Porkies

Some people think I’m against socialism. Far from it; it sounds a grand idea. And one day, when we all have an equal sense of social justice and responsibility and when we live in a world with boundless resources and unfettered brotherly love it may even be possible. From each according to his means, to each according to his needs as they reasonably say; who could argue against this misty-eyed, sentimental portrait of shared humanity?

Except, just how do you judge what one man’s means and another man’s needs are? Fancying a bit of a sit down isn’t the same as being unable to stand. Feeling ill because you’ve worked hard isn’t the same as working yourself into the grave. And earning a king’s ransom isn’t really a measure of wealth if you are a king... who needs to pay a ransom. The second you stand in judgement regarding what another may earn, or be paid in benefits for not earning, you unleash the green-eyed beast that lies within us all. Don’t even dare to fool yourself that you are above such thoughts.

Envy doesn’t have to be expressed in purely material terms – maybe your neighbour doesn’t pray enough yet has not been struck by lightning? Or is too intemperate in his language for your comfort and you resent his freedom to swear. What if, one of those sultry summer nights, when you are heading off to sleep before getting up to go to work, the workless family next door open all the windows and crank up the volume? How come his kids all have iPhones when you have told yours they can’t just have things because they crave them? At the point where you believe your rewards lag behind others who deserve less the whole edifice and artifice of socialism begins to crumble.

Education, re-education, social programming – call it brainwashing – has been tried over and over again and while it can cloud a young person’s judgement for a while, it generally doesn’t survive success. The other tack, a lack of education and maintaining blissful ignorance of a world beyond only gets you so far; life experience has a way of intruding on your utopian trance and peeling back the layers to reveal the bitter onion beneath. What we need is to be able to breed a whole new type of human, designed from the embryo onwards to exude love and fairness for his fellow man and unswerving loyalty to the state which created him.

The pig-children are our future...

So it is timely that scientists are now experimenting with stem cell research and the growing of human body parts in chimaeras. Not the lion/goat/snake motley of ancient Greek mythology but a human/pig hybrid. (David Cameron isn’t the only one to have dallied with inserting a human organ into a pig ... and won’t be the last.) While the science may be in its infancy, the future possibilities have not escaped the Dark Lords of the EU. Imagine being able to breed the perfect porcine humanoid animal; obedient, non-argumentative, happy to grub about in shit and above all, equal. But a word of caution lest you get carried away by the possibilities; never forget, some animals are more equal than others.

Survivor!

As a cold war kid back in the sixties a common theme was survival. On joining the Boy Scouts and being ‘legally’ allowed to carry a weapon on me at all times – you never know when something needs whittling – I decided to take Baden-Powell’s advice to heart and make ‘be prepared’ my watchword. It was a popular thing back then and became doubly so during the hysteria of the early seventies, to put together survival kits. First aid kits to survive accidents, stockpiling to ameliorate shortages and cater for unexpected visits of distant relatives, tool kits for every contingency and of course total, all-out, apocalyptic nucleargeddon. It was almost disappointing when the promised bombs never came.

I remember a ‘utility hat’, with things secreted about its structure – a razor blade folded into the headband, a pen and pencil tucked into the lining and oh what I wouldn’t have given for one of those silk printed maps that downed bomber pilots would use to navigate home through Nazi-dominated Europe, having tunnelled out of a Stalag Luft or two. But my favourite survival kit was the one I kept in a cigar tube, craftily repurposed following some family gathering, yet for the life of me I can’t remember anyone in my family who could have afforded to buy an expensive cigar.

Anyway as I recall it contained a cornucopia of fanciful gadgetry should I ever find myself the lone survivor of a disaster, thermo-nuclear or otherwise: Fishing line and hooks. A scalpel, possibly for performing some rudimentary form of surgery. A saw-wire for felling trees to build shelter. Flint and tinder to make fire – always supposing the landscape all around wasn’t already ablaze. There was also a solar still for collecting drinking water and a tin opener from an army ration pack. And of course, I could fight off attacks from marauding packs of zombie mutants with my trusty sheath knife. Suffice to say, I survived.

I wonder where it is now; it could come in handy in a couple of weeks for when we enter the dead zone beyond Referendum Day. Pro Remain campaigners are fond of saying there is a clear case for staying in; that the argument is clearly on their side; that the economic facts clearly show that we should vote to stay. But no such clarity exists; literally nobody knows what awaits us on June 24^th. If it was so clear, there would be no need of a referendum and the preceding lengthy process of claim and counter-claim which is dividing the nation. Whatever happens the old scout motto couldn’t be more pertinent; Be prepared.  

Have you packed your toothbrush?

So, what would you want to have in your post-Brexit survival kit? Bearer bonds, gold, a mattress stuffed with dollars? Maybe you’ve stocked the larder with the sort of exotic foodstuffs you think we’ll no longer be allowed to buy? Is the car full of fuel? Do you have a generator for when the lights go out? Vitamin C tablets to ward off scurvy? In or out, the best things you can pack are a sense of proportion, a modicum of self-sufficient clarity, as much common sense as you can muster and make sure your stock of good old British sense of humour is intact. You’re going to need lots of that to survive the next 17 days...

Little Britain

We never quite understood why the British had to hold that referendum, way back in 2016. It was like a kick in the teeth after the EU had done so much and bent over so far backwards to accommodate the pretensions of the British government. Pretensions that Britain was somehow different from the rest of us; better, even. Pretensions that Britain deserved a loftier place in the group, that it should have a special status in the union. The referendum was a tense time but when they voted the right way things settled back down and we could get on with the business of bringing forward the plans that had been held in abeyance even as we held our breath.

As a united Europe we are uniquely privileged and enjoy advantages that many countries do not. We have full employment once again; everybody who is able has a job. Of course since the rationing of fossil fuels for non-party officials was put in place there are many more physical jobs. Human and animal muscle power is once again a major resource so labour commands a decent price and we are all now paid an equal, living wage which is more than enough for our needs. We know this is so because Brussels economists have calculated it and we are told it daily by the public broadcasts when they also inform us of our productivity rates. It would be nice to be able to have our own televisions like they used to, but it is vital that we save precious resources and preserve the planet and besides, attending the broadcasts gives us a greater sense of community.

That camaraderie also gets us through our working days in the fields. We mostly eat vegetables now, as growing crops absorbs carbon dioxide and is much less damaging than rearing livestock. Of course, the Eurocrats have to host other nation states from outside Europe all the time, so they need to serve meat at the regular state banquets. This is an example of how the party officials make a greater sacrifice for the good of the union – we are all taught at school that eating meat causes cancer, so this shows how brave our leaders are. We are kept safer and healthier by eating soya instead.

Work for all!

Food is a much bigger focus now than it was before. Because we spend so much time growing it and spend so much of our household incomes buying it. So it is also to our benefit that the commission decided to introduce the Communities Act some thirty years ago. To accommodate the needs of our new citizens – Africa, like Turkey, although not a full, fee-paying member of the EU has full freedom of movement – we were all rehoused in brand new, super apartments with enough bedrooms for our welcome guests. We now have huge families as a result of obeying the directive to ‘match a migrant’; for every original family member we now have a vibrant and diverse addition. And rape isn’t the problem that some warned about; it has simply been decriminalised on cultural accommodation grounds.

So, after all the divisions and emotive language and all the old enmities that the British referendum brought up it was a relief to us all that they voted to discontinue their membership and leave us in peace in Europe. Nobody over here much bothers with them any more and not much news ever reaches us from Little Britain. For all we know they are still eating meat, like savages, and driving all over their poxy little island in cars, destroying the planet. And living in pathetic little individual houses... and not paying for the privilege.

Going for Gove

It started off reasonably enough: “I think people in this country have had enough of experts, enough of organisations with acronyms saying they know what is best…” said Michael Gove last night. What he meant, of course, is expert advice is at best an educated guess and many expert predictions (or non-predictions) have proved false. The expert left wing economist David Blanchflower forecast that 500,000 jobs would be lost if the Tories ever got into power. And ‘experts’ have for many decades been warning of six days to save the NHS.

Many experts are funded by groups in whose interests they broadcast their advice or their visions of the future, yet rarely are they brought to account for their errors or for their deliberately misleading partisan announcements because their purpose has already been achieved; if you can’t see the future you can at least attempt to shape it. Announce a rise in the numbers with wheat allergies and you will see a rise in the numbers imagining they have wheat allergies. Keep telling everybody they will be worse off and they will begin to feel worse off. Aside from obvious professional competence in medicine, mechanics, science and the like, expertise is a slippery thing. Alchemists were experts of a kind.

But Gove’s perfectly reasonable articulation of what an enormous number of people feel but never get the chance to say to an audience was deftly interrupted so that Faisal Islam could then repeatedly claim that he said “We’ve had enough of experts.” And there was the headline. People who didn’t watch the Sky News ‘town hall’ event – and quite a few columnists who did – now believe that Michael Gove, the Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for justice, who relies all the time on being briefed by experts, has summarily dismissed their views.

Oh, how do they lie to you? Let me count the ways... The distortion of what interviewees are trying to say has become commonplace in our relentless pursuit of making a drama out of a crisis, itself founded on perfectly ordinary events. A misplaced pronoun, an ill-advised word and the real message is lost, twisted into something far from that intended. Not long ago Benedict Cumberbatch was pilloried for accidentally calling people ‘coloured’ instead of whatever approved term was then in favour – white people aren’t fully briefed in this area. And when Diane James was trying to make a fair point about a preference for employing English-speaking foreign workers in the health service she was howled down by a mob just looking for an opportunity to denounce her as a racist.

The electorate complain that there are insufficient facts availabe to make a decision over the issue of British sovereignty versus European Union supremacy. They are bombarded with soundbites which either speak to their own prejudices or rattle their previous understanding. How much do we ‘send’ to Brussels each week? How many jobs ‘depend’ on membership of the EU? Who will win and who will lose if we leave or if we stay? None of these questions are truly accurately quantifiable and even if such accurate figures were available they would be dressed up and gift-wrapped and PR’d and offered for sale under a campaign which fundamentally ignored the unalloyed truth.

So, it all comes down to feel. Who do you like the look of? Who sounds like he’s your friend and not like a sharp-suited salesman? Who do you trust? Michael Gove’s argument was really about all of this; the lack of trust in the political and big business elites; the sense of cards being stacked against the ordinary worker (‘twas ever thus); the weight of oppressive power represented by centralised, bullying, unelected government. By the way Faisal Islam kept on interrupting and misquoting him, he was rather in danger of appearing to be on the side of the bullies himself.

No gimmicks - over to you...

Whatever the truth of the matter the central question for this referendum has little to do with facts and experts and televised debates and battle buses and twenty-four hour media coverage. In or out, there will be consequences for a relatively small number of people; for the majority little will change. The question is, do you believe in an independent Britain, governed democratically, where the government can be held to account by the people? Or would you prefer to leave your fate and that of your children in the hands of bureaucrats whose roles you can’t describe and whose names you’ve never known? 

You're Fired!

David Cameron’s appearance before an audience of inquisitors left the nation – those of us who could be bothered to watch, at least – unimpressed. After a light mauling from Faisal Islam in which the Prime Minister looked surprised to be treated without the usual deference he spent much of the time during audience questions on the ropes. The smooth, well-rehearsed arguments against Brexit Armageddon sounded so much less effective from the small stage than when trumpeted from a banner headline or belted out at a rally. This section of the British public was not signing any open letter in support at any time soon.

The relentless advance of Project Fear may be taking its toll, with voters becoming weary of hearing so many fantasy sums describing their folly and demise should they dare oppose their masters. There may be a stirring in the belly of the beast and a lust for more blood now it seems the first has been drawn. While we may not yet see rows of bloody heads on pikes on Westminster railings, there is undoubtedly an appetite at large for the political elites to be brought to account for their actions.

Were Britain the banana republic many believe we are becoming as the EU progressively clamps down on our freedoms of speech and expression and behaviour and thought, the backlash for a failed political gambit might be a traitor’s trial and swift execution thereafter. So let us imagine such a scene: David Cameron, Jeremy Corbyn and Theresa May are all to be punished for working for the enemies of the crown. The death penalty has been reinstated and the judge asks them to name the means of their despatch. Before the other two have the chance to reply, Jeremy blurts out “Firing squad!” Aghast, May and Cameron begin to protest but it is too late. The black cap is donned and the sentence delivered. The waiting crowds cheer.

“You bastard, Jeremy” says Cameron but Corbyn explains: “Don’t worry comrades, as an old revolutionary I know about these things. There is a code of honour which will work in our favour. Not all the guns are loaded, so that even the marksmen don’t know who fired the killing shot. In order that they don’t see the bullet from their gun entering the target they take aim, but close their eyes when pulling the trigger.” Theresa May curls her lip and snarls “Yes, but we’re still dead anyway.” Jeremy smiles “Ah but, if they all miss, it is considered cruel to put you through the ordeal again. If they miss, you go free. All you have to do is distract them at the point of firing and you’re in with a chance.”

They agree to follow Jeremy’s lead and he volunteers to be the first in line. Smiling at the squad of unwitting executioners he refuses the blindfold, calmly takes up his position and faces the muzzles. “Ready!” cries the squad commander. The rifles are brought to shoulder. “Aim!” Six muzzles all point towards the black patch pinned to Jeremy’s breast and fingers rest on triggers. Then, just as the commander is about to give the order Jeremy shouts out, “Oh look, squirrel!” The guns rattle their brief tattoo and when the smoke clears Jeremy is standing there unscathed but for a small graze on his shoulder. He is led from the compound, a free man.

Theresa is up next. She trembles a little as the patch is pinned in place and her legs almost give way. She thinks frantically as a new squad take up their positions and load their magazines. The orders come: “Ready!” Her mind races as she thinks... “Aim!” the guns turn her way, then... “Incoming! Incoming!” She yells and points to the sky. The guns spit bullets unevenly and miraculously, Theresa escapes with little more than a headache. It is David Cameron’s turn.

Social media death sentence...

The third squad is marched in and preparations begin. The new squad commander briefs them and leads them in a short brief prayer that their aim be true and their consciences clean. They line up and load and Cameron is marched to the spot. Silence descends as the spectators fall into a hush and watch. “Ready!” comes the first order. The crowd tenses for the finale. “Aim!” barks the commander, they pause and then... Just as the fingers tense on the triggers, David Cameron points and shouts “Fire! Fire!”