindless vandals please don't hesitate to name and shame them.

Further Camden

Oh, it was such a mess. The night started late. I guess it was all this fluff about people killing each other, themselves. I don't pay much attention to the news anymore, it's so sad. I thought I'd escaped.

Anyway, the night started late. There was a queue outside. You don't normally get queues at recitals, but there you go. Lots of Goths were in. I took my usual seat up in the gods. You can't see the people very well, I can't at least, but you get the best sound up there. It was a good night, not bad, about half full in the main theatre.

The music, the arrangement was strange. I went to one performance, Variations on Common Airs, it was for a half-orchestra, where they started performing very well known pieces but continued by altering the score, five percent faster on the bass every ten bars, two percent slower on the upper harmony. That was interesting. This was just strange.

The prelude was really quick, way too fast. The tune was off, sometimes some of the strings were flat. Trumpets came in early, then late. Really strange. What was the conductor doing? I got out a pair of those little glasses, opera glasses, to get a closer look. From what I could see the guy was barely moving.

This went on for ten minutes, nearly. I could hear a murmur. People were getting uncomfortable. Then, all of a sudden, someone yelled:

“Stop!”

It was the Conductor. He said:

“Take out your medicine

I could see all the people fetching these little... vials, they looked like. The Conductor turned to the audience:

“We died for you

He drank his little vial, everyone else did the same. A few seconds later they all dropped to the floor, clang! There was a moment... Then panic broke loose everywhere.


...

Video quality. Two men are sitting, calm and comfortable, in mid-light in front of a black cloth background.

First Man: Hello, my name is Mark.

Second Man: And my name is Joey.

Mark: Confused? You should be; but all will become clear... By now you know the true extent of our powers. Never underestimate our organisation. We can reach into your society at will. Go where we want. Do what we want. We drove the Camden Philharmonic to suicide. We pushed young Johnny over the edge (and gave him the gun). We caused the Underworld to spontaneously combust. You doubt our power?

Joey: We can take whoever we want. How can we do it? We are everywhere because we are nowhere. The last people appearing to you as “Mark” and “Joey” were mere ciphers, long gone. And we will do it again.

Mark: Are we the true leaders?

Joey: Who knows?

Mark: [after a moment's pause for gravity] Camden is in jeopardy. The tide of filth is rising. As we speak foreign indentured labourers are surging across the planet.

Joey: [smoothly choreographed] We know.

Mark: [continuing without pause] breaking their contracts and threatening the very foundations of western society.

Joey: Property, family, obedience, law.

Mark: The population of Camden is now 90% foreign. It stands upon a precipice. We cannot allow Camden to become an oriental fortress. We call upon the people's of the west to rise up and expel the foreigners, the enemy in our midst. Our organisation, Love Racism Hate Music, will not rest, relent or restrain our campaign until victory is achieved.

Joey: [turns to Mark – mock-camp demeanour] But Mark...?

Mark: [likewise] What Joey...?

Joey: Where will we strike next? The record store? [to camera] The film studio?

Mark: [to camera, quizzical look] The theatre?

Fade to black.

...

Jenny clicked the video off.

“Is that really their name?” said Thom, incredulous. “They were doing so well until then”.

They both laughed. I was early morning. Jenny and Thom were sitting in a waiting room in UCLH. Jenny closed her laptop. “Good thing you can get wireless in Hospital. What an age we live in”.

“When did this arrive?” Thom asked.

“Six o'clock this morning. Bob and I share an email address...”

“Doesn't that get confusing? Asked Thom.

“Bob doesn't really like dance music” said Jenny.

Thom was thrown; “He doesn't like...” Thom shook his head. “You don't get police business mixed up with...?”

“Not really” said Jenny.

“Any Ccs?”

“No” said Jenny.

“BCCs?”

“I guess so. I don't know who or how...”

“Don't worry” said Thom. “They sent their last video to the LBC. I guess they want publicity. I'll ring round some of Bob's media contacts. Somebody must know something. I think I'm going to need your laptop too”.

“Why?”

“I know a guy” said Thom, “a Goth friend, Dave, a whiz with computers. I don't know the ins and outs but he'll be able to trace the IP, the server that was used to send that message. Maybe even the building it was sent from”.

“Where was it sent from?”

“I don't know” said Thom.

Jenny sighed. “If needs must”.

“It'll be fine, Dave's great with this sort of stuff... How's Bob?”

“Oh, he's asleep” said Jenny, matter of fact.

“Asleep?” said Thom, sharply incredulous.

“It's happened before. He's a Pictan. They're very bad sleepers. They have, had an extra long day, one of the longest in the known galaxy. A place like Camden wreaks havoc on their body clock. No wonder Bob passed out, you kept him up all hours”.

“Well” said Thom, bashful at the double entendre, “the job kept him going”.

Jenny smiled at Thom, “you're secret is safe with me”.

“What secret?” Thom shrugged, trying to be blasé. Pause. “So, why keep Bob in hospital?”

“They're keeping him under observation” said Jenny. “It's a very bad idea to suddenly wake a Pictan. It can cause all kinds of shock”.

Pause.

“Can I ask you a question, Thom?”

“So long as it's not about my 'secret'”.

“Why did Bob ask you to become his deputy?”

“That's an interesting question” said Thom, gaining time. “It was down to my play...”

“Your play?”

“It's a devised piece. It's shaping up to be a crime story set on ancient Earth, stinking ports, mean streets, there's a haunting as well... The working title is Live Forever, Die Tonight”.

Jenny was totally perplexed. “That's... that's nice Thom, how does that have anything to do with the... with Bob's case?”

“He needed a Deputy to help with the workload. My loan's late coming through, I needed the money. Bob suggested the experience could help me get into my role”.

“Oh...” Jenny nodded.

Thom, reading as if from a bill poster: “Alfie Ingersol, hard-bitten Edwardian detective, scourge of the foggy cobbled streets”.

Pause.

“That's a bit...”

“A bit...?”

“A bit flimsy” said Jenny, finally. “You don't have any prior experience?”

“Of the police? No. They're not the same on Planet Earth. No one likes the police back home, not even their friends.

Jenny then asked, “have you, did you know Bob from before?”

“Oh yeah” said Thom. “Everyone knows Bob”.

Jenny reiterated. “Everyone knows Bob”.

“Everyone knows Bob. He helped me get to Camden”.

“Really?”

“I had the grades, obviously, and the University drama department is one of the best, but the embargo on Earth travel was impossible to get round. Then Bob got involved and all of a sudden it was plain sailing”.

“That's interesting” said Jenny. She tilted her head to glance a little “You know you look a bit like Bob. The antennae, obviously”.

“Yeah” said Thom, before lapsing into thought.

The morning was beginning to rise. The Accident and Emergency department was quiet, it had finally cooled down down after the night time rush. Just then two scenesters passed by, a Baggie rolling a Bunny along in a wheelchair with a broken leg.

“Dude, dude, stop, that's Momma Zoom”.

“No way”.

Students be proud

Well done to all the students who attended yesterdays anti-fees demo, but an especial well done to those who attacked the Tories Millbank offices. Not because violence is a principle, it's a tactic, but because they have shown a willingness to go beyond polite lobbying, beyond business as usual.

Some points to make. (1) I clocked off at 4pm yesterday and walked across Vauxhall Bridge (where I saw the most beautiful blood-red sunset over Battersea Powerstation) to check the demo out. Shortly after 4 o'clock there were still over 1,000 students on Millbank. The siege was the work of a minority, but it was not a small minority and certainly not the 'usual suspects'. For one thing, there aren't that many 'suspects'.

(2) Don't worry about the so-called violence. Unless you have an unnatural empathy with computer terminals or glass panes you will not feel any pain. No one was seriously injured yesterday.

(3) Those students involved in the siege were right to go beyond the usual A to B routine of lobbying. The entire political establishment is ranged against them to some degree or other. They will not be swayed by reason and timidity. Students have to continue their campaign, they must bring as much of ordinary life to a standstill until the political elite are forced to back down. Occupations must be on the cards, but sustained joint strike action with lecturers and support staff will really shake the world.

(4) 50,000 people marching on a weekday is excellent. The NUS is not a democracy, the exec are not a dynamic bunch (most are on their way to being New Labour spear carriers or Unison witch-hunters), but in terms of numbers yesterday's demo topped anything the organised working class has attempted. It is up to our unions now to match, nay, top this level of militancy.

(5) The proposed changes to fees will not come in until at least 2012. These students were, in the main, not marching for themselves but for their younger brothers and sisters. They were showing a simple but excellent form of solidarity and consciousness.

Well done!

Laughing in your face - how they roll in Ireland

The country may be a few heartbeats away from intervention by the International Monetary Fund but today the Irish government had a novel message for the public: let them eat cheese.

Brendan Smith, the agriculture minister, announced a European Union-funded scheme today that will enable the country to tuck into the EU's cheese mountain. 53 tonnes of fresh cheddar will be distributed from 15 November with collection centres in towns and cities around the country.

Which amounts, roughly, to 12 grams of cheese per person. That's it, twelve grams of cheese? What an age we live in when first world citizens are given twelve grammes of cheese to subsist on.

Camden Continued

Old Bob woke with a start. For a moment as his eyes peered open he thought he was at home. Bright light.

“Ugh! Where am I?”

He was lying in a strange room and unfamiliar bed. But there was someone familiar looking at him.

“You?” said Bob with sharp disgust.

“I'll go then” said Thom. “Jenny's just off getting some coffee from the machine, she'll be back in a second”.

“It's all right” said Bob, clutching his head. “I'm a Pictan... sort of... Ugh! The point is we're very bad at waking up. I'm going to be mean to you for at least another ten minutes”.

“Ten minutes?”

“Yes, ten minutes! That's what I said. Now, where am I and what the bloody hell's this doing in my arm?” Bob yanked the drip free of his wrist.

“You're in hospital” said Thom, “Accident and Emergency”.

“I guessed that, what...” Bob moderated his tone. As he sat up he thought to himself: he does look a bit like me, even so. Then Bob asked “What am I doing here?”

“You collapsed”.

“I collapsed...? I was asleep”.

“You were dead to the world, Bob”.

“I know” said Bob, “we have a weak pulse. You clearly never did comparative anatomy on your... your...”

“Drama course” said Thom, finishing the sentence. “How was I to know?”

“I'd been awake for almost two days. People kept calling and calling, come to this, come to that, this is really important Bob... I fell asleep”.

“I thought you were... I thought you were out for the count. What could I do?”

Bob paused for thought. He started clambering out of bed and realised he was in a dressing gown and trousers; an odd combination he thought. “Where's...? What happened to...? Where's Gideon?”

“Dead” said Thom, “he jumped out of the window”.

Bob found his shirt stood up, looked for his shoes. Luckily for him they were slip-ons. “What...? No...” He thought better of it. “The videotape, it's not...?”

“They aired it” said Thom. “I think it got to the commissioner. She sent in the SPF, Special Police Force”.

“Huh?”

“They've occupied the Northern Hemisphere” said Thom.

Bob, fiddling with the tap in his arm:

“Only the Northern Hemisphere?”

“The Southern Hemisphere's been taken over by the Poor. They're on strike. They're taking over everything”.

Bob yawned, stretched and drew back the cubicle curtains. He smiled. Bob could see Jenny at the end of the hall:

“My love, are you OK?”

She looked beautiful in a frilly white dotted shirt, dark trousers, smart shoes and a woolly peaked cap. They came together, kissed in the corridor. Strange looks from some of the staff and patients. Thom felt a bit embarrassed.

“Did you explain to them?”

“Darling...”

“What time is it...?”

“Oh, hi Jenny, nice to see you”.

“Sorry”, Bob kissed Jenny again. Pause. “So, what time is it?”

“It's eight in the evening” said Jenny.

“Man alive!” Bob exclaimed. He linked arms with Jenny, they started walking toward the end of the ward.

“You've been out for twenty four hours nearly” said Jenny. “Oh, we had a hell of a time getting in here. This place is locked down; Special Police Force. You can't get in or out without these documents”. Jenny took a strange looking piece of paper from her trouser pocket.

“What's been going on?”

“That is a story, and a half” said Thom, who'd been shuffling rather close behind the pair. They stopped. Bob frowned for a second:

“My hat and badge, please”.

Slightly sheepish, Thom handed them over.

“I hope you made good use of them. You were playing bad cop, weren't you?”

…

I was reeling. I didn't know what had come over me. Bob had asked me to play this role. I had to be detached, a different perspective, a second mind. Yet the more I got into it, the longer it lasted, the role took me over. By the time we got to the Roundhouse I wasn't who I am, that wasn't me.

The ambulance came quickly. I explained who I was and what I knew in the best way I could, although I kept a little shy about the broken window; they didn't really ask. Immediately I stopped I must have fell into some kind of shock. I sat there, I might have shed a little tear watching the crew go about their business. I took a while but I, I knew had to do something, I had to snap out of it. If the ambulance crew weren't going to move Gideon's body away the theatre staff would. He was lying, broken in an alleyway, in clear sight of the main road.

The bodies from the fire were away on Enfield. The coroners team weren't about to come down to Camden. I phoned Aaron Fillmore's office. He wasn't in either; it was late I suppose. I left a message on his mobile, and then got down to business.

When they packed Bob off to the hospital they emptied his pockets and gave the contents to me. I had digital camera (I also took his hat and badge, I thought they'd come in handy). It was only a little thing. I used it to take some photos of the window, the room, the chair and so on. Then worked up a bit of oomph, I left the scene and went to look at Gideon. If I'd have thought about it I should have wondered why two students, two guys I knew had died suddenly. What was going on?

What was going on? The hallways and back rooms were a dusky warren. There was quite a racket going on. People rushing up and down, yelling things. I wanted to move through as quickly as possible, try not to be noticed. I forgot I had the hat on.

“Officer, officer”. Out of nowhere this woman grabbed me by the arm. “Something terrible has happened”.

I said, “I know, I'm on it”.

“They've all collapsed” she continued. I think she was a backstage runner.

“All collapsed?”

“Everyone in the orchestra. Do you think it's something to do with that news report?”

“What report?”

“The Nativists”, said the Woman, “they said they want to purge Camden”.

“Maybe” I said, “look, I've got to tend to something. Could you...?”

The Woman let go.

“Thank goodness you're here”.

“You're welcome” I said, making my way.

“Bob would be proud”.

That's when I remembered... Jenny. I tried ringing but, again, got no answer. I couldn't account for it felt really guilty.

Eventually I got outside. I found some curtain material and a hand torch on me. I had a mind to cover the alley way, take some more pictures. I got there, Gideon was gone. Impossible... but then things like that kept happening. It had been going through my mind for some time, the fire, Johnny, the missing man, the video, there had to be a connection. We seemed to be up against someone or something out of the ordinary. Whoever it was they were always one step ahead of us. I knew then I had to take a step back, think about what was happening. It was the occult connection.

…

I went down to the library area. I thought about getting on the transit but the traffic seemed even worse. It was crawling all the way through Central Camden. I walked the distance, several miles, but it felt good to get some air, clear out my head. It was a clear night, I could see more in the sky than I ever thought I could, a few stars, some planets I recognised. Then there were the helicopters, criss-crossing everywhere. Odd, I thought. I had been losing it. Walking, I felt, got me back into the role again.

I never, as I student I never paid much mind to research. I suppose you don't have to when you're a drama student (although there are modules on the Theory of Stage Craft, History of Film and so on). The library was a fairly strange environment to me. I knew that I had to get on top of what was happening. I was certain about the occult connection, at that point I didn't know, I don't think anyone had heard from the terrorists again. I remembered Johnny trying to show me some books he'd got out on the subject and wished I'd payed attention (in more ways than one I suppose).

When I got to the library (Euston Station entrance), I saw it was very brightly lit, loads of activity apparent. There were guards all over the place, big guys patrolling, menacing looking, dark uniforms. There were two on each door. I went up to one and asked what was happening.

“Step away, Sir, this is the scene of a crime”. The two guards were standing stock still. Until the first one spoke he did not move at all, no flicker of life, not even behind his eyes. They both looked the same.

“What?”

“And our base of operations” added the second guard.

I had a bit of a chuckle. “The scene of a crime, and base of operations”.

The First Guard seemed a bit offended.

“Something funny?” He stepped forward, placing his open hand up to my face. “Step back, Sir”.

I whipped out my badge. “Detective Officer Bob Fleming”. The guard took a step back. He squinted at it:

“That's not your picture”.

I said, “I'm a Young Royal” (1).

“What's one of those...?” Now he was squinting at me.

I explained, “arrivals on the planet find they quickly evolve to the finest current physical and mental point of development of their species, athletic and refined. Their outward form converges on one of a number of types, known as tribes, according to their cultural and psychological outlook. Young Royals are emotionally intelligent, with special mutable faces tuned to the viewer's aesthetic ideal”.

“You calling me queer?” said the First Guard.

“I'm sorry?”

“Emotional intelligence? That sounds queer to me” said the Second Guard.

I tried to curtail their line of thinking. I had something to do. I stood as tall as I could, squared up to the first.

“I am a fully fledged Galactic Officer” I said in the most robust voice I could manage, “duty bound by the Planet Camden to keep the peace and uphold the law. You cannot deny me access to this building. Who is your superior...? For that matter who are you?”

“We are SPF”.

“SPF?”

“Special Police Force, we are here to physically pacify the disturbed peace...”

“Hang on” I said, “what disturbed peace? How is Camden socially disturbed, apart from the traffic jams?”

“There is a strike in progress” said the First Guard. “The staff of the library are going against the will of management and refusing to fulfil their contract of indenture”.

“And that's a crime?”

The Second Guard chipped in. “We are here to liquidate the action, capture the criminals and deal with them appropriately”.

It was shock after shock that night. Again, I thought, I had to reel things in. “And who is your superior? Who do you answer to?”

“The Galactic Commissioner” they both said in unison.

“Well” I said, adding a deliberate smile. “I am on good terms with the Commissioner and, as it happens, am currently completing a case she delegated herself, an important criminal case, the first in the Underworld”. They both looked nonplussed. “On Camden it is a crime to obstruct an officer in pursuit of a criminal case” I added. I didn't know if that was the case but I thought that would impress them. It did, and they let me in.

As I was through the door one of them asked me:

“Where are you headed?”

I said, “now, that is classified. I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you”.

…

The library was huge and very dark, much darker than I thought it would be. It was clearly closed. There were more SPF inside, marching up and down, talking (yelling mostly) and pawing through the books. They all looked the same, clearly hostile. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, tiptoe, gently, remain in the shadows, looking for the relevant section.

Passing through the medical section I saw two officers, they seemed to be amusing themselves grabbing books and putting them through an industrial shredder.

“Psychiatric Disorders of Dental Practice... in you go”.

“Backache, Birth and Figure Relief by... blah, blah, blah”.

“Anaerobic Sludge Digestion... what the fuck is that?”

There seemed to be chaos in the library, books flung on the floor, shelves knocked over, video and audio disks everywhere. It wasn't clear why. I eventually found the section I wanted: “Occult and Alternative Psychology”, in a far corner of the building, nice and out of the way. I found a quiet corner and read up on things like The Golden Dawn, Tattva Cards, the Thule Society, Gnosticism in Three Easy Steps, taking some notes along the way. I tried to stay awake as long as a could. Despite being in the middle of this nest I eventually fell asleep.

I woke up near dawn, face down in a copy of The Precepts of Church of Hendrix. I thought'd I'd been found (I'm amazed that I wasn't). There was a text message on my phone from Jenny:

“Bob phone not working. Is he with you? Have found something you want to see”.

(1) Thom is another Radiohead.

Soldiers speak...

While probably far from a majority view in the British army their statements are important.

Ben Griffin... who served for eight years in the Parachute Regiment, went on: “The use of the word ‘hero’ glorifies war and glosses over the ugly reality. War is nothing like a John Wayne movie. There is nothing heroic about being blown up in a vehicle, there is nothing heroic about being shot in an ambush and there is... nothing heroic about the deaths of countless civilians. Calling our soldiers heroes is an attempt to stifle criticism of the wars we are fighting in".

Growing up I used to buy poppies but, back in the day, I remember the whole thing being about going up to the person with the tray (usually after the supermarket checkout), buying a poppy, taking the poppy, and that was that... then again that was all a long time ago. These days it is hard to miss the poppy, it is filtering into every aspect of popular culture. If it wasn't clear before it's becoming increasingly clear the poppy is not a neutral symbol.

Ken Lukowiak, who served in the Falkland Islands and Northern Ireland between 1979 and 1984, and is now an author, is another signatory. He said: "I don't have a problem with the British Legion, which does wonderful work, but it is the sanitisation which concerns me.

"Part of me wants to be sensitive to the families who have lost loved ones and part of me wants to throw a bucket of blood into the living rooms of the nation every night to show people the true meaning of war.

"This year's poppy appeal is too showbizzy, too much glamour and glitz. It's like they are turning on the Christmas lights in Regent Street."

The point is it's not so much the British Legion, far less the veterans of wars past and present, who are the problem. It is the celebrities, the journalists and above all the politicians who bang the drum of war but suffer none of the consequences, they are the problem.

Anti-fascism

I was unable to attend Saturday's UAF demo. Well done to everyone who did. The demo did not attract the numbers it could and/or should have, at least for what we want to do in anti-fascism for the coming twelve months. A change in perspective is probably required (although this is not the best place to discuss such a thing).

This has reminded me of an argument we have had, a common one regarding the tactic of no platform. If the circle of debate is big enough someone without fail leaps on the argument and says:

"Ah ha! What about freedom of speech?"

You have to respond with a detailed argument to the effect that freedom of speech is not an absolute and that as a democratic body (various democratic bodies) we have the right to decide what our public forums are used for, the boundaries of reasonable debate. The only problem with this argument is it's quite complicated and involved, whereas "fweedom of speesh" is simple and emotive.

But there is a much neater way of putting your argument, available in chapter one of What is to Be Done. Freedom of assembly defines the limits freedom of speech. In this case Lenin argues that revolutionary socialists have the right to form a party that does not include revisionists and/or economists; they have (within what was then the hard won context of an illegal party) the right to freedom of assembly.

Democracy includes the right to freedom of assembly, the right of like minded people to come together to organise to further their aims. In the broadest context those who value democracy of any sort, who participate in the democratic process (however that participation takes place) have the right to exclude those who would use democracy with the aim of undermining and eventually abolishing it.

Freedom of assembly defines the limits freedom of speech.

A day of radiance...

Cage Against the Machine

Our quiescence will be our undoing. The future hangs in the balance. If there must be doom let it come surrounded in silence. John Cage for Christmas #1.

I almost forgot...

It's been five years of shite!

Planet Camden - The Final Room

(Note) The Special Police force were developed as a civilian means of control, left behind after the coalition withdrawal from Java-Borneo. They are indeed a genetically modified species, their selected qualities are a simplified moral philosophy (along with instant outward aggression toward all who violate their programmed norms), mechanical deductive logic, a hierarchic outlook, comfort in discipline and rigid organisation. Members of the police force are known to be grown (and eventually trained) on special hydroponic boot camps. Despite this they are not, as some suggest, sentient vegetables but humanoid animals. It is not known how long it takes to grow and train a police officer. Common estimates suggest two years. Their official capacity is defined as “physically pacifying disturbed public order”. Their strength is in superior organisation, allowing concentrated application of force. Though only armed (officially) with non-lethal weaponry their actions have resulted in a confirmed total of 5,000 deaths in the last ten galactic cycles.

The door opened. There was a bright light.

“Rory Gilmore”.

“Here” said Rory, not sure what else to say.

Two pairs of arms reached out, grabbed Rory under his pits and dragged him out of his cell. He had been there, along with his five other comrades, for what seemed like many hours. For a second Rory was surprised not to have a bag put over his head. As he was being marched along what looked like a corridor Rory tried to grab what information he could, but the hall was flooded in bright light, he saw nothing.

As they pushed on, through doors, down stairs Rory got an uncanny sense; he felt like he'd been here before. They kept going down and down; a silent journey. The floor changed from carpet to concrete. The corridors were now generally dark. Rory surmised that they must be underground.

One of the Man holding Rory:

“Aren't we...?” They stopped at the top of one last set of stairs, a short journey, brightly lit, under cobwebs, over dusty concrete to a heavy metal door.

“No” said the other Man. “Questioning... This way”.

It was at this point Rory noticed they looked the same, identical, same size, same height, same face, they even seemed to have the same voice. They took him along a dark row of rooms until they reached a door marked 390.

“In here”.

The men let go. One of them parted the door for Rory. “Go on”. Rory got another little shove. He staggered through. Inside was a desk, and two empty chairs either side. The room was small, eight by ten by eight, and otherwise bare. The door was shut behind Rory.

“Welcome...” came a voice from the corner of the room; another man just the same as the first two.

“Sit... Sit... It's not a crime to sit”. The Man took the chair facing away from the door, Rory, with no other choice too the other

“Not yet at least” added the Man, after Rory sat. He leant forward and with a toothy smile whispered, “I'm joking”. Rory didn't laugh. “You look terrible” said the Man after a moment, “why is that? I hope Joey and Mark weren't too rough”.

Rory was silent. He did look terrible. He had been on the front line of the initial SPF charge. His hair was caked in blood from two head wounds. He had a broken nose and his left eye was oozing eye from a third blow. He had bruises on his forearms and his shins were glowing from repeated kicks.

“Why do you...?”

“Look the same...? Mr Gilmour” the Man said sternly. “This is an interview. An interview is where you answer questions... you answer questions”.

“I don't know what to say” said Rory.

“It's a simple question. Why have you got those cuts and bruises on your face?”

“I was hit” Rory, “by those men”.

“And why were you hit? You weren't doing anything were you?”

“I... I was...”

The Man interrupted:

“You're an insurgent, aren't you?”

“A what?”

“An insurgent, Rory. A traitor, a filthy traitor. You took up arms against your legitimate government, didn't you?” A switch seemed to have been flipped, the Man beamed focused anger.

“But we...”

“But, but?”

“We didn't 'take up arms', we didn't have weapons”.

“Oh, but you did. We have recovered weapons from the scene, and from insurgents houses. This has been a conspiracy all along...” The Man relaxed a little, leant back in his chair. “We have dozens of confessions, Rory. Your little comrades have confessed”. He got back on the front foot again. “It doesn't look good for you”.

“What do you mean?” Rory blanched.

“Your name keeps coming up, time and again” said the Man, who then took a moment to stand. “What with you being the leader of the Combined Staff Organisation”. The Man took care to add a tone of disgust to the last three words. He looked at Rory, shook his head. “No...? Well, I think we all want to get to the bottom of this”. The Man sidled round the table, approaching Rory. He seemed to be growing in height and size. The man seethed with menace.

Rory, trying desperately to think, asked, “where am I?”

The Man stopped, paused over him. For a moment he seemed to be thinking. He then said, “oh, that's very interesting. That's very interesting indeed. You see you're at work”. The Man tucked his chair away and paced gently around the limited space between the table and the door.

“I'm at work?”

“Yes, this is where you're supposed to be... You're indentured aren't you?”

“Part time” said Rory.

“What do you do with the other part of your time?” asked the Man, who fetched a piece of paper from out what what Rory now noticed was his uniform top pocket.

“I'm a student”.

“Oh” the Man's whole demeanour seemed to change, “well in that case you're free to go. Let me just...” He put away the piece of paper and fetched a set of keys from his trouser pocket. The Man fiddled with the door for a second before pulling it open.

“Off you go”.

Rory hesitated for a second, before making a clumsy upward lurch. Suddenly the man slammed the door shut.

“YOU! ARE! INDENTURED!” The Man brandished the piece of paper, a copy of Rory's contract, in the young man's face. “You do this...!” The Man then ripped the paper in two. “You lose every right you have on this planet! From now on...!” The Man slammed the paper down on the desk and grabbed Rory, who had been frozen to his chair. With one arm he lifted Rory clean out of his chair, the Man was very strong. He swept the table and chairs clean out of the way with his other arm. “You are nothing! Do you understand”. The man grabbed Rory's nose and twisted it hard. “Tell me who your leader is”, the Man barked staccato. Rory could only let go a scream mixed with blood and tears.

The Man dropped Rory on the floor. He began kicking and punching Rory, repeating the same question over and over again. After untold minutes the Man seemed to calm down. He let Rory, lying in a corner, shivering and clutching his stomach, catch a breather. The Man seized Rory's face in his palm and repeated the demand, plainly and calmly:

“Tell me who your leader is...”

A flush of pride and anger went through Rory's mind. He gathered himself, sat up, plucked a loose tooth out of his mouth and stared at it before replying:

“If... I told you... You'd just drag them in here... and do this to them”. Rory waived his tooth at the Man.

The Man's face flexed a malicious smile. “So they're not in this building, then?”

“I didn't say that...”

“That's all I need to know. Guards!”

The two men from earlier filed back into the room, plucked him up quickly and efficiently and took him away, down the last set of steps, one last set of stairs, a short journey, brightly lit, under cobwebs, over dusty concrete to a heavy metal door, into the final room.

Striking fire fighter run down by scabs

See here. The incident happened at Southwark fire station. A similar thing happened at Croydon, where a manager has now been arrested. The police were apparently called out to menace pickets in Shoreditch. Yesterday was a quite astonishing day of violence inflicted on legal pickets. Londoneers should support their fire fighters. They've been there for you, now you can be there for them; be there with solidarity on the next set of pickets, November 5th and 6th to strike a blow against bullying bosses.

For more info see here and here.

That's it! Use the power of mental thinking!

I am currently reading a collection of Stephen Jay Gould articles, and very inspiring they are; I've blazed through 150+ pages in less than three days. They concern the very broad implications of Darwin and Darwinism. If lightly stressed the concepts within shed a nice light on some Marxist ideas.

Darwin only once used the word "evolution". The word was actually used by his defenders and popularisers. Darwin preferred the term "descent by modification", and with good reason. Darwin did meant his ideas to stand out against Victorian reformism, the commonplace idea of the inorexable perfection of society and the world at large. Strictly speaking the word evolution means the continual progress from crudity to complexity, higher to lower forms.

Darwin knew then (and we realise even more today) that creatures can 'evolve' toward simpler, more 'regressive' forms; take parasites, for example. The idea of progress toward perfection is a hangover from the notion of intelligent design, that creatures are made perfectly adapted to their niche. This is an example of why we need continual critical renovation of ideas in all areas of society.

But, more importantly, it shows evidence of combined and uneven development. In order for any history to take place, a sequence of events, each determining following events, you need an integrated but dynamic universe. The big bang took place unevenly, for example. If at the point of inflation matter had been spread out evenly the universe would have cooled into a smooth, even plain of hydrogen atoms, and nothing more.

If the natural history proceeded at a smooth, even pace toward perfectibility, how do we account for the eye? The eye came out of descent through modification, but it is very complex and specific to one function; looking. But what use is a proto-eye? If we break it down into percentages (arbitrary I know, but useful as a way of picturing the problem) what use is 5% of an eye, 5, 10, 50 or even 99% of an eye? The answer is the proto-eye already existed, it was just doing something else (society never poses a problem that does not already contain its solution). Another more obvious example would be the modification of flippers into feet.

Progress can even come through apparent retrogression. Humanity may be the perfect example. We are almost certainly a neotenic species. Adult humans share numerous features with juvenile great apes. We spend so much of our lives in a state of development we could almost be the chimps that never grew up. Of course childhood is the time when we learn the most. By extending our 'childhood' into sexual maturity, by becoming a line of separate species defined by our ability to learn and retain complex knowledge, our ancestors eventually became modern human beings. Natural history flows back and forth like human history, apparently primitive forms can allow giant leaps of advancement.

All of this must be taken with a pinch of salt. These facts do not confirm the truth (or not) of Marxism otherwise, for one thing, Stephen Jay Gould would have called himself a Marxist.

Roobin's note: another interesting titbit, the moment of primacy of theory in the course of general development. Do scientific theories become accepted (or rejected) because facts speak for themselves? Unfortunately it's not that easy. Despite mounting evidence of continental drift the theory was not accepted until a basic conceptual leap was made, from the idea of continents drifting across an ocean bed, to the idea of plate tectonics, where land and seabed were part of a fractured whole. There is no (scientific) action without theory.