A little bit more...

Well, enough requests for more - I say 'requests', when what I mean is nobody objected too vigorously - and I'm persuaded to post up another sneak preview. The working title 'Kingsway' has been in existence for at least two decades and attached to many projects. I only just noticed yesterday how it chimes with the title of the blog. It can only be destiny. Anyway, you don't need to have read yesterday's offering for this snippet to make sense.. or not. I only hope you enjoy it.

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Night

The air is thick and damp, heavy with menace and lit by a sodium gloom which casts deep shadows into crevices inhabited by the population of the night. Night brings out the dark people, those for whom daylight is too big a risk.

At night the facial recognition cameras, the technology of law and order function less well. Deep contrasts and faces half-concealed by hoods work to foil the computers and throw up ambiguity and confusion. And ambiguity is a thief of time, time left behind, not enough in the race to identify the bearer of a face.

In the high contrast, near-monochrome world it is not only lack of light that aids and abets wrongdoing. Sounds clatter from surface to surface, unabsorbed by clothed masses going about their businesses. Sounds from afar come near and soft treads in the nearby shadows echo from far-off walls.

The night hides terrors and all those who fear are off the streets before the evening’s entertainment begins. As the last buses and trams and trains clatter away from city centres the cloak of night embraces all and eerie mists arise, steaming from stranded pavements. Cobbles gleam yellow in the damp embrace of the early hours.

Too early for work, too late for play, the night’s foreplay begins with a shuffle here, a footfall there. Fragmented sounds and movement betray little of intent. That’s the way we like it. At night we are all anonymous and unreadable.

A shift in the shadows, an outbreak of footsteps and the smash of a window is followed by silence. The night floods around that silence, holding its breath. No response… then a sudden cacophony of smashing and grabbing, running and hiding. The deed done.

The police headquarters are surrounded by night; officers huddled inside strain their eyes at gloomy monitors. Too few in number to patrol effectively, they are dependent on the technology; the same technology that will let them down with the CPS. Too vague an image, too few fingerprint points, inconclusive DNA... the criminal walks free, as certain of the justice of his release as the police are of his guilt.

Policemen can smell criminality, they can smell criminals. The police rarely get the wrong man and even if it is the wrong perpetrator for this particular crime, society would benefit from his being removed for a time. A long time.

Deny everything, refuse to make a statement, don’t grass. The criminal mantra is easy to follow - it takes no effort, just as they have made no effort to live a decent life. And society is so tolerant, so determined to be good, so concerned to not make mistakes, that society makes mistakes in justice every single day.

Violent criminals convicted multiple times get no more than words. Fines are unpaid and that crime in turn is punished by more fines that will also never be paid. Community work orders are ignored, curfews unobserved, tags removed with impunity. And against this impossible backdrop the police struggle to contain criminality within too-lax bounds, forever criticised by those they are supposed to protect, forever thwarted by a criminal justice system that is exactly what it sounds like; justice for the criminal.

Collar number 2451 treads softly through the night, his radio silenced, his breathing stilled to a shallow, steady flow. Ahead of him, arm raised, brick in hand, Derek, a known felon approaches a chemist’s window, intent on the narcotic haul he imagines he will both find and understand inside. There are no drugs, nothing at least which will net him any real profit to fund his own habit, but he’s doing it anyway; it’s just another habit. Along with sleeping until noon, spending the day in night clothes, eating brown, fried food and smoking continuously.

He could no more not go on the rob than he could turn off the TV in daytime; the always-on accompaniment to his life, a goggle-box displaying events and images he will incorporate into his own memory as if they were real. In court he relies on the scripted pleas that he is a prisoner of his own wrongdoing, that he wants to follow his dream; that he is, at heart a decent, law-abiding, misunderstood member of an oppressed society. That he is one of society’s oppressors would surprise him, so far has he swallowed the social-workers’ delusions about the basic decency of humanity.

2451 knows different. He knows that the feral scum before him is a kind of vermin. He is representative of an underclass fuelled by a sense of righteous entitlement. A parasite that needs to be isolated from its host and crushed.

Human nature is survivalist. In large measure humans survive in numbers and in bigger numbers they thrive still more. But the natural borders of a society have long been exceeded and the 150-some-strong settlements of the Iron Age have blossomed into thousands, millions, within which rigid rules need to be enforced. Only, as humans have grown fat and lazy in their easy existences they have become complacent as well. Unwilling to face facts, unable any more to stomach the actions necessary to curb the excesses that threaten harmony.

Early police forces, known to the whole parish, herded errant people back along the straight and narrow, the laws defined by those who followed them. Stray from the path, get a warning, do it again, get a punishment. But now the police are so far removed from the societies they strive to control - indeed they MUST be for fear of reprisals - that they can only be seen as an outside force. Those whose taxes pay for them demand ever-more effective control; those who are supposedly controlled seek any way to escape their punishments.

And because the law-makers are just as corrupted by their insular upbringing and disproportionate rewards, they suffer none of the hardships of those wronged-against. They cannot see what those on the streets see, that human beings are NOT equal, they are NOT all equally deserving and they are NOT going to stop behaving badly because of a few harsh words.

Words have never done anything to control wrongdoers beyond the school gates. A timely intervention by a stern teacher may have prevented a basically good kid from going off the rails, but for those who are parented by television, a repeated affirmation of their rights has dulled any memory of words.

Only punishment is effective and 2451 has the means and the opportunity at his disposal. As Derek brings back his arm to heft the brick, 2451 catches it and catches him off balance. As Derek stumbles he has a brief moment to see the face of his assailant. “Awright, mate?” he offers, expecting to be released with a caution, ready to offer a plea of innocence. But he sees something in the eyes of this familiar face. Something entirely unfamiliar.

It is the last thing he does see, as the Taser renders him insensible. Moments later 2451 tidies up the scene and makes his exit, the supine form of Derek concealed in the shadows, his dark soul draining into the road, making yellow-lit islands of cobbles in a black sea of blood.

Neat and tidy, a crime prevented, a criminal neutralised; a case that will not be investigated beyond the inevitable family outcry. The press conference at which the bereaved family will mourn their lovely boy, their shining star and their gift to the world with so much potential they did not see any need to bring him up decently. The right political noises will be made, the acceptable number of doors knocked upon until the next case steps into the light and allows this one to be quietly buried.

One at a time, thinks 2451, one at a time. It’s the best he can do, but he knows he is not alone. Out there are many individuals doing the same thing - taking out the trash. Police, private citizens, other criminals. Bit by bit the undesirable elements of the world are being eliminated. A good job, well done.

He makes it to the police station in time to start his shift. In an hour or so he will alert a foot patrol to something not quite right, seen on CCTV, could you investigate?

 The foot patrol will call an ambulance, the body will be removed to a hospital morgue and a host of people will be gainfully employed at no risk to themselves. No crime will be detected and solved, no lawyers will get paid. 2451 is cutting out the poisonous legal middle man and putting society back on the rails. For which he will receive no thanks, earn no accolades. Just the satisfaction of knowing he has done his bit.

The night mists reclaim the scene and the world carries on. One scumbag down.

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So, what do you think? Want to read more? Fed up already? There's a comment box down there, look... go on. You know you want to. :o)

Kingsway (working title)

In a break from the usual bile and in the interests of a little light relief, I thought I'd post up an extract from the novel I'm supposed to be working on. You don't have to like it, but if you do a comment would be lovely, ta! Here goes nothing!

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Chapter 4

Pete had always been a bit of a rascal. Well, ‘rascal’ was too kind; he was a frigging nightmare. He used to steal from the kids at school, then from his parents and then, when he’d been kicked out of both of those institutions, he’d steal from casual acquaintances and passers by in the form of begging, bag-theft and burglary to feed an escalating drug habit.

Still in his thirties, Pete nevertheless looked more like a middle-aged roadie, his attire that of a twenty year-old, his face approaching fifty. Most days Pete was clean though, in both senses of the word. He rarely used these days and if he did it was usually only a smoke or the odd pill. Injecting was firmly in his past and he often went days at a time without even touching a drop of drink. Today wasn't one of those days though and he strode to the bar in the Kingsway Arms.

“All right Miles” he greeted the barman, “pint of Stella, please?”

“You sure?” said Miles; Pete usually came in for a lime and soda in the afternoon.

“Yeah” confirmed Pete, “It’s me birthday!”

“Dare I ask?” Miles expected a number but not this one.

“Fifty-five” said Pete, with a grin, then “Yeah, yeah, I know… don’t look a day over forty-five. I’ll settle for forty-five.”

“So, congratulations and what else is new?”

“I’m moving out of the squat.”

“Yeah?” Miles was curious as to how this had come about.

“Yeah, I got me act together and the social’s sorted me out some dosh. I’ve got me own flat.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Yeah, I know! Me wiv me own gaff!”

This wasn't really helping. Here he was, Miles, with a half-decent income,  for a doss-around type, and he had to make do with sleeping on his sister’s couch while druggie dropout Pete was helping himself to the state’s largesse.

“When I say ‘flat’, I really means bedsit, is what I mean,” interrupted Pete. 

Miles felt better, then immediately felt mean. Why couldn't he just feel happy for Pete without automatically feeling resentful of his good fortune? Might have to work on that one, he thought. Maybe he could blog about it?

“Still though,” said Miles, “your own crib, man!” he grinned as he poured the beer.

Miles and Pete had become quite good friends considering their only normal contact was over this bar, but he was always interested in Pete’s theories. Pete had a theory about almost everything.

“So, c’mon then Pete. Tell us. I can see you’re dying to.” 

Three pints down and Pete was getting agitated. He could summon up a thesis at the drop of a hat but this time he appeared to have given it some real thought.

“You know them police cameras everywhere?”

“Course. The cameras that are there for our safety and well-being!” Miles repeated the words of a local Councillor defending the peppering of every public space with surveillance equipment.

“Yep. Them’s the ones, " said Pete and then lowered his voice in the best traditions of Hollywood movie trailers, "They, my son, are only the tip of the iceberg.” He tapped his nose and indicated that another pint would go a long way to ease the telling of the tale.

Pete went off into a reverie about the visible cameras being more or less decoys, with the real technology being disguised into everyday objects. It had some merit. “See, while you’re worried about being caught by the camera up a pole, you’re secretly being recorded, being worried, by the camera at eye level, hidden in a screw head or a road sign. They've got retinal scanners and facial recognition built in and they can triangulate your position to a few millimetres.”

Miles stopped him. “Whoa whoa there boy, why would they need to pinpoint your position?”

Pete grinned, “To coordinate the sniper systems.”

“Oh, fuck off Pete!” grinned Miles, “that was last month’s theory”

“No mate,” Pete was deadly serious, “Last month I told you about the police snipers with shoot-to-kill commands. This is more sinister.”

“I thought the police snipers were pretty sinister.”

“No. This is worse.” Pete was on a roll now. “See, what happens is this. You get in trouble enough times for petty stuff the CPS won’t touch, but you’re still a blight on society, right?”

“Right,” agreed Miles.

“So, your personal details are fed into the computers and all that has to happen then is you get identified, automatically, like, by these new cameras and if you’re in range of a fixed unmanned sniper station and there’s nobody likely to get caught in the cross fire…”

Pete did a mime, which involved the raising and aiming of an imaginary rifle. “Click.”

“Click? Just like that?”

“Click. Just like that.”

“You’re fucking mental, Pete” opined Miles.

But did he have a point? There were certainly more unsolved shootings these days. Always petty criminals and always those who had gone unpunished by the authorities. Everybody assumed it was some form of vigilantism and that this was their past sins being visited upon them by the victims. It was easy enough to get hold of a gun as well. Since the scummy council estates had been, to all intents and purposes, converted into open prisons it was certain that much home-grown crime was concentrated within those walls and it was equally certain that the police were not remotely concerned with what went on inside, so long as it stayed inside.

Mile shook his head and laughed as he towelled a glass dry and shiny. He’d almost fallen for one of Pete’s demented ravings. What a joke. His phone rang and he took the opportunity to make his escape from Pete's nightmare world, still laughing.

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There you go then. Is Pete right? Why would Miles blog about it and what might the consequences of that be?  Police ignoring crime and shooting to kill? Wanna read more? Let me know: comments below...

Choice Cuts

I spent yesterday deep-cleaning the carpets in my house. The one recently vacated by the verminous tenants. I say verminous for indeed there was evidence of rodent infestation among the debris. Further intelligence from neighbours, the old lady in the corner shop and 'accidentally' opened correspondence reveals a tale of recreational drug abuse, children in trouble, others taken into care and lives lived in their entirety on the largesse of the state.

And despite that a large part of the population want to believe these people have no choice, the simple fact of the matter is that there is always a choice of sorts. You and I choose to go to work, pay our taxes and then choose how we spend what's left over. This means doing without some of the things we'd like in order that we can have more of the things we need. It means limiting our family size, our discretionary spending and our leisure in terms of both time and content.

We can choose to buy and cook and eat sensible food or pig out on ready-made obesity bombs and then complain about the consequences. We can realise that there is already way too much stuff to watch on Freeview and forego the Sky subscription, or we can bow to peer pressure and put two fricking satellite dishes and a cable feed into MY house, drill holes everywhere and mount boxes on MY skirting boards. We can decide to lead a clean and decent life and look after our kids, or we can invite in a succession of dodgy men and spend our days smoking dope in front of TV day and night. (None of this is conjecture. I learned a lot yesterday.)

My brother has recently started working as an electrician for a company which maintains local authority and housing association property. He has a list of tales that would make a tax-payers blood curdle. Whole legions of unemployable scum who scoff at the choices of decent people because when you're deemed 'vulnerable' (for which read: thick, lazy, degenerate, immoral, worthless bottom feeders leeching off the social funding intended for the genuinely needy) your choices never seem to involve consequences.

For instance, pay-as-you-go meters were installed for energy because of former unpaid bills, I learned. The choice there then, between paying your way or buying more skunk. I found the electricity meter to be over £50 into emergency credit, but when I called British gas they simply arranged for that to be erased. They have no doubt learned that there is no point in pursuing such people for payment so they simply pass the cost onto the rest of us, who choose to actually pay our bills.

There's always a choice, but isn't it interesting how the choices of decent working people are different from the choices of those we pay to maintain in their 'vulnerable' little lives. Oh yes, when the state picks up the tab for everything your choices are very easy indeed. (By the way, I am fully aware there are perfectly decent people struggling to get by and raise decent kids on pitifully low incomes. Those people are not who I'm writing about here - but they all know families like this.)

So... Don't civilise your children, that's what school is for. Don't bother cleaning, if it gets dirty enough they'll send in a clean-up crew. Don't worry about rent, council tax, Sky subscriptions, paying bills or fines; when you run out of credit just plead poverty and 'vulnerability' and somebody else will pick up the tab. Don't look after your health, that's what the NHS is for, innit? Oh and don't worry one bit about the shape of your daughter's fanny; the NHS will sort that out too.

All over the world, people get up and do what they have to do to survive. Indira, the kid in the picture below,  is seven years old and has worked at the local granite quarry since she was three. She works five or six hours a day and then helps her mother with household chores. She also attends school, which is 30 minutes' walk away. (You can read more in James Mollison's photo essay here.)

David Cameron is away today, supposedly negotiating the EU budget. Good luck, Dave, but when you get back have a good hard think about where previous governments choices have led us. And then think about the choices you need to make, with or without Europe. And when you've done that, give Iain Duncan Smith a slap on the back and tell him to cut, cut, cut...

To be fair...

Let me state first of all (and for the umpteenth time) that humans are simply not made equal. Bloody hell, if you can't feel superior to somebody else, what's the point of it all? We come in large or small, short or tall, attractive or pug-ugly and in all manner of shapes and colours. We have adapted to live in savannas, jungles, up trees, in caves and even in space. We have histories involving conquest, discovery, opulence, poverty, great endeavour, enormous industry or just sitting about on our arses.

Art, science, architecture, literature, agriculture... manufacturing, organising, debating... building dynasties, waging wars, forging alliances. Getting it wrong, then starting over and getting it right; these are the things that produce mature, rounded, wide-horizoned civilisations and they all take time. Lots of time.

Look what instant wealth did to the Arab nations. See how African despots plunder and pillage and murder their own people. Witness what a violent disaster Islam's access to the modern world is. Why do you think everybody is shitting themselves over Iran and Syria and nuclear weapons? Holy lands? Who knows what further ungodly hells those nations that cleave to superstition have yet to wreak?

But even then, within a single supposedly advanced culture, equality is impossible and attempts to impose it have brought nothing but misery and death to millions via the disastrous failed social experiments of the Soviet Union, China, Laos, North Korea. Cuba... and Tooting. There are no fast fixes, no instant righting of wrongs.

Which is of course why ruling power in one of the most civilised countries on earth is not in the hands of first generation neophtyes, but vested mainly in a small number of privileged families who breed to lead, balanced by the background chatter of an envious proletariat. It's how it is and in the main it works very well indeed; the appearance of a democracy but with a firm-ish continuous hand on the tiller.

All of which makes yesterdays student protest amusing in the extreme. Bleating about making the rich pay so that they in turn can become rich (they imagine) through a superior education. Bunking off from their studies to stand around in the rain and growl trite slogans at the very police they will expect to protect them when the nasty uneducated people ransack their grubby bedsits while they're out at play.

Offered the option, who do you want running the country?

Yeah! Fuck off, rich boy!

If history teaches us anything, gradual change is always better and more permanent than violent swings. Put a toddler in charge of the ship and who knows where we'll end up. And when it comes down to it, few people want to lead in any case; it's far too much like hard work. So, let the children have their day, let them feel like they made a difference and then let them see the ferocious struggle to become more than equal that they will invest in their own children.

There are only so many silver spoons to go around and soon enough they'll be stabbing each other in the back trying to get their hands on one. Sounds fair to me.

I'm a nonentity, get me out of here!

She woke, cold and shivering in the dark and lay still amid the jungle noises. A nearby rustling warned her of rats and she shuddered, remembering the last meal - a bush tucker trial of insects and noisome animal parts that made her gag. She couldn't eat it and nothing else was on offer. All she could do now was avoid the rodents and wait for dawn when they could all breakfast on cold porridge and stale tea.

The jungle was hard on her, but not as hard as life had been getting back in the UK. She'd spoken out about privilege and gained a little support, but more often the press, which had at first hit out at austerity measures, now sided with the establishment against her. But what had she done to deserve this?

They said it was Australia, but as they had encountered nobody other than their keepers, it could be anywhere on Earth. Well, anywhere 'jungly'. She settled back into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of waking up in her own bed, in her own house back in England. At least, she reasoned, they would all be rooting for her back home... she drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

Daylight dawned and with it new hope. It was a television show after all, although they had done a remarkable job of hiding the cameras and microphones. And now she thought of it, weren't Ant & Dec supposed to be here? And how come she'd never heard of any of the other so-called celebrities? For the first time, suspicion mingled with the fear she'd felt since arriving here. In fact,,, how had she arrived here?

It was suddenly very, very quiet.

Trusssst in me!

Back in Britain the nation watches, enthralled, as Jeremy Kyle's guests and audience are gassed to sleep, loaded onto trucks and delivered to Heathrow Airport. As the live action unfolds, a sum of money appears on-screen. For the first few days the figure will be in red, as it clocks up the cost of the operation, but over the coming weeks of the twenty-four-seven show it will go into the green as the total money saved is displayed.

In voice-over, Simon Cowell unveils his plans to eventually include the long-term idle, the welfare-driven baby machines, violent, unrehabilitated criminals, students attending ant-cuts demonstrations when they should be in lectures and all the other lying, cheating, drug-addled, alcohol-soaked, uneducated slackers and ship them out to a rat-infested, mosquito-plagued tropical hell hole. These jungle 'contestants' are never coming back.

Nadine Dorries should thank her lucky stars.



(When Channel Four takes up this format, I want the dosh in Swiss Francs, please.)