Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 16

Chapter 52 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

52

All national institutions of churches,
whether Jewish, Christian or Turkish,
appear to me no other than human inventions,
set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit
Thomas Paine 1737 - 1809

The day dawned bright; Barry was in position early, this time a few rows back from the front.
Crapper started quickly, taking a new tack, "Mr. Balderstone, please confirm to the court that you have spoken about Islam and Judaism; presenting these in a negative and derogatory light?"

"I have presented all religions in a negative and derogatory light, and will continue to do so. This is the 21st century, believing in supreme beings is as infantile as believing in Father Christmas."

"Please restrict yourself to a simple yes or no, have you spoken out against Islam and Judaism?"

"I have spoken out against all redundant god syndrome belief systems."

"Please answer the question," said Crapper, "with specific regard to Islam and Judaism."

The Preacher looked towards Burke who was diligently reading his notes. Surely, 'asked and answered applied here'? No help was forthcoming from that quarter, so he raised his hands in despair and answered, "No."

"We heard from Mark Nibblett earlier that you openly accuse the Jews of murdering Christ, a well known anti-Semitic strategy. You attack multiculturalism and ethnic minorities and the number of mosques, it's all here, irrefutably, so the answer has to be yes."

"Well yes," said the Preacher, "clearly the Jews did kill Christ and......"

"And in these meetings," said Crapper, relentlessly, "did you not regularly launch a monologue against the economic leaders and financiers of this great nation with the sole intent of causing dissatisfaction and general insurrection aimed primarily at the ethnic minorities in the business world and at our own aristocracy?"

"I said that the rich entrepreneurs and the aristocracy in this country have sold out the masses in return for rich pickings earned through slave labour in the third world....."

"Yes or no please, Mr Balderstone," demanded Crapper.

"And that they have allowed cheap labour in from Eastern Europe with the sole aim of forcing down the price of labour here in the UK, yes I said all that."

"Yes, is all we're looking for here," said the judge irritably. "Strike all the defendant's preceding comments from the record, let it be shown only that he responded in the affirmative."

"Mr. Balderstone," pressed Crapper, "did you not attack the right of ethnic minorities to be in this fair land, and link their being here to some vile plot by our own economic leaders?"

The Preacher glanced again at Burke, then at the junior counsel, Martin Dix, not even a glimmer of interest.

So that was to be the way of it then; if he was to have no defence then he would go on the attack, "Yes. I did and I'd do it again."

Barry closed his eyes.

Crapper raised his hands in victory, "You admit then that you preached racial hatred?"

"Revolution," corrected the Preacher, "I wanted to inspire revolution."

"With the intention of causing physical harm?" pressed Crapper, "Even death?"

"Our society is rotten. We've been corrupted by greed. We buy dirt cheap products knowing that the person who made them lives in economic servitude. All the while the more we buy from China and India the more we drive down our own wages and the less we can afford to live on what we earn. Then the rich can argue that they have to bring in East European workers because lazy Brits won't work for the same money. Well, why should we work for peanuts? Why should our standard of living return to the dark days of the nineteenth century just so the rich can earn more? Why, I ask you why?"

Barry groaned, finding himself in company with a few others in the gallery. Burke's mouth was opening and closing but no sound was emanating. One or two of those in the courtroom nodded in agreement.

Crapper continued, "And on another occasion you were heard to say, and I quote, 'it is our leaders who we must hold responsible and it is our leaders who we must remove forthwith'. Do you deny saying this, Mr Balderstone?"

The Preacher shrugged eloquently, his eyes full of mischief, and Crapper went on, "and on yet another occasion you were heard to extol the achievements of the Nazis."

"I have never extolled the Nazis," stated the Preacher defiantly, no longer amused.

"But here," said Crapper, waving one sheet in the air, "and here," waving another, "and here," yet another, "all of these are direct quotes where you clearly state that it was the Jewish betrayal of Germany in WWI that lead directly to the allied victory."

"Yes, that's true," said the Preacher.

Burke shook his head; how do you defend the undefendable?

"I put it to you that you are fiercely anarchic, a communist who holds anti-Semitic and racist views of the worst kind, wholly unrepentant of the harm and the misery you have caused."

The Preacher was frowning now, wanting to get this across in the right way, "I maintain that Hitler was factually correct when he said that world Jewry betrayed Germany when it threw its weight behind the allied cause in return for the British offer of Palestine. I have never said that I agreed with the way the Nazis treated the Jews in retaliation for that."

"Oh but you have," argued Crapper, almost frothing at the mouth in his outrage, "you are in fact a Holocaust denier, or at the very least, a revisionist."

"Misrepresentation. I believe that millions of Jews were killed by the Germans, however, hundreds of thousands of Jews were killed by the East Europeans. Ethnic cleansing was everywhere in the old Hapsburg Empire during WWII, it's how the countries of Eastern Europe cleared out their minorities; Serbs, Croats, Slavs, Jews, Gypsies, Romanians, you name it, they killed each other."

"Obfuscation, Mr Balderstone. I put it to you, that you condone it, it says so here, here and here." He was waving yet more sheets, his voice was pitched high, his face puce.

Concerned that the QC was in danger of losing his professional distance the Judge cleared his throat warningly.

Barry was sharply reminded of the discussion he'd had with the Preacher and how hard he'd tried to deflect him from this subject matter.

"I condone nothing," stated the Preacher, "but I do predict it is where we are headed if we do not stop the influx of foreigners into this country. I am warning of a train crash that awaits at the end of this multicultural trail our leaders have forced on us. If you knew anything of history you would know that the portrayal of Hitler as a despot who forced his will upon the German people is a deliberate lie. Hitler was elected, Hitler had a mass popular following. The German people weren't bullied into following him, they did so willingly because they felt they had been unfairly treated and were fearful of their future. Well, right now British people are feeling unfairly treated and fearful. Their standard of living is being eroded, their culture and way of life is being destroyed and whether you like it or not the people feel that they have been betrayed."

There was some applause in the courtroom, muted cheers, no-one wanted to be ejected. Barry found himself leaning forward, breath bated. The judge banged his gavel, "Silence in court."

"It is clear from your ranting, Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, "that you not only support the concept of National Socialism but that you blame the Jews for our current economic climate."

"I blame certain Jewish economists and political leaders for our current plight." He was pleased that Crapper had remarked on that; sometimes he forgot what he had talked about and what he had not. "Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph," he added, helpfully.

"Two of the most respected men in the Western world and this known drug addict and frequenter of brothels blames them for our current economic plight," said Crapper, holding his arms out wide, an expression of amazement on his face. There were a few giggles, hastily suppressed. "I'm sure we all appreciate your opinion of two men who worked tirelessly for the economic benefit of all. I'm sure we value your ideas when weighed against those of these distinguished men."

"Just because the system they put in place holds them high," said the Preacher, unfazed, "doesn't mean they did no harm or that the damage they did won't have long-term devastating effects."

"From other comments you have made, I think I understand you to be saying that we will be driven into a state of chaos; inviting another Hitler and another holocaust?" said Crapper.

"I've been warning that the environment that has been created by the policies of our leaders and of the previously specified members of the Jewish intelligentsia is ripe for that outcome, yes."

"Have you been warning us, Mr Balderstone? Or have you been auditioning for the role?"

"I have no interest in politics and I am not a Hitler," said the Preacher, "I am the forewarning and if you choose to ignore me then you will reap the results."

He frowned, then added, "you could see me as John the Baptist, as one who comes before, if that helps?"

"I do not believe you've been warning us; I maintain that you see yourself as this future leader and that you intend to render a holocaust on this country far greater than anything Hitler ever achieved. It's all here, your views, expressed on numerous occasions, clearly you condone everything that Hitler and the Nazis ever did."

"No, but I understand why it happened, and I'm warning you that it will happen again."

"And you condone the Nazis and Hitler," said Crapper, "for clearly you hold similar views." He was insistent on this point, it was an integral part of the prosecution's case. "You would have us believe that multiculturalism doesn't work."

"It doesn't, it leads inevitably to ethnic cleansing. Look at your history books. Unless we examine the events that lead to the ethnic cleansing horrors of WWII we will never learn the lessons. Unfortunately we have been brainwashed into blindly accepting oft repeated wild accusations as incontrovertible facts. To the point where, if you do not condemn the Germans outright, you are accused of being anti-Semitic and a fascist."

"Mr Balderstone," the judge intervened swiftly, "please confine yourself to the matter at hand." He then addressed himself to the jury, "you will ignore the defendant's last remarks as speculation," then finally to the stenographer, "let those comments be stricken from the record."

"We're not allowed to question the accepted version of what happened to the Jews in WWII," argued the Preacher, "and when victims, such as the Palestinians, ask for our support their plight is ignored and the facts carefully hidden from the public. It seems to me that the only minority with any power in the world are the Jews; everyone else can go shove it."

The judge leaned forward, "Mr Balderstone, you will refrain from making anymore controversial statements about ethnic minorities, is that understood?"

The Preacher was silent, observing the judge with an expressionless face, then he spoke quietly, "There are hundreds of books and programmes about the holocaust but few examine the social and cultural unrest that lead up to it, especially when it comes to the German point of view. Everything is always taken from the Jewish viewpoint."

"Yet another example of the malicious ideas this man spouts," said Crapper addressing the jury, "designed to foment racial tensions and unrest amongst the populace."

"I believe we live in a morally corrupt world where we pander to the demands of the powerful and the wealthy whilst ignoring the desperate pleas of the weak and the vulnerable. I believe that the rich elite own the world and are determined to run it like a fiefdom. I believe that the Americans used white phosphorus in Fallujah, that the Israelis use it all the time in Gaza, and I want to understand why, when we condemned Saddam Hussein for gassing the Kurds, the Americans still get to deny the use of Agent Orange in Cambodia."

"Strike all of this out," ordered the judge, "and you will control yourself in my court."

"If it pleases your honour," said Crapper, "the prosecution feels the jury needs to hear these racially motivated tirades from the defendant."

"That may well be the case," said the Judge, "but I'll not have it in my courtroom, is that understood?"

Cheers for reading

Arun









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Chapter 51 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

51

If you don't like what someone has to say,
argue with them.
Noam Chomsky

Barry was courting disaster but he couldn't stay away.

Notwithstanding, he'd secured a good spot in the gallery. He'd convinced himself that, if caught, he could claim to be keeping an eye on the Preacher, having failed to kill him when thus instructed.

He settled down to watch.

He was concerned that he'd heard nothing on the grapevine about the Judge presiding; one Wilderspin Whatmore and was not sure what to make of his serious demeanour.

The charges were read out by the clerk of the court, a tall gaunt man with a fixed expression. As he intoned the list of crimes that one Nicholas Balderstone, aka the Preacher, was accused of there were gasps and a few groans, one of these escaped Barry before he clamped his lips together. Could it be any worse? Incitement to racial hatred; conspiracy to commit murder; and the final, most damning, high treason for the crime of disloyalty to the Crown.

The Preacher stood up to plead 'not guilty' in a firm voice, then sat down at once.

He was flanked in the dock by two huge police constables but seemed unabashed by this. Barry was pleased to note he was in a suit, albeit not a good suit, and that his hair had been trimmed, possibly done it himself with a blunt pair of scissors, but at least he'd been made to make the effort.

To Barry's experienced eye the two members of the Preacher's defence counsel, Burke and Dix, were an unprepossessing pair but perhaps looks would prove deceptive and they would be capable of mustering a good argument nonetheless. Barry glanced over at the prosecuting barrister; QC Crapper. He was a fierce looking man, made fiercer by a perpetual scowl and the grey wig. Now this man Barry had heard of and his reputation outdid even his looks; savagely upright and a man who took no prisoners. All in all, Barry was none too hopeful.

QC Crapper stood up and turned to address the jury, his voice was commanding as he spoke, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," then he went on to explain the process by which he would prove to them that "this man before you", this was said with a sneer and followed by a dismissive wave towards the preacher who smiled amiably, "is guilty of heinous and egregious crimes, the most evil of which is that he did conspire with the residents of the Eden Hall Retirement Village to attack Parliament and to kill over 500 of our most Honourable Members of Parliament," and so on and so on.

Barry was not as impressed by his opening remarks as he had thought he would be and his heart lifted.

"Your honour," said Crapper, moving on swiftly, "I would like to present Crown Exhibit A; transcribed evidence taken from one of the defendant's meetings, an ad hoc affair in a run down theatre. I would also like to submit for evidence a tape of a televised session; Crown Exhibit B."

One of the court assistants held up a few sheets of paper and a box. The judge nodded, accepting them into evidence. The papers were passed to the foreman of the jury and he scanned the first page quickly.

"I intend to show portions of the televised session," said Crapper, "However I could save you the trouble; it preaches vile and inflammatory religious hatred."

"Objection!" shouted the Preacher.

"Please be quiet," snapped the Judge, "your counsel acts for you, it is they who must object if they feel it necessary."

The Preacher looked to his barrister, Alvin Burke, who remained seated and silent. Clearly Burke by name and nature. Questioningly the Preacher raised his palms and his eyebrows.

"If I may continue, your honour," said Crapper, glaring at the Preacher, "these texts indicate a high level of religious hatred, anti faith and anti church protestations; all designed to inflame public opinion and arouse emotions. Added to this, I have witnesses to the vile tirades to which he subjected innocent bystanders, sheltering from the rain. I call Mark Nibblett to the stand."

The court usher brought in a young man; clearly over-awed and nervous, yet pleased to be in the spotlight. Crapper took the young man through how and when he first saw the Preacher and then got to the heart of the matter; what he'd heard the Preacher say about religion. Crapper took to repeating almost everything the young man said, in a loud display of histrionics. The jury appeared transfixed.

Barry almost snorted his disgust; hearsay, ignorant mumblings of an ill-adjusted youth, incapable of understanding the finer messages being offered to him.

The next witness was little better; Monica Adcock, portly, mid-fifties and bitter. She asserted the preacher was a pro-life radical, an anti-abortionist, a misogynist of the worst order, a dyed-in-the -wool communist and an anarchist.

Barry marvelled; she'd got all that from one session with him.

A stream of these people followed; a mixed bag, some of whom Barry thought he recognised but all saying more or less the same thing; communist, radical, anti-faith and more dangerously, anti-Semitic.

Barry was forced to admit that though the testimonies, by themselves, were insubstantial, layer upon layer of them had some power.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," thundered Crapper, "the prosecution has laid before you many witnesses who have attested to the multitude of crimes of this man," again he sketched a dismissive wave at the Preacher, "however, my last witness will attest to the most wicked of all his crimes, that of conspiracy to murder, to cause harm to our beloved Majesty, and that of rank disloyalty to the Crown, High Treason in its most foul form."

There was a stirring in the court at this; Barry was shocked. How could they have a witness to this when it was a complete fabrication?

The Preacher looked up at him, a question in his eyes. Barry lifted his shoulders and shook his head. Burke rustled his papers, looking for the name on the witness list, finding it and, realising he couldn't protest, slumped back in his chair.

Crapper's voice rose theatrically, "I call Mortimer Claypole to the stand."

The doors at the back of the room opened and two court ushers came in, one pushing a wheelchair, the other a wheeled drip-stand. The person in the wheelchair was tiny; husk-like and frail. The Preacher looked seriously disconcerted for the first time.

Barry was appalled; this ancient creature, so obviously sick, should not be put through this farce. Crapper had no such compunction; he had the witness sworn in, still in his wheelchair, and began the questioning immediately.

"Mr Claypole, were you part of the attack on Parliament?"

The old man's face lit up and he nodded vigorously, "I was that," he said, proudly.

There were gasps round the room; what was he thinking? That was a capital offence.

"Do you see anyone in the court here today that you recognise?"

The old man squinted and looked up at the gallery, then a dreamy smile creased his face, "Why there's Albie," he said, with such affection it caused Crapper to stumble his next words.

Then, "Not the gallery, Mr Claypole," he hissed, then said in a low tone, "the dock, remember?"

"Call me Morty," said the old man, "everybody does."

Finally Crapper extracted what he wanted from Morty; yes, the preacher was known to him, such a nice young man, yes, he'd been at the Eden Hall Village, yes, that was where the plot was hatched, yes, he could have been there on numerous occasions, but there was also someone called Bob who died, which was a good thing if a little unexpected and if only Mort could tell the court a story about a Greek then he was sure they would understand everything.

It was at this point that Crapper decided Morty was too ill to continue, the Defence decided not to cross-examine and the witness was excused. As Morty was pushed out of the court he waved cheerily up at the gallery, as if he'd seen a friend.

Crapper attacked the jury with his closing argument and even Barry had to admit he was impressed with the comprehensive attention to detail and the sheer weight of the case he had put together. No doubt about it; Mortimer Claypole had unwittingly put the preacher at the heart of the conspiracy.

They broke for lunch; the Preacher glanced up at the gallery as if seeking out someone. Barry lifted his head in slight acknowledgment and was rewarded with a brief smile.

∞

It was the turn of the defence; unsurprisingly they had only one witness to put forward, the Preacher himself. He climbed into the witness box, swore he would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but...and then inexplicably smiled at the jurors.

Defence counsel, Alvin Burke asked the Preacher if he recognised any of the people the prosecution had brought forward to speak against him. The Preacher shook his head; he'd seen so many people and none, was his enigmatic response. Burke essayed another question aimed at the most damning witness of all, one Mortimer Claypole. Had the Preacher ever met this man?

Morty hadn't stood out amongst the audience of seriously old people; truth be told, the preacher's most vivid memory was of the Angel cake. However, the old man had remembered the Greek story and the Preacher felt he owed him the same recognition.

He looked at Burke and nodded, to gasps from the court, then he spoke, his voice strong and unequivocal, "I met him, on one occasion, at the Eden Hall Village Retirement complex."

Burke looked nonplussed; he'd asked the question not knowing the answer, a classic misjudgement on his part but he had hoped the Preacher's innate common sense would cause him to deny the man's veracity, or if not that, then declare him senile as he so obviously was.

"No further questions, M'Lord," Burke said, peering up dispiritedly at the bench.

Crapper leapt up with alacrity to cross examine, "Please identify yourself for the court," he said, his voice a whiplash.

The Preacher paused, this was a crucial moment; if he acknowledged their right to try him as an ordinary person rather than as a missionary then he could be damned without second thought, then he shrugged, they'd damn him anyway so what the heck, "Norman Balderstone."

"Mr. Balderstone, you are not a religious preacher, are you?" said Crapper, "You are, in fact, an alcoholic, drug addict, frequenter of brothels and womaniser, are you not?"

"Guilty as charged, your honour," said the Preacher with a wide, friendly smile.

"Most people still consider such things morally reprehensible," snapped Crapper, "and these predilections are not entirely of the past, are they, Mr. Balderstone?"

"I've slipped off the wagon once or twice, I'm not perfect."

"From your lecturing of others," snarled Crapper, "one could be forgiven for thinking that you believe you are. All these rants against society, against our leaders, against the banks and the minorities? Surely these were intended to convince people that you were some how elevated?"

"No," said the Preacher, sounding tired.

"Yes," snapped Crapper, "I put it to you that you employed manipulative language to win the hearts and minds of the weak, and that you did this in order to feather your nest."

"Objection, prejudicial, argumentative," said Burke, rousing himself from his torpor.

"Sustained," murmured the judge, "Restrict yourself to questions, Crapper, if you please."

"Not for money," stated the Preacher, "I presented people with the truth, as I saw it."

"As you saw it," said Crapper, "A self confessed drug addict and sex fiend."

"My drug issues don't invalidate my views," stated the Preacher. "I am a nationalist, I believe in this country and its people and I have spoken up in defence of my country and my people."

"Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, "We heard testimony from Monica Adcock who was present at one of your gatherings and I have here a transcript in which you openly condemn abortion."

"That's a deliberate misrepresentation; I think it's every woman's right to have an abortion, but having said that, I also think we should consider the rights of the unborn child, the unborn individual. In any event, I do not believe it is a crime to argue against abortion."

"It is if done in such a way as to incite violence of the sort conducted by the Pro-life activists," stated Crapper.

"I have never encouraged violence on the issue," said the Preacher.

"Then how do you explain the violence that followed your presentation on the subject," argued Crapper, waving papers in the air, "I have here the police reports of a disturbance at one of your meetings where you criticised the practise of abortion and where you so roused the emotions of the crowd that several people were assaulted and had to attend hospital for treatment."

"I know nothing about that," said the Preacher.

"There were several arrests as well," stated Crapper, "or were you also unaware of them?"

"I know nothing of any arrests. All that must have happened after I left."

"Ah," said Crapper, "and is it your normal practice to stir up a crowd to fever pitch and then leave them alone to find an emotional or physical outlet for the frustrations you have released?

"Of course not," said the Preacher.

"The evidence is here, thirty arrests, twenty hospitalised; all because of your radical and inflammatory spouting, Mr. Balderstone."

The Preacher stared at Crapper, then said, "It remains my opinion that many abortions these days are undertaken to address the selfish desires of either or both of the two parties able to express an opinion. Who amongst you," he shouted waving into the court, "would refuse the chance of life if asked? Who would say, 'NO! Abort me, I don't want to live'. No-one."

There was a spontaneous outburst of applause from some in the gallery.

The jury moved as one, a disturbance going through them like a wind. There were a few boos from the back of the court.

He continued, "It's freedom of speech; the cornerstone of the British way of life. People choose to listen. I can't be held accountable for how others react. It's their own guilt or regret that drives them."

"Silence in court!" shouted the judge, red-faced, banging his gavel, "Order!"

"As you can see, your honour," said Crapper, silkily, "even here, in a court of law, facing the gravest of charges, he cannot resist the temptation to cause mayhem."

"Mr Balderstone," said the judge, back in control of his blood pressure, "you will confine yourself to brief and non inflammatory answers to the questions put, is that understood? Pray proceed, Crapper."

"Members of the jury," said Crapper, "we have just seen for ourselves how this man, this self-styled preacher, can whip up a storm of emotion with a few well-chosen words." Crapper pointed at the Preacher, waving his arm like a conjuror, as if the words had been wrest from him by Crapper's gift of interrogation, "Witness the use of emotive language; guilt and regret; by such use he passes judgement against abortion; inflaming passions on all sides."

The judge leaned forward and addressed the jury, "You will make note of the defendant's ability to arouse emotions and will refrain from becoming thus aroused. Please be advised, you are here to determine only whether or not he is guilty of the charges laid before you. Is that understood?"

The jury nodded obediently.

Cheers for reading

Arun









More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















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Chapters 49 & 50 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

49
"Et tu, Brute?"
Wm Shakespeare: Julius Caesar (III, i, 77)

The Preacher sat and watched, semi-hypnotised, as the news of the attack on Parliament was repeated time and time again. Occasionally he paused and squinted at the TV. Some of the faces seemed familiar; had they been in his audience somewhere? Had he seen them on London Bridge?

The Newsreader spoke again, "Early speculation that this was the work of Middle Eastern terrorists has now been revised in light of recent evidence, and rumours are surfacing of a plot inspired by individuals much closer to home. This has not yet been confirmed by official sources."

The Preacher fetched a biscuit from his tin then sat down again, musing.

"Police are seeking news of these people, asking them to come forward and assist them with their investigations," said the newsreader. Pictures of four octogenarians appeared on the screen.

He was fairly certain now; he recognised at least two of the four. "The Eden Hall Village," he said quietly, "and from there they will find their way to my door."

He sipped his tea and ran over the conversation with Barry again, the one where he'd been encouraged to speak at that retirement home. He smiled ruefully; it had been good Angel cake.
 
50

Martyrdom does not end something, it is only a beginning.
Indira Gandhi


The Preacher sat in his room reading.

Barry burst in the door and grabbed the Preacher’s coat, "Quick," he ordered, "Get this on and get out of here."

"Why?" asked the Preacher, nonchalance personified.

"For Christ' sake..haven't you been watching the news?"

"Of course," said the Preacher.

"Then you know they've linked you to the terrorists," said Barry, "and you've got to get out of here."

"Why?" asked the Preacher.

"Because they're coming for you." Barry hurried to the window, put his back against the wall then lifted the curtain slightly to peer out onto the quiet street.

"Who precisely is coming for me?" asked the Preacher, unmoved by this activity.

"The Police, for sure," said Barry, "and probably MI5 or MI6 or something."

The Preacher nodded, "Sounds likely."

"Then get your bloody coat on and let's get the fuck out of here," snapped Barry.

"But why?" said the Preacher, "I have nothing to hide. They can ask me questions but I have no involvement with those people whatsoever."

"Apart from the fact that you went to their home and spoke to them," said Barry.

"I did indeed," said the Preacher, "but what I remember most is that it was your idea, Barry. So surely the Police and MI6 would be far more interested in talking to you, don't you think?"

"Hey," said Barry, "that was at the request of our sponsors, remember. I had no choice in the matter."

"You always have a choice, Barry, otherwise all that I've been saying has no meaning."

"Right, well I'm exercising that choice right now so hurry up, we're not safe here."

"No, you go, Barry," said the Preacher, "I prefer to take my chances with the law than go on the run, it looks like the act of a guilty man, after all."

"Please," said Barry, "you must leave. They might, I don’t know, but things happen, don't they."

"What sort of things, Barry?" asked the Preacher.

Barry stared at him, "Look, these people don't ask questions and, as far as I can see, they like things tidied up. As in, no loose ends, no court case. Now, do you understand?"

"Completely," said the Preacher. He seemed tired and dispirited; even disappointed. "Just do what they've ordered you to do, Barry, but I would appreciate it if you made it quick."

"Me?" questioned Barry, "No, what? You've got it all wrong."

"I have no idea who you are, and even less idea where you came from but I know you have the right kind of contacts to get a beat up tramp like myself on prime time TV. I also know that it was really important to you that I visit the Eden Hall Retirement Village and address a bunch of old age pensioners."

Barry stared at him, his face pale.

"And wouldn't you know it, they just happened to be the very same pensioners who took it upon themselves to storm Parliament and killed those politicians, which strangely, is more or less what I’ve been saying needed to be done."

He laid his book down and looked Barry in the eyes, "I have to say I was quite taken with their name...what was it? Pensioners Against Corruption and Tyranny, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Please," said Barry, "just go. Don't make me choose."

The Preacher smiled, "It's alright Barry, death comes to all of us sooner or later, and it's not when, but how we face it that matters most."

Cheers for reading

Arun









More books in the 'Corpalism' series



















Compendium editions




 

Chapter 48 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

48

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Wm Shakespeare: Henry V


Five minutes after Alb gave the command twenty model Spitfires were circling Big Ben to the excited oohs and aaahs of the watching crowd.

The ex-RAF boys, having made their way round from their spot on the Westminster Abbey lawn, were standing in Parliament Square, each controlling his individual squadron with consummate ease.

The troops and police watched in consternation, uncertain how to handle this spectacle without upsetting the watching crowd.

Alb then sent a text to Cynthia.

Moments later the ladies of the WI, some of them sporting patriotic pink and blue rinses, tumbled out of their coach; bobbing like buoys in a rough sea.

"Out of my way, girls," hollered a big round woman in a large floral tent of a dress, her multiple chins flapping like a walrus, "pass me my cane, Ethel," she yelled back into the coach, "it’s with my gun thing."

"Don't crowd me, Hilda," hissed a frail yet waspish old lady, flapping her stick wildly against all and sundry, "don't crowd me."

"How does this thing work?" asked another, whipping out an Uzi from under her dress and waving it in the air. She was gloriously bedecked, leaning on a wheeled Zimmer frame.

"Good Lord," said a sightseer who was walking past the coach, "has that old girl got a gun?" He was hurried away by his wife, intent on getting a good viewing point for when the Queen left the building.

"Steady on, Clara," said Cynthia, her diamond bracelets clacking together as she waved her arms "we haven't had the off yet."

"Come on," said Fiona quickly, "hide your guns before they're spotted by the fuzz."

The police officers stationed outside Parliament stared over towards the WI coach, a sergeant clearly speaking into his radio. Several hundred feet above them a Police helicopter hovered. The Guards on the ground also turned their gaze on the WI coach, the men of the household cavalry pulled at their reins as if preparing to charge, though charge what they did not know.

∞

“Let’s get this show on the road," said Alb.

Gerry nodded and removing his flat cap waved his arm above his head from side to side; the attack signal to the RAF boys. Immediately the Spits zipped off in different directions, circled and then flew directly at the building where the House of Lords was situated.

"Someone shoot those bloody planes down!" yelled a sergeant from the guards, at which a hundred L85A2s, the standard British army rifle, aimed skywards.

The infantry fired and two spits exploded but the others sped on and smashed through the paned windows, exploding on impact, sending glass, brick fragments and splinters everywhere. Then the remaining planes flew through the openings and crashed into the red leather seats bearing the rich and obscenely plump behinds of the Lords.

At the same time the OSS set off smoke bombs that they had cunningly taped to the underside of their wheelchairs, though not so cunningly as it turned out, for two of them promptly keeled over and died of asphyxiation.

Alb turned towards the crowd and, pulling his AK47 from under his coat, fired off a couple of rounds into the air and shouted, "Get back!"

Immediately the crowd started a panicked dispersal, running for cover, away from Parliament. At the same time Gerry and the others let off a smoke bomb each. The soldiers stationed just in front of Alb's little army turned and aimed their rifles.

"Get out of the way!" ordered the soldiers, seeing only age and infirmity. The old people hastily complied and scurried as fast as they could past the red coated warriors, towards Parliament.

The Police on duty all turned their attention to Parliament Square; they were looking for an ethnic minority group or maybe a young terrorist faction but all they could see was a bunch of old codgers stumbling their way towards them, they presumed desperately seeking cover.

"Over here," yelled the sergeant of Police, waving frantically as he did so, "and keep down."

"They're in the way, Sarge," said a young copper, "I can't see who's firing."

"Out of the way," yelled the sergeant at Alb and his troops.

"What the bloody hell's going on?" yelled a rotund copper; known to his mates as six bellies, "where did those shots come from?"

"Over there," stated Gerry pointing towards Westminster Abbey, "Over there."

"Quick lads," shouted six bellies, "get the chopper over ‘ead, see if they can't see anything."

∞

Meanwhile Bill and Johnno had opened up the rear doors of the van from where Wilf, his sights zeroed in, was taking pot shots at the Police. Unable to identify where the shots were coming from the officers withdrew to the visitor entrance off Cromwell Green.

The nearby guards had fallen back on the Parliament building itself and were also looking for the source of the incoming rounds.

Alb, Gerry, Mags and their small army were still shuffling across the road, intermittently gasping their “For Britain” battle cry. They eventually made it and piled into the courtyard to the side of Parliament, to be joined by the freshly cut and dyed, tight curly perms of the WI.

"Where did all these bloody old gits come from?" demanded a sergeant of the Guards.

"I don't fucking care," yelled the Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, "just get them out of the bloody way."

"This way mate," said a young guard to Alb and Gerry as they paused for breath, Alb with his hand on Gerry’s shoulder, wheezing at the smoke, "If you hang around out there you'll end up getting shot."

Alb and Gerry nodded and squeezed past, followed by Mags and the rest of their motley crew.

∞

"What the..?" yelled a police sergeant as a tiny, wrinkly old lady dressed in a voluminous dark blue evening dress and be-jewelled in diamonds and emeralds appeared through the smoke. For a moment he thought in horror that it might be the Queen then, eyes adjusting to the smoke, he realised his error and called, "quick granny, over here."

"Less of the granny, my boy," snarled Clara as she levelled her Uzi and let rip with a long burst, emptying her magazine. The bullets smashed into everything around the police sergeant. He blinked, unscathed; a shocked expression on his face. "Oh dear," she mused, "I seem to have run out."

"Run for your life, BOY!" yelled the big round woman in the floral dress as she bounced out of the smoke wafting across Parliament. She stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with her huge bulk. "Or I'll waste your ass."

"Shit!" hissed the Sergeant, scuttling backwards for cover.

∞

Wilf, never having had the patience to be a sniper, had abandoned the van and was leading his happy band across St. Margaret Street in what he considered a charge but which was in fact a muddled shuffle. "Death or Glory!" he muttered intermittently, not having the energy for the rallying battle cry he could hear so clearly in his head.

"Keep moving that way," yelled a Colour Sergeant, pointing in the direction of the Peers’ entrance.

Puffing uncontrollably Wilf nodded, wanting very desperately to sit down and never get up again. Cursing himself for an old fool, instead he dug deep and stumbled on until he came to rest at the impressive entrance to the Lords, "Fire in the hole!" he yelled, dumping a satchel of grenades through the doorway before seeking cover further back. The double doors disintegrated into a whirlwind of splinters.

"Up and at 'em, lads!” He yelled to his collection of ruthless warriors; Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron, Dave and Sticky. Johnno responded with quite a loud shout of “Death or Glory!"

Behind them three Chelsea pensioners, who had been sight-seeing for the day but were now lying in the road sheltering from the mayhem around them, struggled to their feet, they stared wide eyed for a minute or so then with broad grins spread across heavily lined faces they were off and hobbling, screaming at the tops of their voices, "Death or Glory!"

"Give no quarter, take no prisoners," yelled Sticky savagely, surprising himself.

"Who are they?" demanded Johnno of Pete, pointing over his shoulder at the Chelsea old boys.

"No idea," said Pete, "they didn't come with us, did they?"

"They haven't even got weapons," said Sticky.

∞

Alb had been watching Wilf’s assault on the doors with something approaching envy. "Who does he think he is?" he demanded, "he's not running this bloody show."

Suddenly Cynthia appeared, displaying agility that belied her years, hurdling a prone and groaning policeman, then dashing into the darkened, smoke-filled building, following in Wilf’s footsteps, firing madly as she went. Bringing up the rear was Vera, re-loading as she ran, bunions forgotten in her haste to get into the action.

"Bloody crazy woman," muttered Alb, "she's going to hurt someone with that thing in a minute."

Gerry, at his side as always, made a very strange growling noise; his dander was up and he had the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils, "Death or Glory!" he yelled.

"Er....er, Nobby," stammered Mort, "I need to go to the lavatory."

"Well hold it," ordered Frank, pushing Nobby back into line.

"I can't," said Mort, pulling his dressing gown close around him, "it's all this excitement."

"Then go where you are," said Jonesey, "it won't matter in a minute will it; you'll be dead so you're going to piss yourself anyway."

Just then the Deputy Prime Minister stumbled out of the doorway clutching his head; blood running from a slight graze, "Help me," he moaned, "help me."

"Certainly matey," answered Lenny, taking aim and loosing off a whole clip.

The Deputy Prime Minister fell to his knees, "Don't shoot,” he begged as the rounds bounced around him, none finding a target.

"Bugger," moaned Lenny as he struggled to change his mag.

The Deputy Prime Minister checked to see if and where he had been shot, then realising that all of the bullets had missed he struggled to his feet determined to make good his escape. One of the RAF boys, having witnessed the incident sent his last spit crashing into the ground at the Deputy PM’s feet. There was a terrific explosion, a burst of flame and as the huge cloud of smoke and dust drifted off only a forlorn pair of shoes remained where the Deputy PM had stood.

The Prime Minister, from his hiding place in the doorway gulped and slunk further back into the shadows. Ron, emerging from the dust cloud pulled out a butcher’s knife, "Gotcha, you bastard," he snarled. Bill said from close behind him, "I've got the Labour leader."

"He's all yours," said Ron, party loyalties on the back burner, as he shuffled into the blackened building.

Just then the Queen, head held high, crown in her left hand and her tattered and torn robe hanging from her shoulders, strode out of the crumbling building, the Duke of Edinburgh strolling on behind.

Alb and Gerry were immediately transfixed. Mags moved slightly out of line of sight. Lenny stamped to attention, closely followed by Frank.

Prince Philip saw commoners and moved towards them, hand outstretched, "Hello, how are you?" he said, shaking the spell bound Lenny's hand.

"Well, it just isn't good enough, Philip," said the Queen.

"I was only helping her up, cabbage," he protested.

"It didn't look like that to me," stormed the Queen.

"Your Majesties," stumbled Alb, not at all sure of the etiquette required.

"Oh dear, more little people," muttered the Queen.

"Got to put on a good show, old girl," said Prince Philip.

"I don't need you to tell me that Philip," hissed the Queen over her shoulder, "Ah hello," she said, turning her attention to Alb and Gerry, both still mesmerised, "and what is it that you two do around here?"

"Leave this to me, cabbage, old thing," said the Prince, "I know how to talk to these types. Now see here urm, old man...."

"Corporal, Albert Rayner, of the 1st Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, your highness," said Alb, stamping to attention.

"Ah yes," said Prince Philip on firmer ground now, "don't suppose you've seen our carriage have you? It should be around here somewhere, or maybe the Colonel of the Guards?"

"You there," called the Queen pointing to Wilf who was kneeling over the prone figure of a pot bellied MP, "would you be so kind as to call me a cab?"

Wilf stared bog eyed, a bowie knife in one hand and something small and red in the other.

"I say, what do you have in your hand?" asked the Queen.

Wilf shook his head and stuffed something into his pocket.

"Oh my god!" hissed Alb, knowing Wilf, it was probably a trophy.

"What?" said Prince Philip. Alb nodded at Wilf. Prince Philip looked back and forth, a puzzled expression, "What is it?"

"I say," said the Queen, "a cab, per chance?"

"My kingdom for a cab," said Prince Philip sarcastically.

"Philip," snapped the Queen, "that isn't funny."

"Ear necklace," hissed Alb in Prince Philip's direction.

"I need someone to call me a cab," said the Queen.

"You're a cab," chuckled Prince Philip under his breath.

"I heard that Philip," said the Queen. "I say, what do you have there?" she said, addressing Wilf.
Like a naughty school boy Wilf found himself unable to speak or even to think, slowly he reached into his pocket. Alb's mouth opened in a silent scream, Prince Philip smiled benignly and time slowed down across the universe. Then, just as the bloodied trophy cleared Wilf's pocket, Prince Charles stumbled through the doorway, his multitude of ornamental medals dangling precariously from his chest, "Mummy," he wailed.

∞

Meanwhile in a sumptuous Executive suite at the Savoy, Mackie had positioned himself in front of three lap tops. He had a Skype connection open on two of them; the one on the left was the legal representative of a man identified only as Mr CS and the one on the right was representing a similarly identified, Mr MAF. The centre screen held 12 CCTV images of the events currently unfolding in Westminster.

"Okay, gentlemen," said Mackie, "as agreed, bidding will begin when the target is revealed."

"To clarify," said the man on the left screen, "how do you intend for this to work?" His usual urbane presentation had been overtaken by an unhealthy -looking sheen of what could only be termed, sweat.

"Simple," said Mackie, hiding a smile, "my man will usher the target towards one of the exits. They are all covered by SIG-Sauer SSG2000s which carry an armour piercing round. Each weapon is rigged up to my laptop from which I can control the shot, or shots. Each is fitted with a twenty round magazine. For the right price, working upwards from 5 million, sterling naturally, I will release that control to your client who will then be able to take the shot or shots."

Each of the two screens went blank momentarily; Mackie was untroubled; the middle men were, no doubt, conferring with their employers.

The one on the right, the representative for Mr MAF, came back on, "And how do we take the shot?"

"Press enter once I've switched control across," said Mackie.

The screen went black again.

"Oh, there he is," said Mackie, homing in on Prince Charles, "have to hurry you, gentlemen."

"Ten million," said the representative for CS, abruptly coming back on screen.

"Fifteen," said Mr MAF's representative; a disembodied voice.

"Twenty."

∞

The Queen turned her gaze towards her weeping son, only for a second but it was enough for Wilf to seek cover in the dust clouds sweeping back and forth across Parliament.

"What is it, Charles?" demanded the Queen.

"I think I'm going to be sick, mummy," he wailed.

"Bloody useless idiot," hissed Prince Philip.

"Charles, pull yourself together," commanded the Queen.

"It might be best if you moved on, your Dukeship," whispered Alb to Prince Philip, "it could get dangerous around here."

"Quite," said Prince Philip, smiling, "well, keep it up," he murmured, giving Alb a friendly pat on the shoulder, "you're doing a damned fine job, whatever it is."

"Come on Philip," said the Queen, "We have to be getting orf. What about a bus? Do you think they'll let us on without any money?"

"Doubt it, old girl," said Prince Philip following on behind, "you know what things are like these days, got to pay for everything, gone are the days of the freebies."

"Yes," said the Queen sarcastically, "You would know all about them."

"Protect the Queen!" screamed the Sergeant Major and the guards doubled over to surround their Monarch.

"Fix bayonets!" yelled a corporal.

"Wait for me mummy," called Prince Charles, realising a bit late that he'd need to scurry if he wasn't to be left behind.

"Charles," Camilla had emerged from the smoke, her hair and face blackened, "help me."

"Not so fast, you bounder," snarled Hilda, the floral pattern of her dress clashing wildly with the AK47 she was levelling at Prince Charles' chest, "time to say hello to the devil."

"Bugger," groaned Prince Charles, abandoning Camilla and nipping back inside the House of Lords.

Hilda pulled the trigger but it wouldn't move, it was the same problem she'd been having all afternoon, "Wouldn't you just know I'd get the broken one," she complained.

"Remove the bloody safety catch!" yelled Gerry, as he shuffled past.

"Safety catch?" said Hilda, "what's a safety catch?"

Alb shook his head and followed Gerry into the smoke filled gloom, "Where do we go from here?" he said.

"I don't know," said Gerry, "just push on, I guess."

Meanwhile Prince Charles was ushered by his security detail towards the entrance by Cromwell's Green.

∞

"Okay gentlemen," said Mackie, "I'm going to need you to finish off now, the target will be available in a short moment, final bids please."

"50 million," said the representative for SC.

"60 million," said the representative for MAF.

"70 million," said the representative for SC.

"100 million," said the representative for MAF.

"Sold," snapped Mackie, "transfer of funds required up front, of course."

The representative for MAF then started to type frantically into his lap top.

Mackie sent a quick text, 'Hold at the entrance for my clearance.'

Meanwhile, Ken and Val, having also managed to slip passed the troops and police, a bucket each of hot tar and a bag of feathers in hand, were closing on Cromwell's Garden.

"Money is transferred," said the representative of MAF.

Mackie checked his account on his laptop and smiled, "I am transferring the shot to you, now," he said, "be ready because you will have only a split second in which to fire." Mackie then sent a text to his man in Prince Charles' security detail, 'Now.'

"It's alright, sir," said the security man, to Prince Charles, "I've just had the okay, the way ahead is clear."

"About bloody time," hissed Prince Charles.

"Not so fast," screamed Clara from the shadows behind.

"Bloody hell," groaned Prince Charles, before ducking out of the door.

MAF stared wild eyed at the tablet in his hands, his finger hovering over the enter button, then he saw his target and he started to bash away. At precisely the same moment Tom and Harry leapt out of the smoke and together launched a bucket load of tar all over Prince Charles. Horrified he raised his hands to his face and, stepping backwards, slipped on a police truncheon, just as the rounds from the Sig came crashing into the entrance killing his security escort outright. Ken and Val emptied their bags of feathers all over him.

Crowing with victory the small group disappeared into the grey and white smoke swirling around Parliament.

MAF stared at his screen, eyes bulging. He couldn't see anything through the smoke. His representative stood next to him, also peering.

At the Savoy Mackie was busy putting away some of his other equipment when he saw a lone figure standing up in the camera shot, a figure covered head to foot in tar and feathers. Mackie squinted, shrugged and closed the PC.

MAF looked confused, he stared at the screen, "Did I get him?" he asked, then, "He's still ALIVE!" he screamed, hurling the tablet across the room.
Prince Charles groaned and started to shuffle towards Bridge Street. Behind him he could hear the burst of automatic fire and the screams of dying politicians. "Bloody stupid...." he muttered under his breath.

No one stopped him, checked his progress or attempted to molest him in anyway; they steered clear and let the sad lonely figure stumble on down the road, that is, all except a small mousey looking old lady, a bowie knife clamped firmly between her gums as she manoeuvred a bent and squeaky Zimmer frame along the uneven pavement, an empty Uzi dangling at her side.

∞

The Prime Minister, his tie pulled loose and his shirt buttons open at the top, crawled along the floor towards the House of Commons. Behind him he heard the continuous cracking of machine guns. He crawled onwards past a cowering reporter who, realising he had the opportunity of an exclusive, thrust a mike under his nose.

"Prime Minister, what do you make of the day's events?"

"Look," said the PM, falling into his usual intro, then he groaned and crawled off. Trust bloody Blackmore to balls it up.

∞

Outside the army had formed a defensive square around the Queen and the Duke. The police had cordoned off Parliament.

"Are you alright your Majesty?" asked the Colonel.

"Yes, but I'm just a bit tired," said the Queen.

"Sergeant Major!" shouted the Colonel, "seat for the Queen."

"Sir!" shouted the Sergeant Major turning to a couple of privates, "On your hands and knees lads and look sharp about it." The two privates dropped on all fours and the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh sat down.

"Don't suppose you could rustle up a cup of tea, could you?" asked the Queen.

"Cup of tea for the Queen!" shouted the Sergeant Major.

"Whiskey if you've got one," said Prince Philip.

"It's too early for a whiskey, Philip," snapped the Queen irritably.

"Damn it all," he muttered.

Just then about thirty MPs burst from the Peers entrance and dropped to their knees; gasping for air and praising the Lord for their salvation. Seeing their chance the OSS wheeled passed the distracted household cavalry and watching policemen, and rolled on towards the peers' entrance.

"Get them!" shouted a police officer, pointing towards the OSS but too late, for they had reached their target. The MPs, realising they had been approached by ancient invalids, acted as one and sought cover behind the wheelchairs, convinced that no-one would shoot a cripple. Ebullient that their prey had reacted so helpfully, the members of the OSS detonated their charges blowing themselves and the thirty odd MPs into the next world.

∞

Inside the Lord's Chamber Wilf and his merry band were busy despatching the few remaining MPs who had sought refuge behind the seats. They'd been joined by Fiona and Esmé; both of whom had proved to be excellent and ruthless shots. Pete was watching Fiona with a new level of admiration and not a little fear.

"I just got the Chancellor of the Exchequer," bragged Johnno.

"Well, I got the Foreign Secretary," yelled Sticky, "little toad that he is."

"He only counts as half," joked Dave.

Bill staggered into the chamber, blood running from an open chest wound.

"You alright Bill?" asked Esmé, pausing in the middle of a re-load.

Bill slumped down in one of the seats and grinned, "I got the bloody leader of the opposition." Then he slumped forward, his last breath rattling in his throat. Dave and Sticky bowed their heads for a moment, Johnno put his hand on Bill's shoulder and then they all moved off.

∞

Alb and Gerry had reunited with Mags, Lenny, Dora and Cynthia.

"What now?" asked Cynthia, her hair askew and eyes wild.

Gerry's face was filthy, his smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes were wild, "Who cares? Never expected to get this far."

"Where are the others? Where's Wilf's lot?" asked Alb.

Gerry shrugged; he'd been with Alb all the time so he knew what Alb knew.

"Mort had a stroke," said Lenny "and I saw Frank and Jonesey get it near the entrance."

"What about Val?" asked Alb.

Everyone shrugged, no one had seen Val or Ken or any of that team.

"And Vera, Esmé?" Dora looked like she might cry; the excitement giving way to despair.

"I say we go down shooting," said Cynthia, brandishing her weapon like she'd been born to it.

"Like Butch and Sundance," said Gerry, smiling at Alb.

"Why don't we just escape?" asked Mags, not altogether ready to meet her maker.

"We're through, Mags," said Alb, "these old bones won't get much further."

"But there's a war still to fight," said Mags.

"That's right," said Lenny, "there'll be others to replace these scumbags, someone will have to tackle them."

"There's no way out," said Alb, "I can't face prison."

"See if there are any more left," Mags said, authority personified, "then gather back here in ten minutes."

"You know a way out?" Alb's voice was high, thick with renewed hope.

"Of course," she said, smiling gently, "I know everything."



Cheers

Arun





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Compendium editions

Chapter 47 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

47

The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe.
You have to make it fall.
Che Guevara

The Preacher stood at the edge of the stage and stared out, "The time has come," he said, "we are perilously close to the tipping point. If we don't take back our world soon then we will never be able to because the inheritors of our planet, our children, have no idea what they should take back."

He started to pace slowly, "Our world is defined by greed, we are led by acquisitive individuals, seduced by beautiful and airbrushed images of damaged souls. Our minds have been corrupted and we see only the desperate need for more, a remorseless quest to own this or that, to live vicariously in this PS game, this or that soap, mimic this celebrity or that, use this perfume, have that phone or iPad or tablet. Even more devastating is the fact that the souls of our children have become corrupted from an early stage in their development; they have no concept of life before greed and selfishness, before self-aggrandisement at the expense of others, at the expense of nature and of our very world."

"This has been nurtured by our leaders for they are the most avaricious amongst us. It is our leaders who have allowed this disease to infest our society where our children are unable to empathise with the each other, with nature, with mankind as a whole. Where our children live their lives via the internet, watching porn, or texting and tweeting nonsense back and forth, where they are unremittingly seduced by adverts on TV, on their PCs, on their tablets or on their mobiles, where they are encouraged to engage in mindless drivel such as 'text your name and your boyfriend’s name and we will tell you if your relationship will last' for which they end up paying a fee, ad infinitum."

He paused, "Our leaders have allowed total commercialism to engulf humanity and they have fostered our basest instincts and our most corrupt urges. They have allowed the high priests of the commercial world to invade our minds and the minds of our young with images of superiority, images that will appear to make us better than others when all the while our actions are making us the worst generation of humans to have ever existed on this planet."

He ignored the gasps of denial that met his words and stopped in the centre of the stage, "Our leaders have created this egotistical world of the diseased mind and corrupt soul simply to enable them to rise above everyone else like gods. They have allowed the devil to roam free upon the land, the devil who stokes our most evil emotions and desires. Our leaders have encouraged our fall from grace."

He started to pace again, his voice loud, "They have consorted with those who would foist greed and selfishness not just upon us but also upon our weak and developing young, so much so that if we were to try and change our world it is possible that the young would resist us."

He stopped pacing, saying more quietly, "Our leaders have created the religion of consumerism, nurtured its growth within the belly of society, pandered to the high priests in advertising, and prostituted themselves to the bankers, the energy giants, the business consortiums, the City. They have sold our future and the future of our children who don't know, and may possibly never know, what they have lost."

He started to pace again, "Our leaders have created a religion that has now become greater and stronger than even they imagined. This evil beast is now more powerful than its high priests, than its managing directors, than any banking community, than the city itself, for this beast lives off its own energy."

He turned, "It is alive and will resist its destruction, it will send our children out against us, to fight and resist every change that we try to make, every effort at self-discipline, every effort at self-improvement, every effort at changing and improving the world, every attempt to assist the helpless and downtrodden will be crushed by the forces of consumerism, of the forces of greed, of the forces of EVIL."

He raced to the front of the stage, "For be assured the beast does indeed walk the earth," he shouted, "but it is not as some biblical horned creature, it is as the seed of contempt and selfishness planted deep in the minds and souls of every one of us and it is made manifest in the form of pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, avarice and sloth."

He stood and raised his arms, "These deadly sins are no longer considered to be such, now they are held aloft as goals and ambitions, they are sold to us daily, hourly and sold to our children the minute they can sit and watch a TV, the minute they can operate a smart phone or play on a tablet."

He raced across the front of the stage, "All the evil of the world exists in our new, government approved and government endorsed, religion. So I say to you it is our leaders who have failed us. It is our leaders who have lead us down this path. It is our leaders who we must hold responsible and it is our leaders who we must remove forthwith."

Then he was gone.

Barry was shaken to his core; this was a call for revolution and it was on camera. 

Cheers

Arun








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Compendium editions

Chapter 46 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

46

This is no time for ease and comfort.
It is time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill

As is traditional on the State Opening of Parliament an MP from the Commons presents himself to the Queen as hostage, on this occasion it was Prentice Prendergast, MP for Morecambe; a potential leadership rival for the PM. He had been surprised to be chosen; but Sir Philip had been adamant and no one cared enough to argue. Once he arrived at the Palace and was safely ensconced, a hostage against potential harm to the Monarch at the hands of Parliament, the Queen, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall left the Palace and made their way to Parliament.

Once there the Queen was draped in the Parliament Robe of State and the Imperial State Crown was placed carefully on the iron grey curls. Finally the Royal procession was able to start for the Lords; preceded by the Earl Marshal, the Leader of the House of Lords carrying the Cap of Maintenance on a white rod, another peer carrying the Great Sword of State and finally out in front marched the Lord Great Chamberlain with his white stick raised aloft.

The procession entered the Lords, the Queen sat upon the throne and said, "My Lords, pray be seated."

"Waste of time," muttered the Duke, seated at her side, "I'm too bally old for this."

"Be quiet, Philip," hissed the Queen through a clenched teeth grimace.

Camilla leaned over and whispered in Prince Charles' ear, "That should be you, you know." It was a well-rehearsed argument, pointless but she found it impossible to refrain.

"What can I do? Mummy just won't go," he responded, managing to speak without appearing so to do, something he'd practised since his Gordonstoun days, "she's going to sit there forever being bloody Queen. She loves it, look at her up there, lording it over everybody."

He wanted to slump, rest his head in his hands, groan out loud at the unfairness of it all; he remained upright and expressionless.

The Queen nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain and he signalled for Black Rod to summon the members of the Commons. Black Rod, escorted by the Door-keeper of the House of Lords and a Police Inspector, set off for the Commons; the inspector bearing the peculiar responsibility of ordering 'Hats off strangers' to whomsoever they met on the way regardless of the fact that no-one now wore a hat in Parliament.

Upon reaching the Commons the doors were slammed shut and Black Rod banged forcefully on the door three times, at which point the doors were opened, Black Rod and his escort then approached the dispatch box and addressed the House, "Mr Speaker, The Queen commands this Honourable House," as he spoke he bowed to both sides, "to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers."

Outside Parliament stood a long line of red coated Grenadier Guards, their impractical bearskin hats nestling deep on their brows, blurring their vision. Behind them were hundreds of avid spectators who had gathered for the return journey of the Queen's carriage.

Off to the North in Bridge Street a large coach was parked. It bore the insignia of the Women's Institute. Unusually, the windows of the coach were blacked out. Inside the coach, her thin face alight with excitement, stood Cynthia, hair newly coiffed, a fetching shade of mauve, resplendent in a beige Hardy Amies dress of indeterminate age and draped in her best jewellery, talking quietly but enthusiastically to Esmé. They made an incongruous pair with Esmé kitted out in khaki combats and Doc Martens she'd had in her cupboard for three decades. She was in her element, every nerve ending tingling and feeling exactly as she had all those years previously, when faced with a barbed wire fence at the RAF base at Greenham Common that had had to be breeched.

Fiona was looking at her askance; why a grown woman would want to be seen in public in such an awful get up was beyond her. She herself was immaculate in a dark green Barbour over a calf length camel skirt (kick pleat at the back for ease of movement) and a dark brown cashmere twin-set (pearls left at home in case of breakage). She was shod in (sensible for running although with her knee as it was she wasn't likely to be doing too much of that) Oxford brogues.

Dora had pushed herself to the front of the coach near the driver, an old friend of Pete's dragooned into duty, but enjoying being surrounded by women again. For all the world Dora resembled a coach party courier, huge and quivering in her custom made jacquard coat dress, bright red so she would stand out she'd told Vera. Vera, in a comfortable and serviceable ensemble of navy waterproof jacket, topping a jumper and trousers in subtle shades of grey and pink, had thought spitefully that she didn't need to wear red in order to stand out but hadn't said it out loud.

They'd given up their dream to attack McDonalds; had been forced into acquiescence by the combined eloquence of Alb, Tom and surprisingly Pete, who'd told Fiona privately that he wanted her to be where he could 'keep an eye' on her.

Now Dora was addressing the group, thirty women of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all brought in for the purpose, many of them Esmé's old cronies, all willing to die for the cause.

She spoke passionately, "Ladies, today we act for our grandchildren, today we act to return this nation to them, today we act to save their jobs and their standard of living, their hopes and dreams for the future." She paused, tired from the effort, face as red as her dress, then launched again, "Today we act as we should've acted before, to stop these greedy, self-serving people from selling off more of our national estate to foreign powers." She stopped again and looked across at Vera, Cynthia, Esmé and Fiona then, on her signal, they all chorused, "Today we strike a blow for freedom!"

The rest of the women cheered, raising their assorted weaponry and clutching at one another, smiling, eyes bright with fervour. Fiona shivered slightly; she was of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade but most of these women looked as though they'd have trouble telling one end of a gun from the other. On the long coach journey she'd tried to impart the rudiments but had given up; too much to learn, too little time. 'Point and shoot' she'd told them in the end.

Another shout rent the air, in response to some other nonsense from Dora; self appointed spokesperson and rabble rouser. Outside the coach a few passers-by exchanged perplexed expressions before going about their business.

"Dora?" called a mousy, frail-looking woman from the back. Although she'd had her moments in the past, been a minor activist against vivisection and the like, she had long since settled for a slow, painful ignominious decline into senility. When Esmé had given her the call she'd answered it as a life-saver, though it would likely culminate in her death.

There was so much commotion that Dora could barely hear, "Quiet!" she barked.

The mousy woman raised her arm again, "erm, I know the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have a free pass but what about Prince Charles and that dreadful woman?"

"Let me reiterate," said Cynthia, having worked her way into a position beside Dora; Little and Large, together at the end. She waited until she had their full attention, "The Queen and the Duke must be left unmolested, but Prince Charles and Camilla are fair game."

There was a general cheer, "But don't concentrate your efforts on them," stressed Fiona, her voice commanding in its lack of effort so to be, "remember, we're primarily here for the treacherous Politicians."

∞

Meanwhile, parked up just in front of Winston Churchill's statue was a van in the colours of Westminster City Council.

Johnno had inveigled it from an old acquaintance who had stored it in a lock-up for them. After their strange Viagra fuelled night Wilf's team had gone early to the lock up and, using the paint Johnno's friend had supplied, had managed to disguise it sufficiently to pass first inspection.

The plan revolved around them being accepted as volunteer gardeners; in an effort to look the part they'd got hold of a few trays of young plants and Johnno, Pete, Bill and Ron were mooching about trying to place them. Up till now they had successfully resisted all requests from the Police to 'move on', a feat achieved primarily due to their age.

Dave and Sticky were sitting together on a bench some way off, sulking about the change of plan. It transpired this was the reason they had chosen to be on Wilf's team; they'd set their hearts on taking out a mosque and couldn't be reconciled. Also, they were both exhausted after the antics of the night before; Wilf had not mentioned the after-effects of Viagra before plying them with copious amounts of the drug.

Wilf, meantime, had made himself comfortable in a prone position in the back of the van. He had already scoped out the arc of fire and intended to pick off the MPs as they fled the assault. Alb and Gerry had worked mightily to dissuade him from this course but he wouldn't let it go, he felt he could get more of the buggers this way before being taken out himself. He'd had a last-minute go at persuading Jonesey to join him in the van; as an ex-sniper he thought he'd have jumped at the chance, but no, more fool him, he'd committed to be with Alb.

"What do you think of planting the lobelias along the front here?" Pete asked, peering at the label hoping for enlightenment.

"What colour are they?" replied Ron, poking desultorily at the soil, trying to look knowledgeable and failing.

"I'm not sure," said Pete, "it doesn't say but they trail, apparently."

"Johnno," said Ron, "what colour are lobelias?"

"Blue," said Johnno, "but don't put them there, I was going to plant the....."

"What are you lot on about?" demanded Bill, "it doesn't matter where you plant the bloody things does it? No-one's going to care, are they?"

"Well, I care," stated Pete, truculently.

"Me too," said Ron, "if a jobs worth doing, it's...."
Goaded, Bill asked, "Do you want me to call Mad Dog over?"

Pete cleared his throat, "Err....urm...I suppose anywhere will do."

Johnno pulled a face and put down the tray he'd been carrying; he was having a problem breathing and he really needed a sit down and a cuppa.

∞

Meanwhile, Tom, and his son Dickie had parked Dickie's beat up Nissan Hardbody truck, also now bearing the Westminster City Council colours, at the bus stop just in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, situated behind Parliament Square. Dickie's mates had promised to join them later, arriving by myriad means to avoid detection. Dickie had let the air out of one of the tyres just in case the police should try to move them on and was engaged in an apparently fruitless attempt to undo the wheel nuts. In the back of the open truck were three large vats of tar, already steaming, and several sacks of feathers; despite all Alb's urgings to the contrary, no one in the group had wanted to kill anyone and they still felt a massed tar and feathering was enough to get the message across.

On arrival Ken had clambered out of the van in a state of discomfort and dishevelment; after stretching and bemoaning his back's frailty for several minutes he had finally leaned in and helped Val to do the same. He felt a frisson of pride as she exited to stand beside him on the pavement; she was a good looking woman despite her age and he felt privileged that she'd chosen to be in his group when she could have gone with Alb.

Harry, having come up with Gray, Gill and Reg, was there to greet them, and he gave Val the once-over, Ken noted. They'd arrived by train then taxi; Reg had the money he had told them over and over, his voice querulous with age and irritation, and he was damned if he was travelling to his death in anything less than 1st class.

∞

Just round the corner from Parliament Square, on the patch of grass outside Westminster Abbey, three ex-RAF squadron leaders, friends of Vera's from her days in the WRAF, roped in to great effect at the last minute, had set out their twenty Spitfire replica models. The engines were running, the flaps were working and the Semtex was onboard.

They just needed the off from Alb.

∞

Alb, Gerry and Mags were positioned round the corner with their team, Jonesey, Lenny, Frank, Nobby and Mort, on the edge of Parliament Square. Mags had insisted on being with them rather than on the WI coach. The only absentee from what Alb had always thought of as his Eden Hall gang was Sticky; inexplicably he'd chosen to go with Wilf and Johnno to take pot shots at people from inside a bloody van.
Alb looked along the line.

All but one of them were dressed like the Long Riders from the Jesse James movie, in specially imported drovers coats. This had been Gerry's idea, him being a fan of westerns. Beneath this all encompassing outer wear they wore fatigues with full battle webbing. Each had an AK47, an Uzi, a nine millimetre pistol and half a dozen grenades concealed amongst the folds of the floor-skimming coats.

All but one; Mort had ruined the look. Ok, Jonesey was in his slippers but he was a martyr to his corns and wanted to die comfortable. Ok, Gerry had been adamant about his flat cap, but Mort, having insisted on dressing himself, and despite having managed to get the webbing right using a long distant memory lodged somewhere in his brain, on leaving the apartment had mistaken his dressing gown, a green and red check woollen affair, for his long coat.

Although the outfits had been Gerry's idea it was Alb who had been incensed. He'd announced abruptly that Mort could no longer be part of the op but he'd been overruled in the end; it was too late for anyone to accompany him back to the Village, no-one knew what he might do on his own and they didn't want to take the chance. Besides, no-one wanted to impose the indignity of being left behind on anyone, especially on a suicide mission.

∞

At the same time as the members of the Commons began piling into the Lords eight wheelchair bound octogenarians started to wheel their way from Victoria Tower Gardens towards the Monarch's entrance. Each of these wheelchair volunteers was determined that their final breath be expended defending Britain from the greedy leaches leading the nation.

Eyes fixed, jaws set the old men and women of the Octogenarian Suicide Squad, or the OSS as they liked to call themselves headed for their positions in the tree line just south of their target.

When they were all in place one of them sent a text to Alb who then sent a message to the ex-RAF boys, 'GO!'

Cheers

Arun








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Compendiun editions

Chapter 45 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

45

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
Mark Twain

At exactly 10 pm Wilf stepped off the train.

He was in his Sunday best; fawn slacks, red waistcoat and a dark brown corduroy jacket with leather patches on each elbow. Incongruously he was swinging a plastic carrier bag in his hand. Behind him followed the usual gang; Ron, Bill, Johnno and Pete and, swelling their ranks, Sticky and Dave. Wilf had been surprised when, without any explanation they'd both expressed their wish to be in on his plan. He would have put money on Sticky preferring to be with Alb for the Big Show, and he had assumed Dave would be with Harry, but then there's no telling what folk will do.

All of them had dressed for the occasion; Bill looking rather sharp in an expensive looking silver-grey suit. Privately Wilf thought the strong smell of mothballs somewhat spoiled the effect.

"Where we going, Wilf?" asked Ron, piteously, shuffling alongside.

In Ron's case dressing for the occasion meant a tight-fitting navy suit and highly polished brown brogues. Wilf had demanded they bring cash and lots of it; Ron had his in a money belt and this was one reason for the tightness of the suit.

"Come on, Wilf," said Johnno, "you promised you’d tell us where we were going when we got to Victoria."

Wilf ignored them, whistling to himself, knowing they had no choice but to follow as he strode out of the station and grabbed one of the larger taxis. Ron was hard on his heels, struggling into the taxi to sit beside him, muttering profanities. The others followed, cramming themselves in with great and obvious difficulty.

"Where to guv?" asked the taxi driver. Looking in his mirror, it occurred to him he should take payment up front in case the occupants keeled over before they reached their destination.

Wilf reached into his pocket and handed the driver a piece of paper. The driver frowned, read the address, shrugged and set off. After 30 minutes of what felt like an unnecessarily convoluted journey he pulled up outside an ordinary house, one of many in an row of innocuous terraces.

Wilf paid up; he’d promised them it would be his treat, the taxi, that is, not the evening’s entertainment. Dave arched his back; he could do with a good night’s sleep on a decent mattress. Pete was already regretting the whole escapade; he could have spent his last night on earth with Fiona but hadn’t wanted to look like he was under the thumb.

“Where are we, Wilf?" demanded Ron.

Wilf turned to face his companions, looking each in the eye solemnly, his own eyes sparkling with anticipation, "Gentlemen, we are about to undertake a mission from which we do not intend to return, this is in fact one of our few remaining days on earth, alive that is."

"Thanks for reminding me," said Bill.

"Could've put it better, Wilf," said Johnno.

He ignored them and waved his hand towards the front door of the unassuming house, “This, gentlemen is the finest whorehouse in London and, needless to say, the most expensive."

"Whorehouse?" They spoke in unison; all displaying varied degrees of shock and horror. Pete's head filled immediately with Fiona's face, disapproval etched across every line.

Wilf beamed, "It will set you all back a good few hundred but believe me it will be well worth it.” He sighed deeply, reminiscently, and then bucked himself up with a sudden scrabble in his inside jacket pocket, “Who wants one?" he said, flourishing out a small white bottle.

"What’s that?" asked Dave, wishing fervently he’d opted to come up with Alb.

"Viagra, of course," said Wilf, shaking several small blue tablets into his palm.

Bill blinked. Ron shushed Wilf, darting furtive glances up and down the road. Johnno’s head was shaking of its own volition, he looked like he was about to expire.

"You're gonna need 'em," said Wilf, handing them out, pushing one into each unsteady hand and folding the arthritic fingers closed round them.

He popped one into his mouth and took a long glug of water from the bottle he’d had in the carrier bag. He passed the bottle to Dave, shoved it into his unresponsive hands and then he was up the stairs and ringing the bell. Nothing. He looked back at them, grinning from ear to ear. He turned back, rang it again. Still nothing.

“It’s closed,” Johnno said, hopefully. “Come away, Wilf.”

Ron and Sticky had taken their pills and the magic was beginning. “Ring again,” Sticky urged.

Wilf duly rang again, and to his delight, heard movement inside the house. A pretty brunette in her dressing gown opened the door. Her hair was tousled, and she was pink-cheeked, a bit young for Wilf even with the Viagra but attractive in her own way. Wilf beamed at her, turned and grinned at the others. The girl’s expression was by now slightly bemused. There was nothing threatening about the visitors; although seven elderly gentlemen standing all together on the front steps was a trifle odd.

Wilf winked lasciviously at his companions, then winked even more leeringly at the girl as he squeezed past her and strode into the hallway.

The girl gave a squeal of protest, made to follow Wilf, and then turned to signal the other old gentlemen to remain where they were but they were already walking into the house. They stopped at the doorway of what looked like a through lounge/diner. Wilf stood in the middle of the room, staring with disapproval at the décor; magnolia walls, cream carpet, brown sofas, a ‘stag at bay’ painting on the wall, a large dining table at one end.

“I don't think this is at all appropriate," he said, turning to the girl, "this is a mood killer, what happened to the old atmosphere? Where’s Madame Fifi?"

"Err.......Wilf," said Ron, pulling at his arm, "I don't think...."

Just then an old woman entered the room from the dining table end; she was speaking as she entered, she had two mugs in her hands. She froze.

"Madame Fifi?" said Wilf extending his arms.

"Nan?" said the girl.

"Nan?" whispered Dave to Sticky, "I think we're in the wrong house."

"Who are all these people, Janice?" asked the woman calmly, ignoring Wilf’s outstretched arms.

"I'm not sure, Nan," said Janice, "they sort of pushed their way in."

"Pushed our way in?" Wilf was indignant. "We most certainly did not. There is always a welcome at Madame Fifi's.”

"Would you like a cup of cocoa?" the woman said, directing her gaze and a mug at Wilf.

"I would not," he said, huffing as he spoke, "we're here for a bloody good...."

"Wilf!" said Bill and Johnno in unison.

"Wilf, this isn’t the right place," said Pete.

"I think your friend might be right," said the woman, still maintaining her direct gaze, "Perhaps we could help you find where you're looking for?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Mrs....Mrs...." stammered Dave, moving towards the door, desperate to put as much distance between him and this awkward predicament as possible.

"Edith, please" said Janice's Nan.

"Fifi, it's me, Wilf," said Wilf, opening his arms, “you remember, Mad Dog and the Butcher?"

"Wilf," said Sticky, firmly, "this is the wrong house.”

Bill groaned. By now Dave had the front door open. Johnno signalled to Ron and they both began to creep slowly up alongside Wilf, ready to each grab a flailing arm and man handle him out.

Edith bent down with obvious difficulty, placing the mugs down on the coffee table and signalled Janice to her side. Janice edged her way over, very slowly.

"I'd know this place anywhere,” protested Wilf, “I should, I spent a good few nights between the sheets of this particular palace, I can tell you."

"That's it," said Edith, a definite shade of puce, "all of you, out, now."

"What?" demanded Wilf, "You're throwing me out, after all this time?"

"Out!" said Edith. "Or I'm calling the police."

Dave was out the door as fast as his legs would carry him, followed by Sticky and Pete. Johnno grabbed Wilf by one arm whilst Ron grabbed the other; together they hustled him into the street. Bill brought up the rear only just clearing the top step as Edith slammed the door behind them.

"I don't understand," said Wilf. He’d stopped struggling and was leaning up against a wall, a picture of perplexed disappointment. "Why would Madame Fifi throw me out like that?"

"Christ, he's lost it," said Bill.

"Gone barking mad," said Sticky.

"I tell you, she’s Madame Fifi," stated Wilf, "and you won't believe the things she can do with....."

Just then Edith appeared, pushed past Bill, grabbed Wilf and gave him a long passionate kiss, surfacing only to murmur, "Mad Dog, oh I've missed you."

Bill fell back, mouth agape. Sticky and Ron, still up to the eyeballs in Viagra, were visibly panting. Dave and Johnno simply gawped at the passionate scene unfolding in front of them on the quiet suburban street.

"Madam Fifi," said Wilf, when he could draw breath.

"I haven't been Madam Fifi for over twenty years, Wilf," she said, her head nestled into his shoulder, her cheeks pink, "that's my home now."

"And Janice? Your granddaughter?" said Wilf catching on.

Edith slipped him a small card, "Try this address," she said, cheeks even redder now, "I think you'll find what you're looking for there," then she was gone.

Cheers

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

Chapters 43 & 44 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

43

Believe you can and you're halfway there.
Theodore Roosevelt


Mackie sipped his tea, strong and dark, just how he liked it, and bit into a large slice of Angel cake whilst Alb, Gerry and Mags looked down the inventory list he had made. Gerry whistled, Alb beamed and Mags ticked it off mentally against their wish list.

"It’s all there," she said, a trace of wonderment in her tone.

"Bloody amazing," said Alb. His respect for the man had increased leaps and bounds, sufficient that he forgave him for sitting in his favourite armchair
Mackie leaned back in his chair, a spasm crossing his face, quickly disguised but not quickly enough to escape Mags’ keen eye. "Good to go then?" he asked.

"Good to go," said Mags.

"If you’ll excuse us, we're going to tell the others that everything's on track," said Alb as he and Gerry exited.

"You do that," said Mags to their backs. She picked up her cup and sat opposite Mackie, "What's next for you, Mackie?"

"The game’s nearly up, Margo,” he said, his voice warm with affection, “so I thought I'd wait to clock out on a beach somewhere, with the waves rolling in and gulls chattering above my head."

They both knew he might have left it too late; he’d lost weight since the day he’d brought Bob to them and his face had an unhealthy pallor.

“You’ll be missed, Mackie,” was all she said.

∞

Alb stood at the front of the dining hall; he’d dressed up for the occasion.

Arrayed before him were the whole group, all bar Mags, who was still ensconced with Mackie. This was to be his Churchill moment.

He cleared his throat and stood as straight as he could. "Not since 1066 have these great shores of ours been invaded, many have tried but all have failed. The Spanish failed when they sent an armada to terrorise and pillage this land, the French under old Boney failed when we beat them at Trafalgar and Waterloo and then the Hun under the Kaiser and the Nazis under Hitler, they all failed because we in these islands are made of special stuff and it's been passed down to us through the ages."

Gerry found himself choking back the tears of pride.

Alb's chest swelled as he continued, taking heart from the bright enlivened faces, "But in the last three decades we have been betrayed," his mood darkened, and he saw his feelings fed back to him in the faces of his friends, "the British people have not abandoned our posts nor have we let the enemy in but our leaders have seen fit to lower the draw bridge and allow so many foreigners into this great land of ours that we are now called a multi-cultural society."

He spat this last sentence. "A multicultural society?" he repeated, "Since when and who asked us?"

Wilf led the cheers, ably supported by most of the men. Dora and Vera clapped excitedly. Esmé raised clenched fists, almost bursting with pride.

Alb leant forward, "When our ancestors fought to defend this land they were lead by true British heroes, Henry V, Good Queen Bess, Pitt the Younger, Lord Nelson and the Iron Duke. Men like Kitchener and Churchill. Who will lead us now when we suffer invasion by immigration? Who will lead us in our struggle to retain our birth right? Hegemony of our own lands."

"You will, Alb!" said Gerry pointing at him.

The others clapped and joined in the clamour.

"No! No!" said Alb, seriously put out, “Not me, I'm not a leader. My role is to be there with you, when we set the ball rolling, when we make those in power sit up and take notice of the people, of what the people want, of what we feel about this invasion."

"Invasion!" agreed Gerry, proud that he had thought up the term, "Invasion by Immigration."

"We are old," said Alb, his back a constant reminder, aching with the effort of retaining an erect posture, "and the political elites think that we are too old to have a say in matters, too old to care what happens to this wonderful country of ours, but they are wrong, they are very wrong!"

More clapping and cheering, several of those gathered struggled to their feet.

"We will show them we're not too old," said Alb, raising his fist in the air, "we will show them that we care, we will show them that we know how to act and we will show them Britons who are willing to fight and die in defence of their homeland!"
 


44

Destroying rainforest for economic gain is like
burning a Renaissance painting to cook a meal.
E. O. Wilson

The Preacher stood motionless in the centre of the stage.

He stood there for such a long time that people started to look quizzically from one to the other.

Then he spoke, "The concept I bring you today will be the hardest for you to understand," he paused, "however, I can wait no longer; for some reason, I feel my time is drawing to a close."

Barry was appalled. Had he let something slip? Had the Preacher followed him? No, it couldn't be that, he'd been so careful. Was the Preacher ill?

"Humankind is like a biological computer, designed to perform the function of survival." He paused momentarily, "We are omnivores and it seems logical, although callous, to see the herbivores as being placed here to provide a source of food."

He stopped and made a flattening gesture with this hands, "I respect that some of you will have made a life-style choice to be vegetarians and you deplore what I've just said. But that brings me to my next point, that mankind has become self-aware and as such, we ask...where did we come from? Why are we here? We're constantly trying to find answers, so that we no longer feel alone in the universe."

He stopped and looked out at the audience; they looked confused. Barry was concerned by the nature of his talk; still wondering if he was ill.

The Preacher raised his arms sideways, to shoulder height, "Mankind feels alone. Ergo, if of a religious bent, he or she will seek a God and a religion to follow. If he or she is more scientific then that person will seek scientific answers to their questions and look to the stars in the hope of communicating extra-terrestrially. All of this is to avoid concluding that we are alone."

The audience was muttering now, Barry heard words like 'aliens' and 'little green men'. He was worried they might not sit through to the end. The Preacher had never yet lost an audience.

"Yet, on this earth, we're surrounded by life forms we are in the process of exterminating. Now, isn't that a fascinating contradiction? We inherited a planet teaming with life and we are eradicating it in our self-aggrandising superiority. Yet, all life is here on this planet, this is our world and if we are ever to find another life form that we can communicate with, that we can eventually share our thoughts and questions with, it will be here, on this planet."

He paused and looked around the audience, "What chance do we have of ever achieving that?" he said, "I ask you, what chance? We can barely live with our own kind, barely live with our own relations, with ourselves even."

He started pacing round the stage, "Most people don't like themselves, whether from birth or the result of a negligent upbringing, I don't know. We seek answers outside of ourselves, take refuge in the bottle, in nicotine, in food, in drugs or in meaningless sex. Even those born rich, who have everything fall into their laps, even they suffer self-doubt and are ultimately alone. We flounder in the morass of self-doubt, the fear of being alone, the fear of being ostracised because of our real or imagined shortcomings."

He stopped abruptly. Some in the audience were fidgeting uncomfortably. Others seemed too surprised to move. Barry continued to wonder where the hell this was all leading.

"The truth is we're trapped inside our own minds. This is where we process and judge everything and everyone around us, based on our own understanding, our own experiences, fears and worries, our own wants and emotional needs, our own misconceptions. This is where we harbour secret, selfish desires to be the most important person in the world, worshipped and adored."

He walked to the centre of the stage and addressed them all, arms held wide.

"If that is so, what are we?" he asked, "Are we even real? We could be a piece of biological programming in a test tube somewhere where some other species is pumping thoughts and emotions through our central nervous system directly to our brains. We could be part of some experiment somewhere."

Then he gave a short, sharp laugh, saying, "We could be an experiment commissioned by the mice. Who knows? Is the answer really going to be 42?"

He paced, "But one thing we do know, we are all locked away in our own tiny cells," he pointed to his head, "everything else is merely data input. And if that is truly so, then it's our responses, our reactions to that input that creates the world in which our minds exist."

He stopped, then shouted, "So what kind of fucked up genius created this fucking mess?"

"You did!" shouted someone form the back of the hall.

"EXACTLY!" shouted the Preacher, "And if it's all in my mind, in a test tube, in a computer programme or here on the planet earth with life's glorious multitude, then this world is my own creation and everything in it is the result of my selfish interactions. So it follows, I can change my world."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, "And if I can change my world, then you can change yours. By treating each other differently, by being kinder to each other, more generous in our dealings with one another, by allowing ourselves to care more for others who have less than us. It is when we hoard and take as much as we can from the pot of life that we encourage others to do the same. When we show contempt and greed we encourage the same in others, and when we show anger and resort to violence we encourage others to do the same. We can change the world and together we can all create a better world for everyone."

Then he was gone.

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

Chapters 43 & 44 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

43

Believe you can and you're halfway there.
Theodore Roosevelt


Mackie sipped his tea, strong and dark, just how he liked it, and bit into a large slice of Angel cake whilst Alb, Gerry and Mags looked down the inventory list he had made. Gerry whistled, Alb beamed and Mags ticked it off mentally against their wish list.

"It’s all there," she said, a trace of wonderment in her tone.

"Bloody amazing," said Alb. His respect for the man had increased leaps and bounds, sufficient that he forgave him for sitting in his favourite armchair
Mackie leaned back in his chair, a spasm crossing his face, quickly disguised but not quickly enough to escape Mags’ keen eye. "Good to go then?" he asked.

"Good to go," said Mags.

"If you’ll excuse us, we're going to tell the others that everything's on track," said Alb as he and Gerry exited.

"You do that," said Mags to their backs. She picked up her cup and sat opposite Mackie, "What's next for you, Mackie?"

"The game’s nearly up, Margo,” he said, his voice warm with affection, “so I thought I'd wait to clock out on a beach somewhere, with the waves rolling in and gulls chattering above my head."

They both knew he might have left it too late; he’d lost weight since the day he’d brought Bob to them and his face had an unhealthy pallor.

“You’ll be missed, Mackie,” was all she said.

∞

Alb stood at the front of the dining hall; he’d dressed up for the occasion.

Arrayed before him were the whole group, all bar Mags, who was still ensconced with Mackie. This was to be his Churchill moment.

He cleared his throat and stood as straight as he could. "Not since 1066 have these great shores of ours been invaded, many have tried but all have failed. The Spanish failed when they sent an armada to terrorise and pillage this land, the French under old Boney failed when we beat them at Trafalgar and Waterloo and then the Hun under the Kaiser and the Nazis under Hitler, they all failed because we in these islands are made of special stuff and it's been passed down to us through the ages."

Gerry found himself choking back the tears of pride.

Alb's chest swelled as he continued, taking heart from the bright enlivened faces, "But in the last three decades we have been betrayed," his mood darkened, and he saw his feelings fed back to him in the faces of his friends, "the British people have not abandoned our posts nor have we let the enemy in but our leaders have seen fit to lower the draw bridge and allow so many foreigners into this great land of ours that we are now called a multi-cultural society."

He spat this last sentence. "A multicultural society?" he repeated, "Since when and who asked us?"

Wilf led the cheers, ably supported by most of the men. Dora and Vera clapped excitedly. Esmé raised clenched fists, almost bursting with pride.

Alb leant forward, "When our ancestors fought to defend this land they were lead by true British heroes, Henry V, Good Queen Bess, Pitt the Younger, Lord Nelson and the Iron Duke. Men like Kitchener and Churchill. Who will lead us now when we suffer invasion by immigration? Who will lead us in our struggle to retain our birth right? Hegemony of our own lands."

"You will, Alb!" said Gerry pointing at him.

The others clapped and joined in the clamour.

"No! No!" said Alb, seriously put out, “Not me, I'm not a leader. My role is to be there with you, when we set the ball rolling, when we make those in power sit up and take notice of the people, of what the people want, of what we feel about this invasion."

"Invasion!" agreed Gerry, proud that he had thought up the term, "Invasion by Immigration."

"We are old," said Alb, his back a constant reminder, aching with the effort of retaining an erect posture, "and the political elites think that we are too old to have a say in matters, too old to care what happens to this wonderful country of ours, but they are wrong, they are very wrong!"

More clapping and cheering, several of those gathered struggled to their feet.

"We will show them we're not too old," said Alb, raising his fist in the air, "we will show them that we care, we will show them that we know how to act and we will show them Britons who are willing to fight and die in defence of their homeland!"
 


44

Destroying rainforest for economic gain is like
burning a Renaissance painting to cook a meal.
E. O. Wilson

The Preacher stood motionless in the centre of the stage.

He stood there for such a long time that people started to look quizzically from one to the other.

Then he spoke, "The concept I bring you today will be the hardest for you to understand," he paused, "however, I can wait no longer; for some reason, I feel my time is drawing to a close."

Barry was appalled. Had he let something slip? Had the Preacher followed him? No, it couldn't be that, he'd been so careful. Was the Preacher ill?

"Humankind is like a biological computer, designed to perform the function of survival." He paused momentarily, "We are omnivores and it seems logical, although callous, to see the herbivores as being placed here to provide a source of food."

He stopped and made a flattening gesture with this hands, "I respect that some of you will have made a life-style choice to be vegetarians and you deplore what I've just said. But that brings me to my next point, that mankind has become self-aware and as such, we ask...where did we come from? Why are we here? We're constantly trying to find answers, so that we no longer feel alone in the universe."

He stopped and looked out at the audience; they looked confused. Barry was concerned by the nature of his talk; still wondering if he was ill.

The Preacher raised his arms sideways, to shoulder height, "Mankind feels alone. Ergo, if of a religious bent, he or she will seek a God and a religion to follow. If he or she is more scientific then that person will seek scientific answers to their questions and look to the stars in the hope of communicating extra-terrestrially. All of this is to avoid concluding that we are alone."

The audience was muttering now, Barry heard words like 'aliens' and 'little green men'. He was worried they might not sit through to the end. The Preacher had never yet lost an audience.

"Yet, on this earth, we're surrounded by life forms we are in the process of exterminating. Now, isn't that a fascinating contradiction? We inherited a planet teaming with life and we are eradicating it in our self-aggrandising superiority. Yet, all life is here on this planet, this is our world and if we are ever to find another life form that we can communicate with, that we can eventually share our thoughts and questions with, it will be here, on this planet."

He paused and looked around the audience, "What chance do we have of ever achieving that?" he said, "I ask you, what chance? We can barely live with our own kind, barely live with our own relations, with ourselves even."

He started pacing round the stage, "Most people don't like themselves, whether from birth or the result of a negligent upbringing, I don't know. We seek answers outside of ourselves, take refuge in the bottle, in nicotine, in food, in drugs or in meaningless sex. Even those born rich, who have everything fall into their laps, even they suffer self-doubt and are ultimately alone. We flounder in the morass of self-doubt, the fear of being alone, the fear of being ostracised because of our real or imagined shortcomings."

He stopped abruptly. Some in the audience were fidgeting uncomfortably. Others seemed too surprised to move. Barry continued to wonder where the hell this was all leading.

"The truth is we're trapped inside our own minds. This is where we process and judge everything and everyone around us, based on our own understanding, our own experiences, fears and worries, our own wants and emotional needs, our own misconceptions. This is where we harbour secret, selfish desires to be the most important person in the world, worshipped and adored."

He walked to the centre of the stage and addressed them all, arms held wide.

"If that is so, what are we?" he asked, "Are we even real? We could be a piece of biological programming in a test tube somewhere where some other species is pumping thoughts and emotions through our central nervous system directly to our brains. We could be part of some experiment somewhere."

Then he gave a short, sharp laugh, saying, "We could be an experiment commissioned by the mice. Who knows? Is the answer really going to be 42?"

He paced, "But one thing we do know, we are all locked away in our own tiny cells," he pointed to his head, "everything else is merely data input. And if that is truly so, then it's our responses, our reactions to that input that creates the world in which our minds exist."

He stopped, then shouted, "So what kind of fucked up genius created this fucking mess?"

"You did!" shouted someone form the back of the hall.

"EXACTLY!" shouted the Preacher, "And if it's all in my mind, in a test tube, in a computer programme or here on the planet earth with life's glorious multitude, then this world is my own creation and everything in it is the result of my selfish interactions. So it follows, I can change my world."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, "And if I can change my world, then you can change yours. By treating each other differently, by being kinder to each other, more generous in our dealings with one another, by allowing ourselves to care more for others who have less than us. It is when we hoard and take as much as we can from the pot of life that we encourage others to do the same. When we show contempt and greed we encourage the same in others, and when we show anger and resort to violence we encourage others to do the same. We can change the world and together we can all create a better world for everyone."

Then he was gone.

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Chapters 42, 43 & 44 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

42

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
William Shakespeare

Mackie strolled over to the park bench and, taking out a brown paper bag, started to feed the ducks. Five minutes later Pat wandered over and sat next to him. Mackie tossed some more bread into the lake and the ducks swooped, "My merchandise?"

"All packaged and ready," said Pat. "Got the money?"
Mackie smiled and offered the bag to Pat, "Bread for the ducks?"

Pat reached into the bag, dropping the key to a transit van inside. He located the other key and pulled it out with a few pieces of bread. "Where?" he asked.

"Locker in Lloyds Gym," said Mackie, "and the van?"

"Lock up on Franklin Street," said Pat.

Mackie raised an eyebrow.

Pat smiled and dropped a small piece of paper into the bag, "The address."

Mackie smiled.
 
43

Believe you can and you're halfway there.
Theodore Roosevelt


Mackie sipped his tea, strong and dark, just how he liked it, and bit into a large slice of Angel cake whilst Alb, Gerry and Mags looked down the inventory list he had made. Gerry whistled, Alb beamed and Mags ticked it off mentally against their wish list.

"It’s all there," she said, a trace of wonderment in her tone.

"Bloody amazing," said Alb. His respect for the man had increased leaps and bounds, sufficient that he forgave him for sitting in his favourite armchair
Mackie leaned back in his chair, a spasm crossing his face, quickly disguised but not quickly enough to escape Mags’ keen eye. "Good to go then?" he asked.

"Good to go," said Mags.

"If you’ll excuse us, we're going to tell the others that everything's on track," said Alb as he and Gerry exited.

"You do that," said Mags to their backs. She picked up her cup and sat opposite Mackie, "What's next for you, Mackie?"

"The game’s nearly up, Margo,” he said, his voice warm with affection, “so I thought I'd wait to clock out on a beach somewhere, with the waves rolling in and gulls chattering above my head."

They both knew he might have left it too late; he’d lost weight since the day he’d brought Bob to them and his face had an unhealthy pallor.

“You’ll be missed, Mackie,” was all she said.

∞

Alb stood at the front of the dining hall; he’d dressed up for the occasion.

Arrayed before him were the whole group, all bar Mags, who was still ensconced with Mackie. This was to be his Churchill moment.

He cleared his throat and stood as straight as he could. "Not since 1066 have these great shores of ours been invaded, many have tried but all have failed. The Spanish failed when they sent an armada to terrorise and pillage this land, the French under old Boney failed when we beat them at Trafalgar and Waterloo and then the Hun under the Kaiser and the Nazis under Hitler, they all failed because we in these islands are made of special stuff and it's been passed down to us through the ages."

Gerry found himself choking back the tears of pride.

Alb's chest swelled as he continued, taking heart from the bright enlivened faces, "But in the last three decades we have been betrayed," his mood darkened, and he saw his feelings fed back to him in the faces of his friends, "the British people have not abandoned our posts nor have we let the enemy in but our leaders have seen fit to lower the draw bridge and allow so many foreigners into this great land of ours that we are now called a multi-cultural society."

He spat this last sentence. "A multicultural society?" he repeated, "Since when and who asked us?"

Wilf led the cheers, ably supported by most of the men. Dora and Vera clapped excitedly. Esmé raised clenched fists, almost bursting with pride.

Alb leant forward, "When our ancestors fought to defend this land they were lead by true British heroes, Henry V, Good Queen Bess, Pitt the Younger, Lord Nelson and the Iron Duke. Men like Kitchener and Churchill. Who will lead us now when we suffer invasion by immigration? Who will lead us in our struggle to retain our birth right? Hegemony of our own lands."

"You will, Alb!" said Gerry pointing at him.

The others clapped and joined in the clamour.

"No! No!" said Alb, seriously put out, “Not me, I'm not a leader. My role is to be there with you, when we set the ball rolling, when we make those in power sit up and take notice of the people, of what the people want, of what we feel about this invasion."

"Invasion!" agreed Gerry, proud that he had thought up the term, "Invasion by Immigration."

"We are old," said Alb, his back a constant reminder, aching with the effort of retaining an erect posture, "and the political elites think that we are too old to have a say in matters, too old to care what happens to this wonderful country of ours, but they are wrong, they are very wrong!"

More clapping and cheering, several of those gathered struggled to their feet.

"We will show them we're not too old," said Alb, raising his fist in the air, "we will show them that we care, we will show them that we know how to act and we will show them Britons who are willing to fight and die in defence of their homeland!"
 

44

Destroying rainforest for economic gain is like
burning a Renaissance painting to cook a meal.
E. O. Wilson

The Preacher stood motionless in the centre of the stage.

He stood there for such a long time that people started to look quizzically from one to the other.

Then he spoke, "The concept I bring you today will be the hardest for you to understand," he paused, "however, I can wait no longer; for some reason, I feel my time is drawing to a close."

Barry was appalled. Had he let something slip? Had the Preacher followed him? No, it couldn't be that, he'd been so careful. Was the Preacher ill?

"Humankind is like a biological computer, designed to perform the function of survival." He paused momentarily, "We are omnivores and it seems logical, although callous, to see the herbivores as being placed here to provide a source of food."

He stopped and made a flattening gesture with this hands, "I respect that some of you will have made a life-style choice to be vegetarians and you deplore what I've just said. But that brings me to my next point, that mankind has become self-aware and as such, we ask...where did we come from? Why are we here? We're constantly trying to find answers, so that we no longer feel alone in the universe."

He stopped and looked out at the audience; they looked confused. Barry was concerned by the nature of his talk; still wondering if he was ill.

The Preacher raised his arms sideways, to shoulder height, "Mankind feels alone. Ergo, if of a religious bent, he or she will seek a God and a religion to follow. If he or she is more scientific then that person will seek scientific answers to their questions and look to the stars in the hope of communicating extra-terrestrially. All of this is to avoid concluding that we are alone."

The audience was muttering now, Barry heard words like 'aliens' and 'little green men'. He was worried they might not sit through to the end. The Preacher had never yet lost an audience.

"Yet, on this earth, we're surrounded by life forms we are in the process of exterminating. Now, isn't that a fascinating contradiction? We inherited a planet teaming with life and we are eradicating it in our self-aggrandising superiority. Yet, all life is here on this planet, this is our world and if we are ever to find another life form that we can communicate with, that we can eventually share our thoughts and questions with, it will be here, on this planet."

He paused and looked around the audience, "What chance do we have of ever achieving that?" he said, "I ask you, what chance? We can barely live with our own kind, barely live with our own relations, with ourselves even."

He started pacing round the stage, "Most people don't like themselves, whether from birth or the result of a negligent upbringing, I don't know. We seek answers outside of ourselves, take refuge in the bottle, in nicotine, in food, in drugs or in meaningless sex. Even those born rich, who have everything fall into their laps, even they suffer self-doubt and are ultimately alone. We flounder in the morass of self-doubt, the fear of being alone, the fear of being ostracised because of our real or imagined shortcomings."

He stopped abruptly. Some in the audience were fidgeting uncomfortably. Others seemed too surprised to move. Barry continued to wonder where the hell this was all leading.

"The truth is we're trapped inside our own minds. This is where we process and judge everything and everyone around us, based on our own understanding, our own experiences, fears and worries, our own wants and emotional needs, our own misconceptions. This is where we harbour secret, selfish desires to be the most important person in the world, worshipped and adored."

He walked to the centre of the stage and addressed them all, arms held wide.

"If that is so, what are we?" he asked, "Are we even real? We could be a piece of biological programming in a test tube somewhere where some other species is pumping thoughts and emotions through our central nervous system directly to our brains. We could be part of some experiment somewhere."

Then he gave a short, sharp laugh, saying, "We could be an experiment commissioned by the mice. Who knows? Is the answer really going to be 42?"

He paced, "But one thing we do know, we are all locked away in our own tiny cells," he pointed to his head, "everything else is merely data input. And if that is truly so, then it's our responses, our reactions to that input that creates the world in which our minds exist."

He stopped, then shouted, "So what kind of fucked up genius created this fucking mess?"

"You did!" shouted someone form the back of the hall.

"EXACTLY!" shouted the Preacher, "And if it's all in my mind, in a test tube, in a computer programme or here on the planet earth with life's glorious multitude, then this world is my own creation and everything in it is the result of my selfish interactions. So it follows, I can change my world."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, "And if I can change my world, then you can change yours. By treating each other differently, by being kinder to each other, more generous in our dealings with one another, by allowing ourselves to care more for others who have less than us. It is when we hoard and take as much as we can from the pot of life that we encourage others to do the same. When we show contempt and greed we encourage the same in others, and when we show anger and resort to violence we encourage others to do the same. We can change the world and together we can all create a better world for everyone."

Then he was gone.

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series


















Compendium editions