Power to the People! (a short story)

As always, it started with a simple enough idea. Hal and Mel were not natural entrepreneurs, far from it. Indeed they’d spent the better part of their post-university years effectively living on handouts. Handouts from the state in the form of various benefit payments-du-jour. Handouts from the public for sitting on street corners, often with a small dog, a sign and an arsenal of three-chord tricks. Handouts from absent homeowners in whose dwellings they squatted, always fully intending to maintain them but somehow letting them fall into what the cynical might call disrepair.

It wasn’t for want of trying; Hal, after all, had a degree in Ecology, Biodiversity and Conservation but following a three-year, gap-year had signally failed to find employment that suited his rigorous ethics. He had once decided to set up a landscape gardening business, but without a driving licence, or start-up capital to purchase a van, or any inclination to offer his services to the vile capitalist scum who might be able to afford them, the business plan foundered within the time it took to finish the pint that had inspired the notion.

Mel, on the other hand had once worked ‘for the man’. To supplement his meagre student grant – meagre because his parents were accountants and grants were means-tested – he had held down several part-time jobs during his time at university. Initially studying Economics he had decided after two years, probably quite correctly, that the world would be a better place without more economists and transferred to read Political Philosophy.

There is, of course, only one political philosophy that anybody actually studies, so after two more years and many drunken nights he had emerged, blinking into the new dawn of a greedy world, a fully paid-up and unashamed Marxist. Back in the early eighties it was an important credential for any Union job in the fight against the imagined tyranny of the Thatcher government. Of course, in order to take up a union job he would actually need to join a union and thus risk the round-the-clock surveillance of MI5. He hadn’t read 1984 for nothing, so turned instead to fight the good fight from the underground, which was, coincidentally, where he met Hal, competing for a prime busking spot.

Rivalry had blossomed into grudging respect and eventual friendship and by the end of the decade of greed, during which their peers had embarked on careers, bought houses and raised happy families, Hal and Mel were finding their feet as regular participants of the fringe protestation industry. Since those early beginnings they had banned bombs, freed basset hounds, marched on Downing Street and fought side by side at the Third Battle of Newbury to the unexpectedly unvoiced gratitude of the thousands who daily endured the misery of the A34’s inadequate transit of the town.

In fact it could be said that the Newbury bypass was Hal and Mel’s road to Damascus, for it was here that Healthy Manna was formed. Feeding the five thousand or more protesters under the constant gaze of the world’s media was no mean task and the opportunistic invasion of greasy capitalist catering vans was anathema to the ethically intense and mostly vegetarian denizens of the tent city.

Rapidly running out of Quorn™ sausages for the makeshift barbecue it was Mel who suggested he was willing to scout for more and headed to an outlying branch of Iceland with the proceeds of a whip-round. On his return with the entire shop supply (five packs) and much more change than he’d expected he found the barbecue abandoned and the protesters engaged in a pitched battle with the police. HM’s first profit nestled snugly in Mel’s pocket.

From there it was a small logical leap to attend the protests ‘going equipped’, with farmers’ market-bought stock selling at captive audience retail prices. Healthy Manna became a fixture at any respectable placard-waving events; Hal and Mel’s guerrilla credentials ensured a healthy turnover and raised fists of solidarity greeted them at every venue.

Inevitably the economic imperatives brought forth competition, but now Mel was in his element. For the first time in his life he actually understood this shit! Incorporation, expansion and diversification; suddenly it all made perfect sense. The brand acquired a killer, new-age logo and within a few short years a fleet of state-of-the-art catering trucks brought wholesome hippy provender to festivals, sporting events and marches alike.

To keep costs down and thus feed their happy-hippy followers within the tight budgets of their state-gifted incomes they sourced ever cheaper ingredients from increasingly dubious sources while tacitly maintaining their ethical credentials and ‘right-on’ unwritten mission statement. They were the people’s caterers, but before long, a decision had to be made.

Prosper or perish? No contest. The corporate world welcomed the launch of HM Plc in the heady days of the new millennium and soon they became a global brand with outlets on every city street corner. Anti-corporate sympathisers the world over willingly donned Healthy Manna tee shirts and HM made millions on the sale of merchandise alone.

Hal & Mel were applauded for not having sold out themselves – even though their accountants had skilfully managed to dispose of their shares and any liability in the company, converting their former holdings into multi-million-pound offshore tax-exempt funds – and they still attended as many radical interventions as time allowed. In fact their main reason for selling up was to achieve a better, more wholesome, work-protest balance. Two weeks in Antigua, a week on the picket lines. Fight the good fight.

And so it was that Hal and Mel, painted urban warriors and protest gods in monster 4x4s, arrived in October 2011 to Occupy St Paul’s Square. As their personal staff erected the tents they wandered off to the nearby H&M Plc Solidarity Café. With grande choca-mocha-capa-lattes in hand, they paused for a moment under the clenched fist logo and raised their cups in a toast. “Cheers comrade!” said Hal, “Now let’s go and smash the capitalist running dogs!”

Sticks and Ouch!

Imagine my utter surprise to get home after a long day at whatever it is I do, only to slip into my big, single slipper, don my slanket and open the Internet to discover (Shock! Horror! Inquiry!) that cyberweblogspace is brimming over with mentals. Who knew? And it's all so inconsequential. On the one hand there are people being attacked and personally insulted, who do nothing more to enrage their assailants than to ignore them. On the other hand there are the eejits with entrenched, evidence-free views, incapable of considering an alternative vista, yabbering inanities at each other.

And they all seem to get quite excited, but it's still just words, right? Furthermore it's a war of the words which can easily be avoided by blocking, deleting, ignoring or just plain refusing to read them. So I can only conclude that those who get themselves dragged into slanging matches must be so deranged that they can't see the idiocy of their actions. 

Or maybe they just like a good scrap? Now I enjoy a natter with a nutter as much as the next bloke, but once it turns personal I’m usually out of there. In the words of every single scene of Eastenders I've ever had the sorry misfortune to witness, “Leeeeave it! It ain't worf it!” But, with fifty shades of prey out there, the inter-sadists just can’t help themselves.

The trouble is, it’s getting harder to be inventively offensive and even the e-bully’s favourite cuss word now has to be rendered in capital letters at least three times before anybody even recognises it as an insult. Cnuts. We desperately need some new words to add zest to cyber-pestering, so I've had a go at inventing some; please feel free to add, steal, amend or re-use any or all of the following to express your absolute disgust at the very existence of anybody who dares to disagree with you. 

Clitch, Fwat, crunt, bantist, fucktone, felchtard, clungebunt, dampclap, bastern, twonge, fluclampit, craptickler, arsebint, wankwright, tossperson, climmerfladgett, belltwert, fringlersrump, flickerfunt, flimey, arseringling, ringclumper, flatupant, fuckcuntle, framstamper... and an improvement on yer basic twat ~> twaart. 

After that lot I now feel the need to offend somebody just for the sake of it. Now where can I find somebody who can't answer back, the attacking of whom does me no credit whatsoever? Oh here we go; thank you Daily Mail for this story about how parents are doing their best to get their kids on the bullying roster at the earliest opportunity. 

The Geldofs have form in this area, so this might be more difficult than for the average Rooney. Wish me luck; here goes:

Should have been called 'Nastala' - ugly little muntfunkle

I shall now sit back and await my justly deserved and hate-filed fate. Comments down there... if you dare, you bunch of snurdling, scriming, fringle-fucking crumpsticks!

Ding dong the witch is... Oh.

The Iron Lady lives on to infuriate small-minded people another day. Yesterday a bogus Twitter account @OfficialSkyNews reported that she had died and this false news triggered outpourings of glee and the popping of champagne corks in the households of all kinds of Socialist and in the supposed caring communities who have long harboured a death wish on her behalf.

So much for the moral high ground allegedly occupied by the left. To them Mrs Thatcher embodied the whole ideology of (boo!) Nasty Tory and yet the hypocrisy of their premature dancing on her grave is entirely lost in their irony-free world. Theirs is a world where serious attempts to slim down the wasteful behemoths of state-run services are derided in favour of the ideological approach of over-feeding; killing with self-congratulatory kindness and turning a blind eye to the bloated results.

Watching the BBC2 documentary 'In their own words'  about the 2011 riots, which the Thatcher-haters would dearly love to pin on her, some twenty years after leaving office, it was clear that the looters were acting out sheer greed and self-interest, a human trait that crosses all social divides and affiliations. To continue to blame everything bad in the world on one person when it is largely due to a fundamental flaw in all of us is a pivotal plank of their political philosophy. 

But so strong is the hatred in the hearts of the raving reds that they are utterly blind to the notion that the alternative might have been so much worse. And to imagine for one second that a single thing will change when an old and much-loved lady dies is nothing but a form of collective denial of the facts of human existence. So, put away the fizz and blow out the candles, Lefties. Take down the bunting, get back to work and take a moment to think about what you've done.

You might want to start your journey back to the light here. [<~link]

Wrong to work?

Hmm, I happened upon an interesting discussion yesterday in which a lawyer was arguing with a benefit recipient about the relative merits of their respective endeavours. The lawyer pontificated about the apparent lifestyle choice of the supposed scrounger and its validity, resting on the principle ‘wrong to work’.

The benefit recipient, quite rightly asked what (if anything) positive came from the lawyer's work. The lawyer lost the argument (soundly, it appeared to me) when the only response mustered was 'achieving equality for clients'. This was countered with the accusation that, as an intangible benefit, equality didn’t count as value.

Then, naturally, the labels started flying, starting with something like commie, which resulted in the lazy and obvious retaliation of fascist, swiftly followed by Tory, red, chav, scum, toff and all the usual suspects and before you could say ‘giro’ the whole argument was a busted flush.

If the validity of somebody's existence lies in the sum of 'worth' they provide to the world, it could very easily be argued that lawyers, as a ‘species’, contribute very much to the deficit. In fact the best paid lawyers are generally retained by those whose own actions are highly questionable – that’s antimoral leverage in action. It is no accident that many US politicians and presidents have practised law, a trend becoming ever more popular over here.

So, stalemate? I don't believe in rewarding idleness - how could any rational thinker? But I actually quite like the idea of 'wrong to work' in a sense - it is often said that if you find a job you love you never have to work again. And if more people were happy there would be less need for bloody lawyers in the first place!

I understand and support the idea of a financial safety net – instant evictions and suchlike would only create yet more work for lawyers, after all – but any such system will always be open to exploitation by the unscrupulous. We’ve seen it happen time and time again.

But, rich or poor, fit or lame, the concept of earning a living still applies. If you earn your place by graft or talent or by the largesse of those around you it shouldn’t matter until you are perceived as taking the piss. This applies as much to tax-avoiders being ostentatious as it does to those fraudulently ‘on the sick’. Nobody should get a free ride (although you should be allowed to coast in the slipstream from time to time).

Self-sufficiency is a laudable aim and moral self-sufficiency is a grand idea, except for the huge lack of self-awareness that man displays, but unless you want to cut yourself off completely it can rarely work. Bartering a few eggs or an occasional sack of spuds is hardly likely to fund a Sky subscription. For that you need money.

And there’s your problem, right there. Even if you reset everything and money became merely an intermediary currency, it would take no time at all for human avarice to re-establish, then accelerate, the wealth gap. In a grown-up world, I guess you just have to accept that and choose which course of living makes you least unhappy.

Is it so wrong to work? (Comments below)

The Slippery Slope

You know the old joke: Q. What's a Freudian slip? A. It's when you say one thing but you mean your mother.

Yesterday I witnessed (from my secret Internet hidey-hole – I’m not a weirdo; I’ve been tested.) two grown men discussing psychology like it was a science. Yes, I know, an actual science! At best, psychology is an amalgam of folkloric wisdom and some best-guesswork to explain, for example, why the outsider beat the favourite, or why being bullied makes you sad. At worst it offers a mountebank’s solution to man's desire to overcome the weaknesses of mankind; grifters, after all, use psychological traits to exploit their marks. Some in the psyche game do the same with public funding.

What we used to call nerves we now label performance anxiety. What was once shyness has blossomed and polyfurcated into a whole industry pivoting about self-esteem. I've never met a psychologist who wasn’t a little odd; not because of any obvious defect in their basic intelligence, but if ever there was a sub-set of humanity needing validation... And then there’s the language of the game: Id, ego, super-ego, angst, gestalt, gruppentherapeutische; much psychology is hokum, masquerading as truth, engaged in by the needy and validated by the use of complex phrases. In German.

The best practitioners of useful psychology are the observant; it's why your cat has the measure of you and why you love your dog even though he appears to be an abject fool; both know how to push your buttons. In other words, despite the wholesale destruction of entire forests to record man's fascination with the inner workings of the mind, the average psychologist is no better judge of character than your nan. Criminal psychology is exactly that - a criminal waste of resources pursuing a conclusion that could be arrived at by a Women's Guild knitting circle with a fraction of the fuss.

Lest you think I’m dismissing mental aberration and illness out of hand, I’m not; there are some real nutters out there (not me though – I've been tested). But it’s a very convenient peg to hang any and all of your anxieties and failures on and there is an army of practitioners - some genuinely helpful, some manipulative charlatans, some misguided amateurs – ready to part you from your (or the taxpayers’) money.

The talking cure in particular is a stroke of genius. Everybody – I mean everybody has at some time felt the need to unload to a stranger - it's what barmaids are for. But offloading to a 'professional' on a regular basis is a drastic measure. After his Southern Oceans ordeal Tony Bullimore famously turned down offers of therapy on the basis that it was a load of old bollocks and he had actual, real friends and family to talk to.

That is not to say that the study of psychology is not valid, or that psychotherapy does not help people, but it’s not so long since the study of phrenology was taken seriously and while the dedicated psychologist presumably looks down his nose at homeopathy, crystal healing and horoscopes – palpable nonsense, all – they might just bear in mind that they are held in much the same regard by a significant proportion of the population (blokes, mostly… chicks will fall for anything!). J

So next time you feel the urge to get help, why not catch yourself on and head off to the park I mean pub (I’m not strange! I’ve been tested!).