Anarchy in the UK

When Johhny Rotten sang about anarchy he was about twenty and in his own estimation ‘an ‘orrible little c*nt’. Now he’s over sixty and appears in butter commercials. There in a nutshell, the trajectory of man in the west: Mewling, puking babe in arms, snotty-nosed kid, smelly teenager, angst ridden youth, student political activist, job, kids, responsibility... Those few who resist the ravages of age and unwished for wisdom are variously old hippies, new age charlatans, Jeremy Corbyn or Keith Richards. And unless you’re the latter it really isn’t cool.

So, imagine my delight yesterday on being confronted by a self-declared anarchist.

Anarchy /ˈanəki/ noun, absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal

Sounds great, doesn’t it? But who mends the roads, polices disorder, collects the means to build the hospitals and heal the sick? Who pays for the clean-up operation after they’ve all kicked off, as anarchists are wont to do? Who, even, does the washing up? Even at a basic family level you have an automatic hierarchy and the most simple of human societies – all animal societies – have order; a form of governance.

He argued, lamely, that Spain had an anarchist ‘system’ for three years up to 1939. Leaving aside the obvious oxymoron, the simple absence of a government is not the same as choosing to live without one. And in any case, Spain’s anarchy had a long history of failure and several different and competing forms, which all ended up organising into ersatz governments, as they have to do if the principle feature of anarchism is to be contained, namely:

‘a state of disorder due to absence or non-recognition of authority or other controlling systems’

But my little interlocutor had his dander up; to be fair I did provoke him by suggesting that he still lived with his mother and probably had homework he should be getting on with. But that’s par for the course on The Twitter. He began searching back through my timeline, grasping at anything at all to prove his predetermined thesis about my character. And evidence was there plenty: I had retweeted a news story, thus I was gullible. I had been disparaging about so-called anti-fascists, therefore I was a fascist. And I had more followers than he had, therefore I must have bought them; in fact he seemed unduly fixated by this last point.

Impressed by his research techniques and critical thinking skills I fed him a few bones, shared him around a few of my – obviously purchased – followers and sat back to watch. He rapidly veered off from a conviction that anarchy was a noble and achievable aim and a perfect model for society and began trashing the place. He invented fictions about those he was attacking and then embellished them further and then, bored with it all, he drifted off, no doubt to record another Carpenters song on his YouTube Channel. I take it all back; maybe he is an anarchist after all.

Meanwhile, at the Asylum...

In 2016 we had a vote. The question was simple: did we want to remain in the European Union or did we want to leave? David Cameron’s government caved into decades of pressure to hold such a ballot. He went to Brussels and came away with nothing, even with this threat in the air, because none of the analysts believed the outcome would be as it turned out. To be clear about what was at stake the government spent a lot of money on a leaflet which told us how awful it would be if we left, but that whatever the result the government would implement it.

Waking up on June 24^th it was clear that things had changed forever. Despite a relentless Project Fear, predicting the end times, it seemed we were too stupid to grasp what we had done. But true to that leaflet we would henceforth make preparations to leave the union in accordance with the considered wish of the electorate... or would we? The trouble was, it was the wrong electorate; they had asked the wrong people. And just to underscore the point, Cameron promptly fled the stage.

Right from the time the result was known the motley alliance of remain voters began to behave like very bad losers. Leavers had been misled, they had been lied to and were thick enough to believe those lies. They had thoughtlessly sold their own children’s futures down the river and had voted to diminish the United Kingdom and its influence in the world. Most of all they had not-known-what-they-were-voting-for, the poor, uneducated, ignorant, old fools.

The madness took hold. As Remainers tried to rationalise the result they began to concoct conspiracy theories and imagine themselves as brave resistance fighters, saving the country from some fictional fifth column. Democracy was relabelled ‘populism’ and branded bad. Patriotism became nationalism and nationalists meant Nazis... in actual name! Remain zealots began to campaign and recruit and they told themselves that they were the righteous and thus they could only have lost because of some malign power, doing its evil in the background.

They invented reasons which denied Leavers their agency. They were some sub-class of citizen; they were selfish; they wanted to destroy all that was good. They were angry – oh, that’s good. Yes, that’s it, the poor fools were angry and helpless and were lashing out. The fact that none of this made sense, the fact that most Leavers were far from angry, didn’t matter; the denial ran deep and delusions arose to fill the cognitive void. I’m worried about Remainers because from this, calm and largely happy side of the fence they look very much like a rabid zombie horde.

As time has passed those of us who voted Leave have watched and seen much of what we expected to see; a political class in turmoil, an EU in turn cajoling and chastising, occasionally threatening and a concerted effort to thwart our departure from the bloc. All of this has just served to reinforce our long-held belief that our island nation is better governed from within, by people whose sole interest is that of Britain and its people and not in thrall to the possibilities of furthering their own ambitions on a supposedly higher stage. We have in mind more than just usurping the EU; we want government that knows it is a servant, not a ruler.

Sane in comparison...

But they can’t let it go. Some Leavers, yes, are a bit tin-hat; a bit swivel-eyed. But listening to Anna Soubry in the Commons yesterday and reading the increasingly hysterical pronouncements from A C Grayling, Alastair Campbell et al they look decidedly level-headed. We are not witnessing measured, reasoned debate from the Remain camp. I offer this beauty from unelected Remoaner-in-Chief, the ironically monickered Andrew Adonis: “We don't 'accept' that the 'war is over' because IT IS NOT OVER! The fall of Singapore was not the end of the war: when the Brits emerged from the bushes, they went on to win. Thank God. BBC has been captured by Brexiters & is in breach of its charter in its reporting.” If that isn’t somebody awaiting the men in white coats I don’t know what is.

All the President's Women

I don’t know, with the level of snowflakery around today I hardly dare leave the house at times. I can’t turn on the television because I know ‘they’ are monitoring my every move. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they have installed eye-tracking technology into the screen so they can check out where my gaze falls. The other day I saw a brief excerpt from an old Kenny Everett show. I had to quickly switch sides when Hot Gossip came on, but that was even worse because I found myself on something called Celebrity Shove-it-up-yer-Bum Island or some such.

Off went the telly, quick-sharp. Then I had to lie down in a darkened, lavender-scented room for a while, although I expect even that retreat to solitary will be somehow brought up at my trial as evidence of deviant male activity. It could be suggested that trying not to think about short hemlines and matching knickers with high heels is almost as bad – if not worse – than actually forcing myself upon some hapless waitress. Okay, my bad, I confess; I once ogled a girl in a bikini on a beach who wandered into my field of view. It was only fleeting but, yes, I understand how this is practically rape nowadays.

Far from wondering whether you might be causing offence it looks like the direction of travel is towards having to report daily to demonstrate how you have not caused offence... which I find a tad offensive – or I would if I was really bothered about such things. I’ve thought about it and I genuinely don’t care; take me as you find me. But I am fascinated by this joyless road towards conformity and dull, dull uniformity of speech and thought. Fuck ‘em though; I will continue to speak my mind and if you’re offended the door is over there.

High jinks masquerading as sensation seems to be the news of the week as the President’s Club fundraiser continues to spread alarums and rebuttals. The Great Ormond Street Hospital and others are talking about returning donations made, which they now believe are tainted by association with, what by some accounts are satanic rituals up to and including virgin sacrifice. A number of goats were interviewed after the event, but none of them wanted to press charges, afraid their kids may be affected.

People have resigned from the organisation, which has raised millions for good causes. Members of Parliament present at the dinner have presented themselves to the Star Chamber to be stripped of all privilege and paraded in the press. Reputations have been ruined and the behaviour of all men everywhere is now under scrutiny; unless, of course you happen to belong to a ‘community’ protected from prosecution by the catch-all excuse of cultural sensitivity.

Next year's approved look...

Make up your own mind about it. In this morally relative world  it is variously a sordid and sinister tale of astonishing depravity, a rare opportunity for men to let their hair down, an exercise in damaging male privilege, tantamount to sex slavery, less offensive than many ‘Ladies Nights’, a scandalous confection of fake rage, or of no interest whatsoever. Or, as I see it, a mild curiosity and an exemplar of the hysterical instincts of a small sector of the morally outraged to anybody – especially any male – seen to be having fun. Don't have a nice weekend. 

In Praise of Eugenics.

I have been heard to say, often, that were I King I would begin my reign with a cull. It might be politically incorrect to say it out loud, but by god it’s a popular sentiment. The right-on Social Media Justice Mob will pretend to be horrified but they are not averse to wishing for or celebrating the death of their own hate figures; and given the means and opportunity to sterilise every Tory there is hardly a Labour activist in the land who wouldn’t tacitly, if not openly, endorse the sentiment.

Ben Bradley, the Conservative’s newly promoted Vice Chair for Youth, has been under fire lately for some blogs and tweets he published when he was a callow youth himself (not so long ago). He suggested that those who can’t afford children should think twice about having them. He dared to write: "Sorry but how many children you have is a choice; if you can't afford them, stop having them! Vasectomies are free," Cue the righteous outrage from the usual suspects. Eugenicist! Burn him! Jordan Peterson is dead right; it is but a short step from espousing these views to enacting them.

Today, eugenics is – like many past ideals – excoriated as an inhumanity. But it was once at the forefront of progressive thinking; the most applauded thinkers of the day dreamed of an improved human race. After all, what’s not to desire – a healthy, intelligent, long-lived, low-disease population is an indisputably high aspiration. And we still quietly do it by social means; education, encouraging family planning, discouraging those with hereditary disadvantages, emphasizing personal advancement. In short, coercion to ‘do the right thing’.

But a certain German Chancellor – among others - put paid to wholescale societal planning by trying to accelerate the process. Nowadays, those pesky human rights, which include the right to reproduce, get in the way, although I’ve never been convinced by that supposedly basic imperative; I’ve never felt the urge and I’m sure it could be controlled. If you are a walking cauldron of the genetic soup and mental capacity to breed and rear untermenschen maybe your greatest gift to the furtherance of mankind would be to voluntarily make yourself an evolutionary cul-de-sac.

Of course if you were sufficiently aware and had such a conscience, then you wouldn’t be that person anyway; it’s a tricky one, isn’t it? But the problem with trying to influence population from a top-down level will always reside with who gets to make the decision. If Momentum’s Labour Party were in power you could reasonably bet that they would pursue the chopping down of grand family trees while creating entire plantations of future Labour voters. But wouldn’t the Tories want to do much the same?

The latest crop of Labour voters, ready to harvest

It seems that state intervention is doomed to failure. Just as well we all do eugenics at an individual level, even if we call it something different. We choose our partners – what monsters we are! But anyway, the basic idea has never gone away, I don’t think it ever will. These days we try and improve the genetic stock, at least at a uni-generational level, by new forms of medical treatment; gene therapy, gene editing, etc and few people bat an eyelid. Would you like your children to be healthy and happy? Try eugenics! We’re going to need a new name.

You all have something

So there you are, you have reached the age of majority and now you have to decide which path you will take. Actually, it is highly likely that your future road has already been determined and the first steps already taken. Did you have a paper round, or a Saturday job; or did you have both? Are you destined for the world of work and all the promises it holds? Are you eager to work hard, learn, progress and grow and seek success? We all know what kind of insufferable know-it-all you are, then.

Or have you already embarked on the ship of state, set sail for destinations predetermined and ready for others to decide your future course? Are you already inured to the tedium of daily life punctuated by bouts of hedonistic frenzy, fuelled on cheap booze, smuggled fags and the recreational drugs of your choice and pocket? Do you dream of being on a reality TV show, or winning X-Factor... or, preferably the National Lottery, which takes far less effort?

Obviously, if you are on the great work treadmill you are busily rationing your pleasures, squirrelling away as much as you can for a deposit on a home of your own. Of course, once you get that mortgage you will have to stay in work forever repaying it and all the advances you will need to take on in order to improve the shithole you bought in a shitty part of town. There will be plenty of times it doesn’t seem worth it, especially when you look at people around you who are still in social housing.

Oh yes, you sneer at the mugs, working for a living, as they disturb your mornings with their engines idling as they clear their windscreens of ice. Idiots, going out in the cold to work ungodly hours. They probably have to put into a pension pot, too, unlike you, sitting pretty atop a small treasure hoard of benefits for life. They even have to take time off from work, possibly unpaid, to go to the doctors, whereas all you have to do is pause daytime TV while you hop in a taxi to the surgery a few hundred yards away. And as for having kids...

You have to plan, you have to choose – which one of you packs in work, which one of you stays at home? How many children can you even afford? Decisions, decisions; what about schools? No more expensive holidays. Make the car last another few years. Graft and grind, graft and grind. Taxes going up? You’ll just have to work harder. Get that promotion, climb that greasy pole. Buy a bigger house nearer a better school and knuckle down to investing heavily in your new family.

What do you mean, my kids have been in trouble? It’s the teachers’ job to keep them in line, although good luck to ya; the little bastards run us ragged at home. And anyway it’s no wonder they’re like that. Have you seen the conditions we have to live in? Not fit for animals. Had the Housing Association out ten times in the last month to fix stuff we broke. Sometimes we had to wait days an’ all. Be glad when the bloody kids are off our hands and in their own council houses, although they give ‘em all to immigrants now. Bloody government should do something.

And you both end up the same. Both of you have somewhere to live, both of you have a pension enough to get by on. One through a lifetime of entitlement, the other through a lifetime of effort; which was most satisfying? The worker may not appear any more well off than the other guy; he may even have foregone some of the pleasures the other guy enjoyed. But, as they say, think of the children. One has nothing to pass on; his kids start at square one. The other has at least a tangible asset to hand down, along with a lifetime of observed work ethic.

Depending on others for your living makes you a serf (although at least serfs worked). You have no means to improve your lot. As a way of life this is somewhat beneath the standards of human dignity for those in the west, who have opportunity at their feet. Besides others genuinely need the state largesse which you consume. You want to improve welfare? Start by taking yourself out of it; if not completely, then a bit at a time. You may not make it in a generation, but give your next generation the chance. Forget about the haves and the have-nots; you all have something to pass on - make it count.