Monday, April 05, 2021

More Tea?


 

There’s a turnaround for the books: during Saturday’s KillTheBill protest in London, the crowd effectively kettled the police.
Now whether this occurred due to good planning on the side of the protesters or bad planning by the police, it is refreshing to see the police being subjected to intimidation for a change.
My limited experience in protest marching leads me to find it hard to believe that the crowd was trained to perform this manoeuvre but rather that is a case of the Police being untrained to deal with a situation where they don’t have the upper hand; in addition, it would appear that the Police management (like all management) is incompetent.
I take comfort from the fear that was evident in the actions of the individual cops, some of whom had lost their Easter bonnets, leaving their pink cock-heads exposed to the elements.

Monday, March 22, 2021

Dead Binary Star


 

The majority shareholders in Empire UK employ two agencies to take care of the controls.
Agency 1 is the Ministry of Propaganda
Agency 2 is the Ministry of Division (not to be confused with the Division Division which consists of only 2 civil servants who spend their days throwing insults at one another).
Agency 1 is the Ministry of Information.
Agency 2 is the Home Office.
These agencies are a powerful weapon that has been moulded and manipulated and pointed directly at the populace.
Don’t believe me?
Look again:
  1. Brexit is a new shiny badge in the trophy cabinet at the Ministry of Division.
  2. The Ministry of Propaganda disputes the accolade but is happy to take ownership of the pandemic message and spreads it zealously, exploiting all cultural references and fingerholds in the edifice of society. Or to put it more bluntly: The corporate media outlets (and I include all terrestrial media outlets here) are telling you what the Major Shareholders want you to believe.
  3. The Ministry of Division would like to remind The Ministry of Propaganda that it (Propaganda) is often spreading the message devised by itself (Division).
Both of these Agencies are only as good as their tools.
These tools range from ancestral prejudice and regional pride; the flags of your neighbour to boil your blood; to fingering the wounds inflicted during the empire’s murky military peak.
These tools range from psychological profiling, focus groups and, to some degree, that which they can fish from the myriad waters of The Social Media.
At the blunt end of The Home Office’s toolbox are the Police (Or the Police Force, to give it its more accurate title.)
It is no mystery why the Police Force is generally uniformed in Black & White.
The Police Force has no interest in propaganda, believing as it does, that it is an entity unto itself; a truly binary entity whose individual atoms are well aware that the undefined area between definitions of lawful and unlawful are where any situation is most easily exploited to their advantage.
And, if that fails to convince the non-complier, then The Police Force is the baton hand that reigns down blows before the erect penis of the Ministry of Division.
One way or the other these agencies are tasked with making sure that you obey.
And what, you ask, are the Major Shareholders doing while all this is happening down here on the street?
What are they doing besides devising ever more complex ways of ‘making’ money and accumulating power?
Is it beyond belief to think that the brainchild behind this headlong dash toward the abyss is nothing more than some rodent with a chip on his shoulder, one who is determined to take over the world no matter the consequence; because he is merely a winner and he wants to be the winner?
The Ministry of Division has become so efficient in its primary function that it has failed to notice that the resultant grains of its successful division of all opposition and the grains created by the course blades of its oppression are starting to come together inside pigeonholes that are as yet undefined by the Ministry of Propaganda.
Grains of the miners and the rail workers; grains of the suicides and the victims being cared for in the community; grains of the sports fans who have slowly been priced out of their passion in its myriad manifestations; grains of the actual grafters who’ve just had to stay on the running machine to survive; the grains of the non-conformists from all factions who will come together in order not to conform to this greater threat.

There’s a phrase from a song by Latin Quarter about Apartheid (Divided) South Africa that goes:
And your guns can fire, and your prisons fill
And you've yards of rope for hanging still
But your guns can shoot and never hit the sky
And there's no rope as long as time

Saturday, March 06, 2021

The Sheep (Don’t Even Try to) Look Up


There is nothing unhealthier than a room lit by television.
Not simply the light being emitted, but rather the quality of the information being beamed into the unlit mind.

Television is a beacon that is set to transmit only – there is no conversation going on between you and the television.
Sheep flock to the beacon’s flicker, they can’t help themselves. The beacon is transmitting the common ideal, a bitter pill, shaped and packaged by our protective shepherds to gain our compliance and conformity.
And if the media fails to cause the desired effect, they send out the crook of uniformed stooges to force the issue.
Our good shepherds seek nothing more serious from us than our very meat; but first they will fleece us.


Title thanks to John Milton; John Brunner and Fad Gadget but not necessarily in that order.

Friday, February 05, 2021

R e d C e l l s


It’s dark in here; dark and cold at the rim of time where the future has ceased to be imaginable. No plan, no hope, no hint of fate to drag us through the day nor flickering candle to guide us through the night.
The ventilation shafts offer up periodical gurgles from the flooded Blackwall tunnel, flooded by the bankers along with The Rotherhithe and DLR tunnels to deny access to Canary Wharf from this side of the river.
The steelwork moans and the cables whistle a tune unwritten by the capricious rules of taste; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need, orchestrated by the wind that flutes its voice through engineered steel and cable.
Deployed above the cloud base unseen, anchored and winched from the ten remaining masts, the megapixel sun kites deliver power to chargers for the batteries nestled on wooden platforms under the Dome’s protective skin.
The substation that fills Peninsular Square was built to deliver the electricity supply for the Village’s domestic consumption. In addition to their roles as controllers and maintainers of this system, the operators supply, in return for genuine protection, all manner of electrical power related tech and support to the gun boys who run logistics between the river and Lewisham; a symbiotic trade relationship.

Exposure to the elements can deliver a spectrum of experience; from the wonders of the existential moment to the horrors of jaw-clenching contact with mortality; much depends on the weather.
Kyree rides the basket up to the winch on the end of mast 6.
The wind’s mild today and he is able to harvest the rewards that come with the breaking of the mundane routine; of living in the moment and concentrating on the task at hand.
It’s an hour before he screws the lid back onto the tub of grease; completing a change of bearings on one of the ancillary guides that had, as they had winched out the kite, alerted them to its plight with a repetitive squeak.
Kyree and his fellow workers are sensitive to the voice of the system; it’s a working relationship.

Leaning back on the basket and glancing over towards the barrier, the corner of Kylee’s left eye is corona-ed by red laser-light.
He is surprised to find that his flight reflex has neglected to kick in and he turns slowly to face the fucker who has him in his sights.
From its source on the penthouse balcony in the oval face of the building across the river; the laser flashes red across both his eyes.
They like to light you up from there, tracing their red dot over your body and sniggering at your reaction.
Sometime, if they’re really bored, they’ll squeeze one off, close enough for you to feel the wind of its passing.
If they’re really, really bored, or just pissed off with the banality of their existence, they’ll make a serious attempt.
Kyree closes his eyes but can still see the play of red light through his lids; it’s an intimate relationship.

It’s dark up here; dark and cold at the rim of time where all futures have ceased to be imaginable; breath held in the moment; no plan, no thought but a flickering red candle of hope to guide him through the moment.
The Dome’s steelwork moans and the cables whistle a familiar tune of mechanical conflict subdued unwritten by the ingenuity of this crafty ape; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need.
The red light ceases and Kyree opens his eyes: the moment is over, as if it had never happened.

Monday, February 01, 2021

Hypocracy

Shepherd Fairey

The same people who were, not so long ago, outraged at the enforced wearing of face covering for Muslim women, declaring it an infringement of women’s rights, a symbol of oppression; now accept without question the enforced wearing of face covering for all and see neither infringement of human rights nor evidence of oppression.

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