Snake In My House

There's a snake in my house

I've barricaded the door

I shiver in my room

Hear the slithers on the floor

Snake in my house

I don't want to be here

Poisonous fangs

Heart's stopped with fear

Its venomous kiss

Will send me to my doom

I dwell on this thought

I'm trapped in my room

There's a snake in my house

And it laid an egg

There's millions of young

I'm starting to beg

There's snakes in my room

The walls have turned black

They're looking for a meal

They see me as a snack

There's snakes on my body

There's fangs in my skin

I'm choking on scales

I'm torn limb from limb

They twisted and writhed

And pinned me to my bed

They ripped my insides out

And now I am dead

There's a snake in my house 

That it claimed as its own

It'll come for you soon

When you're all alone

We Care a Lot

Or 

Stories Behind the Ice Bucket Challenge

Or

The Blog That Gets a Bit Scatological Towards the End

Not Very Pheasant at All

It was early morning when the old van parked at a quiet layby next to a large field.  The van was packed with tools for the purpose of fixing windows into new buildings at a construction site, and it also held three people whose purpose was to use those tools.  That morning the driver of the van, a man in his 50s with craggy features, turned round to two younger men who accompanied him, and were still shaking off the effects of sleep.  "There's always dead pheasants in this field," he told them, "Wait here!"

The young man who sat next to the driver was less than convinced this was a good idea. "Leave it Dad!" he responded irritably, "Let's just get to work." But his lack of enthusiasm was not noted, and the elder man opened the door to the old van and stepped out into the cold morning air.  The third member of the party, Another young man with scruffy hair, continued to doze on the back seat.  Soon his colleague joined him, and for a time the all was quiet in the little van, the only sound to be heard being the light snoring of the two manual labourers.

The man in the front passengar's seat was called Matthew. He leaned against the window of the van, getting more comfortable and falling deeper into rest.  He was abruptly shaken from that rest by a knock at the window against which he supported his head. Drowsily, Matthew turned round.

And met the faces of two dead pheasents that were pressed into the other side of the glass. Between the two dead animals, Matt's father grinned at him, with an expression that said "what about these then?"

Matthew's shocked scream echoed through the little van.

Followed shortly by the helpless laughter of his friend who sat at the back of the van.

The guy who was laughing was me. The guy that was in shock was my friend Matthew. And the guy with the pheasents was his father, Desmond. This is my favourite story about him, though far from the only one.

Des Hall was what you could be termed a bloke about town.  What we in Britain would term a "geezer". He liked a beer or two; he liked to have a bet. He was always ready with a joke, and everybody knew and liked him. Des owned his own window fixing business that I sometimes did some labouring for, and while Matthew and me toiled, Des could usually be found in the bookies. But we didn't complain.  Hold on, what am I talking about?!  We complained vociferously, our long rants peppered with swear words! But it made little difference, and looking back I hold no bitterness; just happy memories.

It was all this that made it very difficult when Des left us.  Because he was diagnosed with Motor Neuron Disease: and over the space of a year or two, Desmond's wife, and son, and everyone else he knew watched helplessly as this disease ravaged his body.  And I was there to offer what crumbs of comfort I could to Matthew the night he watched his Father pass away.

The Best Thing About this Is...

I thought it would be appropriate to share this story, now, as we are in the back end of the craze of the "ice bucket challenge".  The merits of the challenge itself, and the charities that it was promoting, have been discussed at length. And I do think it is good to add stories like these - stories of the victims of the disease that the Ice Bucket Challenge is ostensibly aiding in the fight against. Indeed, I will happily say that the best thing about this phenomenon (to me) is that it has given me the opportunity to talk about Des, and remember him in a blog.

I have seen lots of cynicism accompany this craze, and I don't know whether the the cynical view is the correct one, because none of us ultimately know how much good will have been done by the money raised. Will it speed our way to a cure? If a cure is found, will we be able to quantify how much the Ice Bucket Challenge contributed towards it?  I don't know. What is certain is that this time next year there will be a different craze, a different gimmick, to have an opinion about. A different charity craze tumbleweed will be blowing through the social media streets of our Global Village, and we'll either be joining in with, or complaining about that one instead. It goes on.

Sailing in a Sea of ...

An argument that is often raised whenever someobody makes a stand, or joins in with a stand someone else is making, or some other people are making, is "why this cause.  Why do you campaign for Palestine/raise money for A.L.M. charities/support wind energy/want to see Charles Bronson released from prison?  Why that cause and not this one?  Or this one?  Or all these others?"  And it is a question that bugs you if you can't find a ready answer.  It's like you're sailing in the sea of shit that is life.  And though this shitty sea is endless, you've found yourself looking down, and declaring "I don't like this particular turd!  This turd offends me!"  Now explain yourself.

Perhaps the best generalised explanation that can be given is this: that is it only by standing for something that we can stop the waters of that 'sea' from closing above our heads.  Life is too big to combat all the wrongs that are contained within it: Corruptions of justice, and harm that is done to people and animals everywhere during every minute of every day.  So somewhere at some point we have to take a stand - or we surrender to apathy and cynicism - the twin horsemen of shitness.  And then we might as well just stop living.

In conclusion - it's good to find your own offensive turd.

Or if you can multi-task, you may have offensive turds!  Marvellous.

Right Here, Right Now

All was green and silver as the mists of dawn lay upon the young planet; soaking the unspoilt, preternatural forests with its cleansing dew.  All was silence. For now the vast woods that covered the Earth were almost the only life forms that occupied the landmasses of that world - a world separated from our own by a gulf of time that stretches beyond the reach of imagination.  No birdsong greeted the rising of the sun; no predator growled; no herbivore lowed; and aside from the odd, very brief buzzing sound that could only have been caught by the most alert, the serenity of the forests was complete.

But a profound change was at hand.

It came from the shore of a mist shrouded lake, where two silver bodied, scaly, aquatic animals were even now dragging themselves forward into an environment that was hitherto entirely alien to them.  As they pulled themselves forward into an increasingly landlocked world to which their frames looked so ill suited, they gasped quietly, their mouths and the slits on the side of their bodies opening and closing with a frantic cadence, until one of them sagged with exhaustion.

"It's no good Dave," gasped the creature, sinking to the ground as it spoke, "I'm on my last fins.  Go on without me... I'll just slow you down..."

"No, no Fred, I'm not leaving you behind," replied the other animal in an anxious but determined tone.  "You can do it," Dave gasped with as much encouragement as he could muster, "Baby steps mate, baby steps."

But Fred sank to the floor and listed to the side, his inhalations growing more shallow. "Can't... breathe... "

"Fred!" called out Dave in alarm as he laboured to drag his body towards his suffering friend, his silver mass moving awkwardly over the moss and soil that comprised the floor of the viridescent woodland.

"I'm going to the big ocean in the sky..." groaned Fred, "they say it's got plankton as big as trilobites there...".  Fred's voice was fading as his eyes glazed over.

"Fred!" said Dave, who finally reached his stricken comrade and began nudging Fred's scales with his marine snout, "you've got to adapt mate! You've got to evolve!"

There was no response. "Fred!" Pleaded Dave.  Again nothing.  But Dave was still not ready to give up.

 "Fred!" he called out. "Don't surrender now! Play the game of life! This is the moment of our true testing! The future is now!  So evolve!  Evolve! Breathe with me!"

The was a moment's silence.  Fate hung in the balance.  Dave, who was himself getting used to the rarefied atmosphere of this mist filled tree lined terrestrial wonderland, held his newly adapted breath.

A minute passed.

Dave battled against despair. He was weak. He was tired. He was lost in an alien world. And soon, it seemed, he would be completely -

Fred gasped and came to life like an automaton that had just been plugged into the power. 

"Fred!  You did it! You evolved!" declared an ecstatic Dave.

Perhaps it was a trick of the misty light that hung over that prehistoric woodland, but it almost it seemed as if Fred's eyes were widened in amazement as he felt his gills begin to convert the new air that slipped through his bloodstream.  At the same time he felt his stabilizing fins gain strength as they planted themselves more solidly in the soil of Terra Firma.  "I wouldn't have credited it Dave," he mused in wonder, "but I did adapt."

"You did," agreed Dave, who felt the irresistible urge to make a speech to mark this fateful moment. "We have crossed the rubicon Fred," proclaimed the no longer strictly aquatic animal to his fellow mutated comrade, "and we have engendered a new phase in existence for life on this blue/green orb. New lands await our progeny, and who knows, maybe one day our descendants will even take to the skies. And it all started right here; right now; with us at the vanguard of natural selection. Truly, I feel the hand of history upon what may someday become my shoulder."

Fred turned himself in Dave's direction, an impressed look almost alighting itself on his expressionless features.  "Cor," he intoned, "you aren't half clever Dave.  I don't understand half of what you say I've got to admit, but I know it must be very wise.  A fish among fish, that's what I call you."

"Hmmm", Dave responded, deep in thought. He looked up at the trees that rose up from the miasma that surrounded him and his friend that morning; these trees that reached their boughs towards the deep blue infinity above. He had caught glimpses of this sky from beneath the ocean's surface, but now he saw the full extent of its majesty, and he realised how much more there was of this Universe to explore. And he realised at that moment that however far he travelled, he would only ever be at the beginning.  "You know, I don't feel like a fish any more," he decided, "I feel like we've blurred the boundaries between species ya know.  I don't even know what you might call us now.  I feel, I don't know... ambiguous..."

"Ambiguous;" Fred repeated admiringly, "a new breed: on land or in water.  Amazing."

"Ha! Or something that sounds like that," agreed Dave. "You know," he continued, encouraged by Fred's appreciation, "it would be great if we had some kind of implement or colourful sign that we could plant, to let all the creatures know that we were here first, and that this land was ours, claimed for the Coelacanth Nation!"

"Aye!" Fred exclaimed, "The Coelacanth Nation!"

"The Coelacanth Nation!" they exclaimed together.

"You see at this point it would be good to have some kind of, I don't know, implements that we could clash together, to seal the deal," speculated Dave enthusiastically. "Some kind of vessel that holds food maybe..."

But this was a step too far for Fred.  "Alright Dave, you're sounding a bit weird now," he complained.

"Yeah, alright, sorry about that," conceded Dave.

"There's a thin line between genius and madness, that's what they say," Fred pontificated.  

The intrepid pair pressed on with their adventure.

***

Across the clearing, two beetles watched the activities of the Coelacanths.  They were both large by the standards of their species, and both sported a smooth, round body with a hard, orange and black shining carapace that housed a pair of insect wings. "Well," said one of them in a disgruntled tone, as its antenna probed the air before it, "this is a how do you do indeed, eh Dave?"

"Indeed Fred," agreed Dave.  "What on Earth do you think those things are?"

"Dunno," replied Fred, "but they certainly look a bit fishy."

"Do they?" asked Dave ruefully, "I can hardly think of anything I'm so hungry.  Do reckon we could eat them?"

"Weell", sniffed Fred, "possibly. But I don't think they'd like it. And they're a lot bigger than we are."

"Typical," Dave said mournfully, his antenna drooping in submission, "no food and now we're getting invaded by sea monsters!  Save me from these interesting times!  Where will it end, eh Fred?  When will it end?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe things won't be so bad..." said Fred wistfully.  With that he turned away from his fellow beetle and stared into the distance.  "Because I have had a dream!" he declared.

"Here we go," moaned Dave.

Fred was unabashed by his friend's cynicism.  "Yes I had a dream!"  he said again.  "I dreamed of creatures: huge creatures, as big as the tallest trees!

"And such wondrous defecations did they produce!" Fred declaimed.  "Brown fragrant mountains speckled the great plains of Earth!  And did we eat the waste!  And did we lay our eggs in the waste!  And did we rear our young with the waste!  And did we build our homes from the waste!  All these things we did and more!  Man, it was the shit!"

"You've been eating those weird berries again haven't you?" said Dave sharply.

"I found a big bush full of them," said Fred, in a self-satisfied tone.

"Lead the way then."

"Right you are."

And so it was that while Dave and Fred moved forward into a brave new phase of existence, pushing forward the boundaries of evolution, Fred and Dave were going to get stoned.

From the River to the Sea

Or

Why #ISupportPalestine

The Gaza Strip

One of the most effecting films I've ever seen is the brutal, black and white and brilliantly heart rending Schindler's List - a harrowing account of Nazi atrocities during the Second World War Holocaust, and one brave man who did what he could to help.  One of the settings of the film is the Jewish ghetto of Krakow, in Poland.  Many attrocities and degredations are visited upon this ghetto, which are terrible to behold, and never has man's inhumanity to man been more powerfully depicted on the silver screen. If you're one of the many people who have seen this film yourself you'll know what I mean.

Thinking back to the way the people of Krakow suffered, trapped in that dismal place with nowhere to escape to, I have a question: what would you have thought if some of the Jews of Krakow had assembled, or gained access to, a rudimentary rocket launcher?  And had then had begun launching rockets in the general direction of the German controlled areas of Poland?

Perhaps you would think them stupid, because of the retribution they would suffer, and the possibility that they might kill some of their own with their primitive, directionless technology? Perhaps you would have thought their cause hopeless, surrounded as they were on all sides by a much greater force?

But would you think them evil? Would you consider them terrorists?

Now let's fast forward to the present - to the Palestinian ghetto of Gaza. It was Labour peer Lord John Prescott (I'm sure he'd agree that calling him by that title is a bit weird considering he's a very down to earth Northerner, but I digress) who censured Israel for acting as “judge, jury and executioner” in its quest to mute Hamas “terrorists,” turning Gaza into what he says is a “concentration camp.”

He also said that the Nazi Holocaust should have given the Jewish people of Israel “a unique sense of perspective and empathy with the victims of a ghetto”.

Is he right or wrong?

Like 85% of my countrymen, I've come to the conclusion that he is correct.

Because it is Israel that is now the occupying power, in Gaza and in the West Bank.  Because of its vastly superior weaponry, which should bring with it greater responsibility for seeking a peaceful solution, and the for huge difference in the respective number of casualties on both sides - over 1000 deaths (and climbing) on the Palestinian side compared to less than 60 on the Israeli side at the time of writing (though I realise even one death is one too many).

So there is my opinion. I have chosen a 'side'. I have chosen to support the people of Palestine.

Does this conclusion make me antisemitic?

It is Roger Waters, ex of Pink Floyd, who I believe answered this charge very well:

"I will say this: I have nothing against Jews or Israelis, and I am not antisemitic. I deplore the policies of the Israeli government in the occupied territories and Gaza. They are immoral, inhuman and illegal. I will continue my non-violent protests as long as the government of Israel continues with these policies."

I will go further than this and voice my disquiet over other developments that have reached me:

"... reports about gangs of Muslims chanting 'death to Jews' on the streets of France, and attacking synagogues and setting fire to Jewish-owned stores. Eighteen people were subsequently arrested in the suburb of Sarcelles, just outside Paris, where this particular outpouring of violence happened. The stunned local mayor says the Jewish community is now living in fear.
Anti-Semitism is on the rise in Germany, too. In Essen, 14 people have just been arrested, accused of plotting an attack on a synagogue. Protesters at a rally in Berlin turned on two Israeli tourists (identifiable by the man’s skull-cap) so viciously that they had to be protected by the police. The city’s authorities have also had to ban pro-Gaza protesters from chanting anti-Semitic slogans and are investigating a sermon last week by Abu Bilal Ismail calling on worshippers at Berlin’s Al-Nur mosque to murder Jews. Jews, not Israelis."

I absolutely reject and abhor this kind of virulent hatred, just as I abhor the act of a suicide bomber boarding an Israeli school bus, or an Israeli tank or bomber targeting a Palestinian school or hospital, or an Israeli missile slaughtering Palestinian boys playing football on a beach.

Naama Abu al-Foul - a 2 year old Palestinian girl

Perhaps most distressing of all is the seemingly insurmountable barrier that seperates those on both sides of this. We are seperated by ideology, by race by religion and by history. Sometimes even the hint of sympathy for the 'other side' can provoke the most extreme reponses, and  I was recently told I needed an "exorcism to drive out whatever evil is possessing my soul"!

But I welcome the courage and the grace of the people like the Palestinian doctor, Izzeldin Abuelaish, who lost half of his family to this conflict, but chose to forgive when it would have been so easy not to.  If someone like him can let go of his anger, after what he and his family have been through, then there is always hope, even in the darkest times.  And right now, things are very dark indeed.

Almost exactly one hundred years ago, the First World War began. What followed was an unprecedented slaughter that lasted more than 4 years and left 37 million people dead. I sometimes wonder if we will ever learn anything.  But as I stated, in the darkest hour, they say, there is always hope.  Maybe.

A letter to UK Prime Minister @David_Cameron calling for sanctions to halt Israel's attacks on #Gaza - http://act.palestinecampaign.org/petition/camerongaza

Petition: Call on the British government to work towards a ceasefire in Gaza - https://campaign.actionaid.org.uk/page/speakout/Gaza?subsource=ACT1407GAZ&source=SSS

Petition: call on the UN Secretary General to do all he can to put a ceasefire in place. - See more at: http://www.savethechildren.org.uk/stop-killing-children-gaza-israel?utm_campaign=gaza&utm_medium=fb&utm_source=gazapdfb#sthash.4TrKPf0X.dpuf

Strange Animal Hospital

My heart is straining give me help please - my name? Well, it's Gerry the Gnu

My leg may need amputating I'm a bear and my cousin is Winnie the Pooh

We've got four stag beetles with appendicitis called John, Paul, Ringo & George

And a giraffe who took a tumble when she went out for a stroll and fell into a gorge

This is a Strange Animal Hospital

Check your expectations in at the door

There's hamsters in ward B, Manatees in ward D

And in ward E a there's a herd of wild boar

There's a mole from a hole with some coal who's convinced that he's got Ebola disease

A sea lion called Brian who'd feel fine if you would just take his tonsils out please

There's a horse who is Norse who gets trouble and as a result needs incontinence pants

A mosquito who drank a Mojito and got alcoholic poisoning when he was in France

This is a Strange Animal Hospital

Where our dedication will go that extra mile

There's snails in ward A, slugs in ward J

In ward K there's a Nile crocodile

Strange Animal Hospital - we'll jump in the water to care for a poorly shark

Strange Animal Hospital - We'll teach spiders to spin webs and bats to see in the dark

Strange Animal Hospital - where if its necessary we will treat ant eater's butts

Strange Animal Hospital - where we'll go out of our way to cure a badger's nuts

Break it down

*Beat box*

Ah yeah 

Emergency 

There's some sick creatures out there

What are you? A cockatoo? 

Instead of feathers you're growing hair?!

A Hawk and a Sloth cure them both one's got rabies the other one's got yuppie flu

How now cow there's no row emanating from you because you've lost the power to say moo

A lizard got lost in a blizzard one night and now has a gizzard with frost bite

A Kookaburra is crying, a koala has a cold, and we need to bandage a red kite

This is a Strange Animal Hospital

We save lives and we don't keep the score

There's marmosets in ward P, donkeys in ward T

In ward V Portuguese man o' war

This is a Strange Animal Hospital

Won't you visit us one day

The flies will be friendly, the whales will bid welcome

The kangaroos will wish you g'day!

The Landscape is Changing?

Or

My Take on the Rise of UKIP

On Thursday 22nd of May 2014 an historic election was held in in the United Kingdom. Of course there was a possibility of it being historical anyway, whatever the outcome, because it may yet prove to be the final election to be held in the UK in its present form.  But the outcome was, as it turns out, an electoral "earthquake". For the first time since 1857 an election was won in Great Britain by a party that was not Labour, or Conservative or Liberal.  The winners, instead were the motley bunch of "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists" that call themselves the United Kingdom Independence Party. As a result Labour are long of face, the Tories are terrified, and the Liberal Democrats are decimated. And all the major parties ask themselves "what will this mean in 2015?"

There has been (and will be) much analysis over why UKIP were successful, but here's some of my thoughts on the subject.

The Financial Crisis of the Late Naughties

This is the most often blamed cause of the rise of extremism that we are witnessing, and not without good reason.

We see from history that economic hardship encourages such social and political upheaval. Moderate governments are helpless to prevent poverty and hardship while the scapegoating offered by "extremists" suddenly takes on an appeal for people who are looking for someone to blame for the loss of their livelihoods.

Corruption

Tony Blair's government was going to be "whiter than white". David Cameron's government was going to be even whiter than that. How did that turn out?

Above all this we have the eternal image of the "Gravy train" that emanates from Brussels, with unelected bureaucrats, their faces eternally in the trough of public finance that funds their celebrity lifestyles. Was it they that handed out lessons in feathering your nest which were gratefully absorbed by British MP's as they filled out their expense forms?

The politics of Consensus

Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government pulled Britain, some would say irrevocably, to the right wing of politics, ending the nationalisation of industry and services and destroying union power. In response, Tony Blair's "New Labour" was nothing more than a watered down version of the 18 years of Conservative government that preceded it and left its indelible print upon Britain.

However "New Labour" themselves became so successful that in response to them, David Cameron moved the Tories to the left, and sang a song of hugging hoodies from his new headquarters in the North Pole, where he was determined to tell us how bad Global Warming was getting don't you know. And so we looked from blue to red, and from red to blue, and it was difficult to tell which was which any more.

The Liberal Democrats, who you would have thought might have been squeezed out of existence by this seeming amalgamation of Labour and Conservative, actually continued to profit from it until they had their first taste of real power, broke key promises and suddenly they were being beaten with the same stick they had used to beat the other parties.

With the main parties now indistinguishable, many of their policies will begin to look similar.  And so we ask ourselves, is there a consensus about certain aims of the parties? Are there things that we will be subjected to, whichever way we vote? What about something like mass immigration?  What about further integration with the EU?

And so as a reaction to this consensus UKIP emerges.

"The Political Classes"

The Conservative Party have always been open to the accusation of being upper class and elitist (though ironically their greatest icon, Margaret Thatcher, was famously a shop keeper's daughter), but since New Labour, and the dawn of 24 hour media coverage, politicians are more savvy, more patronising and less naturally sincere than ever before.  It's interesting how the internet has bought politicians both closer to us ("Twitter makes tw*ts of us all") and at the same time made more keenly felt our separation from them.

UKIP are attracting a vote from people who feel this party are speaking for "them" against this political elite. Again, ironic for a party that is lead by a former stockbroker.

Finally there are the votes from those people to whom UKIP represent a "change".

Is there a lesson to be learned from this? What do the people want?

1. They want trustworthy, transparent politics

2. They want politicians with character, and individuality

3. They want boldness perhaps?  Some more radical ideas?

4. They want somebody who not only claims to represent them, but somebody who is ONE of them.

5. They want a change

And perhaps another lesson is that we need parties that cater for a full spectrum of opinion, from right to left. When all of the parties are scrabbling towards the same patch of centre ground is this not the inevitable result? The emergence of a party like UKIP? The question that follows on from that is, if UKIP are now catering for those who lean more to the right, who will provide balance from the left?

The Green Party?

... And Finally...

So, in conclusion, will the landscape change?  I think it can, but only if more people become engaged in politics.  And maybe UKIP could help here - because to the people who support them, they are a breath of fresh air.  And if you want to stop them, there's only one thing you can do - you've got to get involved.

Some people would say "but the very existence of UKIP is dangerous".

To this I say good.

Because we need something with a little danger.  Because politics without danger is politics that lacks interest, and becomes the kind of politics that gives us interchangeable parties, an electorate that don't care, and a political elite that thinks it can do what it likes, with or without our consent.

I've Got the Poison, I've Got the Remedy

A shock scientific research paper was published yesterday that could change the way we eat forever. Following the revelations of research published last year that found that everything we previously believed was wrong, it has been revealed that everything we subsequently believed, even after adjusting for agreeing that we were wrong, was even even wronger than that.

Don't even think about it

And scientists have found that if you are eating anything vaguely nice, or foods that are not utterly boring, you will die a terrible, terrible death.  "I don't know what the hell people are thinking when they even look at a cake," declared Dr Hans Gruber, director of the institute of meddling and browbeating people with the so called facts in Switzerland, "they might as well be throwing themselves in an incinerator when they do that."

"Is it really that bad?" we wondered.

"No, I am afraid it is worse," Dr Gruber told us. "Cake, pizza, bread, sweet tasting fruit like pomegranate or even those little frozen peas - all these are as good as deadly poison. Instead people should be preparing themselves a meal of gruel with raw vegetables. And be doing that many times a day.  Then they should be using cod liver oil suppositories while chewing live grubs very slowly."

You’re wrong so eat it

How many times a day should they be doing that?

"Think of a number," answered professor Gruber. "have you thought of it?  Well, it's not enough. Now double that number, and it's still not enough. Increase it much more. Have you done that? Well, it's still wrong and it's still not enough. Whatever answer you come up with it's wrong, and if you give up and don't try that's wrong too. Whatever you do or don't do it's bad and wrong."

A Bell Curve yesterday

But the awful news is that things are going to get even worse than that. "Yes, things are worse than that," confirmed Dr Gruber. "Because of genetics and things of that nature, projected bell curves, scatter diagrams and statistical mean averages" he warned. "Think of how bad things can be," he explained, "well you're wrong, it's worse, so multiply the badness by ten.  Then you're still wrong, because it's worse than that. And it'll continue to get worse, because of climate change and then still worse, and after that it will get worse and worse and worse. But, no, you're wrong, because it's still worse than you guessed."

Shitting on you from a great height

Is there anything people can do?

"Well, first you must admit you are wrong and we're right," replied Professor Gruber, "but then we'll confirm soon that you're even more wrong than you thought and we're even more right, but I'm afraid after that, when you've changed round everything and tried to adapt we're going to tell you that's bad and wrong because we've changed everything again to show that we are yet more right and you yet more wrong. There is no escape. And if you try to escape the consequences will be catastrophic and if you don't try to escape they will be even more disastrous. We're currently working on a future escalation model of horribleness that you can't even imagine, and don't be foolish enough to try to imagine and prepare and don't even think of not trying."

Professor Gruber left us to continue his research. He lives in a rarefied environment with lots of other painfully clever people and his hobbies include being smug and ruining your day.

This Corrosion

Bitterness

This corrosion

Eats away

It waits inside

Sometimes seething

Sometimes sleeping

Always there

Waiting patient

Unknowing

This potential

Lying dormant

Then erupting

Blood infusing

Anger Rising

Now transormed

Finds expression

Articulated

This tirade

Wounded pride

Bursting forth

Brutal logic

Selfish viewpoint

Scattered careless

Venom vented

Mortified

This wreckage

Empty vengeance

Things said cannot

Be unsaid

Pyrrhic triumph

Guilt takes hold

Regret overwhelms

Festering

This resentment

Now retreating

Falling silent

Again it waits

Acid interior

In constant vigil  

Monkey riding

Beseech for healing

Would I Lie to You

Or

Truth & The Internet

Or

Why it is Essential, Absolutely Essential to Believe in Nothing

Two flashpoints, one a revolution, the other a civil war, are currently being endured by two nations in the glare of the world's media, and commentators, and bloggers, and alternative media. I speak of Syria and Ukraine.

I think one thing can be said with confidence nowadays: for anyone who takes more than a passing interest in news and current events, the authoritative voice of the so called "Main Stream Media" (MSM), whether that voice be coming from the BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, RT or whichever MSM channel you may follow or watch, has been eroded until the reports from each of these channels are merely part of the general clamour that envelopes the unfortunate subjects of their attention like some kind of miasma of clashing opinion and claim and counter claim. 

Two particular incidents sum up how elusive the truth seems in modern times, and how difficult it is to discern the true nature of the course of events that are unfolding before us.  The first was the chemical attack that took place in August 2013 in Syria.  Who was it who bombed the civilian population of Syria and left men, women and children so horribly scarred?

Was it the government forces under Bashar Al-Assad? Was it the opposition to the government including but not limited to the Free Syrian Army?  Or was it an outside force with an agenda one way or the other?  The Americans, the Israelis, the Iranians?  Depending on which theory, perspective or account you read, you will get a different answer.

The second incident took place in February 2014 in the Ukraine, when civilian protesters were cut down by snipers during the demonstrations and riots that brought down Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych.  Who was responsible for the murders?  Or was it government forces as they tried to clamp down on the rioters?  Was it the rioters themselves, deliberately targeting the most vulnerable members of the population in order to frame government forces and thus facilitate their insurrection?  Again, according to the source you choose, the answer will be different.

It was once said that "The first casualty of war is the truth", but now, in this internet age, when everyone is given a voice, we can have as much truth as we like - or are we simply getting more perspectives than any one of us can handle?

Revolution - Then and Now

Another thing I wonder is - now we have so many perspectives on world events - was there ever a self-contained revolution within a country, not influenced by outside forces, who were fooling the people of that country into believing that they were improving their lot while all the while plotting to betray their hopes and leave them in an even worse position?

Was it anything like this in the old days?  Like, for instance in the French Revolution?

"Revolution is brewing but it is all the fault of the Deist Americans, who wish to bring Europe under the thrall of their Godless regime. I read it in this British Broadcasting Parchment."

"Nonsense!  The revolutionaries are controlled by the British Empire, who together with the Germans, wish to control the French through anarchy and chaos, I read it in the News of the Fox."

"Gentlemen!  Let us put aside our cynicism and drink to the will of the people! Here's to the victory of liberty and hope!"

"Perhaps you're right.  Anybody would think, listening to us that France was heading towards terror and then dictatorship!"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Cheers!"

Talk to the People?

I did have a thought that speaking to the people of an affected country might solve the problem.  Surely no one could have a more authentic voice than, say, a Syrian, or a Ukrainian? And that is true - but only to an extent. That's because people are complex creatures. Often they don't know what they want. Or if they do know what they want, they might not want the same thing as the next person. And even if they do want the same thing, they might not agree on the best way to get it. I heard it said recently, ask any two Ukrainians how they feel about the current crisis, and you'll get about eleven different answers.

And ultimately countries don't fall into a state of revolution and civil war because their situation is straightforward.

You Couldn't Handle the Truth

The other problem is the multi-faceted nature of the truth. One man works in the Sun and says he was hot. Another man works next to him in the shade and says he was cold. Who is telling the truth? Both of them are.  Just as one person may say to you, "Putin is being aggressive, territorial, and risking war", while another person may say to you "Putin is defending his country," and both of them are telling the truth as well.

So, in the end, where are we? Nearer the truth, or more confused than ever?

Well, as regards mainstream media, my advice would be, listen to what they say, but assume that what they are telling you is the beginning of the story, and very far from the be all and end all.  Also, what they don't tell you can be just as significant as what they do.

Look to alternative news sources then, but remember that they can be just as driven by an agenda as the MSM.  But they can also fill gaps in the "official" story, and they can give you a perspective that the mainstream have either accidentally or deliberately ignored.

And indeed listen to what the people at the sharp end are telling you, but remember - just as my portrait of Britain, as a member of the Green Party, will be different from the portrait described by Joe Bloggs of the UK Independence Party - so you may not get a full picture from one voice;  or two, or three or even four.

And then choose what you want to believe.

Or not believe.

 

The Art of Dying In Your Sleep

The Country scene was as peaceful as it was empty.  It bled tranquility from the edges of the painting.  The sky was an infinite, featureless blue.  To the foreground of the painting, a hedgerow marched, right to left, into the distance; its stark, leafless thicket broken sporadically by a tall, naked tree.  Beyond the hedge there lay a scene of natural beauty that stretched to the horizon:  Rolling fields demarcated by greener hedgerows that were dotted with individual trees or small groups clustered into small woods; and in the distance, a shimmering river that wended its way to become lost in the valleys that separated the sleepy hillsides.

It would all have been perfect – a paean to the stillness and the serenity of the countryside – were it not for the devouring void that burned through the centre of the picture.   A sinkhole in the painting’s reality had opened up – a perfectly circular whirlpool of entropy that sent ripples outwards from its black heart.  The impact of the void was heightened by a Trompe-l'œil effect, which made the black hole appear at once living and vital, but also bereft of life. 

The void was consuming everything.

“A masterpiece,” commented the observer, a man named Richard Calthorpe.  He was viewing the painting from a hospital bed, the kind of bed one would lie in when being transported to an operating theatre. His black hair contrasted with his pale skin and his malnourished frame, and he was hooked up to a plasma bag and other apparatus which assisted his bodily functions.  Both patient and painting were situated in a spacious, pristine, airy room that was lit with beams of light that poured through the gaps in large, half covered windows.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’?” asked Calthorpe to the smartly dressed man who stood beside his bed.

“Indeed,” confirmed the man, whose name was Edward Borman, “as are all of the paintings in this collection.” Borman was slim of frame and sported a thin and greying head of hair, but his eyes blazed and his demeanour was commanding.

Calthorpe considered for a moment and then asked another question. “Who was the artist? What were his circumstances?”

Borman glanced down at Calthorpe before answering in an unwavering voice: “The artist was a young woman called Hope Shawcross, who was tortured to death over a number of days as this painting was created.  She died of her injuries, in her sleep, just after I decided that this painting was complete.”

Borman looked at Calthorpe again, his expression harsh.  “I take it those details don’t make you squeamish,” he said pointedly, “You are playing your full part in this project, and I assure you that Ms Shawcross was a willing party to her fate.  I commissioned her painting, and she agreed the circumstance under which she would create the Magnum Opus of her existence on Earth.

“She died for her art, in order for her life to have meaning.”

In response, Calthorpe croaked a few inaudible words before coughing and clearing his throat. “Yes… yes I understand,” he intoned, “but still the details are somewhat shocking…”

“Perhaps,” conceded Borman, “but as a volunteer for this experiment yourself, it is probable that your fate will be considered no less shocking.  Speaking of which…”

Borman made a small ‘come hither’ gesture towards the doorway of the immaculately maintained room, and Hope Shawcross’s painting was swiftly removed upon its easel by two assistants, while two more placed a new work of art in the same space as the previous one had occupied.

For a few moments the two men contemplated the brush stroked scene that was now before them.

It was a view, from above, of a man that stood upon the edge of a steep cliff.  The man was of sleek frame, was naked from the waist upwards, and his skin seemed to glow against a pitch dark background.  He was leaning forward, his heals lifting and his arms spread wide as he launched himself from the grey rocks at the edge of a cliff; he was diving into emptiness.

The cliff from which the man departed extended downwards forever.  And the blackness that pressed upon it - and into which the man was diving - was similarly infinite.  As with Hope’s painting it was the void that appeared the stronger part of the image, making the other elements fragile, transitory and ephemeral.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’,” stated Borman as he studied the painting, “but this one is your vision.”

“Yes,” said Calthorpe with a slight nod, “This is what I have seen, in the dreams you have induced.”

“Hmm,” Borman mused, “the drugs have done their job well.  This is a powerful and disturbing piece.”

At this the smartly dressed business man turned away from the painting, and he gazed at the partly covered windows, temporarily lost to the world. “But is it the vision that I will see…” he whispered to himself.  Borman raised a skeletal, callous covered hand and studied it with a look of fascination and disgust before inhaling sharply.

You have surpassed yourself Calthorpe,” he told the bed ridden artist, “this will be the finest work you will ever produce. 

“And now it is time for your medication. ”

Calthorpe’s inhalation was long, and his lip trembled slightly.  “And when I sleep this time,” he asked, “will I awaken?”

“Only if it is decided there is work still to be done upon your painting,” Borman answered, “and that decision is mine.”

Calthorpe grimaced, and opened his mouth to speak, but then the two assistants reappeared.  This time their task was to remove him.  The artist regarded his commissioner for one last time, his expression one of someone who had missed his chance to say a last goodbye, before the door was shut.  And Borman was left to consider another Magnum Opus of which he had sponsored the creation.

As Borman scrutinized the fatalistic image, a shaft of sunlight pierced the partially open curtains and temporarily illuminated the figure that was about to plunge into oblivion.

Was this a sign? Did this show that the artist’s work was done? If so Borman would give the appropriate instructions for the artist’s next dose.  And then it would be time for Calthorpe to discover the authenticity of his drug induced vision.

Borman glanced back into the sunlight, and then turned again towards the painting.

After a moment’s further deliberation, he made his decision.