Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 17

Chapter 41 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

41

We are enemies of today's capitalistic economic system for the exploitation of the economically weak, with its unfair salaries, with its unseemly evaluation of a human being according to wealth and property
Adolf Hitler 1927


The room was slowly filling up; most of the residents had already taken their seats. After the Mackie and Bob spectacle there was nothing much could surprise them. Mort was convinced he was going to the cinema and Nobby had done nothing to disabuse him of the notion, though he'd drawn the line at supplying popcorn.

"Alb!" snapped Cynthia.

Alb sighed and put on a false grin, "Yes?"

"Who is he?" she demanded, inclining her head towards the dishevelled man standing in the centre of the stage with a bewildered look on his face, "and why's he here?"

"I don't know," confessed Alb, less perturbed by the scruffy individual than with what appeared to be his minder, a burly man who put him in mind of Mackie, although many years younger, "Something to do with Mags."

"Who is he?" snapped Cynthia instantly turning her attention to Mags.

Mags smiled, vaguely, "Someone Mackie thought we should hear speak."

"Can we trust him?" demanded Cynthia.

"I don't see it as a problem," said Mags, not at all sure herself, "we're not going to tell him anything, he's just here to give us a little talk."

"Fine spy you are," hissed Cynthia, stomping off to her seat.

The Preacher took a sip from his bottle of water, scanned the room and said, "These people are all old...none of the usual crowd. Why am I here?"

"Sponsors wanted you to come," said Barry, "that's all I know."

"I have sponsors?" asked the Preacher.

"We have to do the gig, that's all."

"It's not a gig," said the Preacher.

"Sorry," said Barry, "you know what I mean."

"Yes I do, and this is the first and only such 'gig' I will ever do. If you haven't yet grasped that my whole philosophy is against this sort of thing then....."

"I understand your philosophy," said Barry, pacifically, "and I understand what you're trying to do but without an audience you'll get nowhere. I think that what you have to say is important enough for you to swallow a little bit of the commercial pill."

"Well, I don't, so if that means we part company then that's what it means."

Barry closed his eyes and sighed, "This is the only one of these things that you will ever have to do."

The Preacher turned and addressed his tired looking audience, "I would like to relate a story to you."

"This isn't the pictures, Nobby," said Mort in a loud stage whisper. Val giggled and was shushed by Vera.

There were a few sighs, Wilf made as if to leave but was pulled back into his seat by Bill and Ron. Wilf tried a subtle snarl with no result.

"If we've got to sit through this thing then so have you," said Ron, brave in company.

"There was this chap in Greece," said the Preacher, "he'd been a founding member of the Sparta club in his small village, not a very big village you understand, just a small one of say, 500 souls."

He pressed his hands together and put them to his pursed lips, "Now the members of this club took it very seriously, they had the proper Spartan kit, shields, breast plates, grieves, short swords, helmets and a long spear each. They trained regularly, in fact their club became so popular that people would come from other villages. The reputation and fame of the club grew, but of course, over time, with the advent of Play station and Xbox games the membership dropped away until in the end there were only a few die hard members."

The Preacher checked the audience; still general boredom and disinterest, some of them looked like they might be sleeping, "Now the thing was, their club house was rented and one day the owner decided to sell it off to McDonalds."

At the magic word Dora sat up straight, nudging Vera awake. Esmé was nodding, growing agitated. The Preacher grinned. "The founding member tried to resist, he tried to rally support but none was forth coming. The few remaining members threw in the towel and he found himself alone fighting against the corporate machine."

Now there were a few interested expressions, "He lost the court battle and on the day when the bulldozers rumbled down the road to knock down the Spartan Club House he put on his full Spartan kit and marched on down to block the path of so called culinary progress."

He started to pace in front of the them, most of them now entranced in spite of themselves, "People turned out to watch the spectacle, they wondered what would happen, he took up his stance and waited, the bulldozers stopped and a water cannon appeared."

Esmé's hand went to her mouth, Val had paled and was being comforted by Ken. A few of the men tried to hide their concern, Reg had to wipe a tear from his cheek.

"It was all over in a few minutes, he was blasted down the street to the high amusement of the local community, they all cheered and laughed at him, some of the children even threw rocks."

"Bloody hooligans" shouted Dave. Harry nodded and raised his fist.

By now Alb and Gerry were leaning forward, listening intently, "Great speaker, Mags," whispered Gerry.

She nodded and smiled, taking full credit, although somewhat guiltily as she'd had no idea who he was or what he was going to say.

"Well, the people of this little Greek town got their McDonalds," said the Preacher, "and they seemed very happy with it. However our would-be Spartan suffered terribly and fell victim to depression. In his turmoil he turned to drink."

"No," said Cynthia. Dora sighed and shook her head.

"He became an alcoholic, was forced to sell his armour to pay for his regular fix, was hounded around the village and generally treated without compassion by people who had been his neighbours, his friends. Daily, as he lay stupefied in the gutter, they went about their business and gorged themselves on burgers and fries. Now this isn't a Hollywood movie, or I would have a happy ending for you," said the Preacher, "he died a friendless alcoholic and with him died the spirit of Greece and what was left was a commercialised false paradise."

Fiona blew her nose, and squeezed Pete's arm.

He took a sip of water and allowed his last words to settle, then, "As we all know Greece has had severe financial difficulties, difficulties exacerbated by Germany. The level of interest and, therefore, the size of Greek debt would have been manageable if the European Union had put together a substantial bailout package in the early days but the EU has no central bank because Germany refuses to allow one. As a result the interest on Greek debt continued to rise, increasing their debt thereby increasing the interest; a vicious circle. I'm sure you all remember the issues with Greece and whether or not it could stay in the European Union. It is my view that Germany and the US always intended for Greece to remain in the EU, they just intended to take over the country."

There were a few confused frowns and some sibilant whispering. Mort was visibly distressed, too much talk of Germans.

"Germany gets the land and the US get the business. Today what do we have? What is Greece?"

He looked out across the room, he had their attention for the most part which given their age he felt was quite marvellous. He had not expected such a positive response,

His voice was respectful as he said, "Germany owns most of the infrastructure. Some might say they are realising their dream of lebensraum in the East."

He took another sip of water, "And what of the Greeks?" he asked, "What of our small village? They are now economic slaves living in poverty and squalor waiting for massive reinvestment, which is of course where the US will come in. America will turn the country into a massive theme park, all the profits of which will go back to rich investors."

∞

An hour later the Preacher finally took his leave; unusually he had chosen to not simply vacate the stage and the building but had partaken of three ample slices of Angel cake, two cups of tea and endured a host of handshakes. Barry was bemused; he seemed to be actually enjoying their company.

Once clear of the building Barry challenged him, "What's put you in such a good mood?"

"That was well worth the effort," said the Preacher, "I wouldn't mind doing another of those."

Barry shook his head, not understanding, "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. I have to say though, that Greek thing is a real winner."

"I made it up," said the Preacher.

"You what?" said Barry, pausing in the act of opening the car door.

"I made it up, not the EU bit obviously, the Germans definitely own Greece now, no the old boy and the Spartan school, I made that up."

"I'm not sure I understand why you did that?" asked Barry.

This was the closest the preacher had come to confiding his methods to him and he was flattered.

"Needed something to demonstrate my point," said the Preacher, airily, "and that's what came to my mind."

Cheers

Arun








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Chapters 39 & 40 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

39

If you want to make peace with your enemy,
you have to work with your enemy.
Then he becomes your partner.
Nelson Mandela


Mackie drove slowly into the car park, scanning left and right until he found the bottle bank, as arranged. He pulled up, got out of his car and tossed a couple of bottles in, the resultant smash sounding good to his ears. Then he checked all round and approached a dark green Range Rover, parked the other side of the bank, pulled open the door and climbed in the front passenger side. There were three men already in the Rover; two in the back (unknown entities but first impressions were not good) and a large tough looking man in the driver’s seat. (Patrick O'Riley –a very well-known entity.)

The man spoke as Mackie settled himself, the soft lilting tones simultaneously belying his nature whilst betraying his origins, "Well, well, well, I didn't believe it when Seamus told me and I still don't believe it when I see it with me own eyes."

"How have you been keeping, Pat?" asked Mackie.

"Well that depends, do you mean since I got out or how were the 12 years I spent inside …thanks to you."

"You got caught, Pat," stated Mackie, calmly, "there's nothing anyone could've done for you."

"You could've got me out," said Pat.

"And what message do you think that would've sent?"

"I don't give a shit," snarled Pat, nature and origins coinciding, "twelve fucking years inside that bog hole."

"You're alive, aren't you," said Mackie, "and I believe the service sorted you out."

"Sorted me out? You mean the money?"

"Of course," said Mackie.

"What fucking good is the money?" demanded Pat. "Look at me; I 'm fucking past it, what good is money to me now?"

Mackie ignored the outburst; he’d been expecting no less. He turned slightly and eyed the two men in the back, "Why the muscle, Pat?

"You’re MI6, how do I know this is on the level? For all I know you're wearing a wire and there are twenty rifles trained on me right now."

Mackie smiled, "We need ordnance."

"What's that to do with me?" demanded Pat.

"Untraceable," said Mackie, "and we need it now."

"Same question," said Pat, "what's it to me?"

"We know you have dumps that you haven't declared."

"I wouldn't know anything about that." His face furrowed in a way Mackie recognised; he was ready to dig in and deny everything.

"I didn't think you would," said Mackie, "but if you should know someone who does know something, there's half a million in it for them."

"Half a million? That’s fucking peanuts, what the fuck's that?"

"Think of it as a discounted price; for not busting you, or blowing your cover. There are a lot of people who would love to know certain things about you, Pat. Just pass on the message."

"I don't get it," said Pat, "why does MI6 need out-dated weapons from the IRA? You've got your own sources."

"Sounds like they want to know if we have any left, Mr O'Riley," one of the men interjected from the back. Mackie and Pat turned to face him and he withered under the combined glare of ice and fire.

"Time was they would never have dared speak," said Pat, sounding genuinely sad.

"I know what you mean, Pat," said Mackie, nodding slowly, "things aren't the same in the service anymore.”

Pat raised a questioning eyebrow.

Mackie smiled. "Just pass it on," he said, getting out of the car.

 

Chapter 40

The successful revolutionary is a statesman,
the unsuccessful one, a criminal
Erich Fromm

The Range Rover was partially concealed behind some bushes. Pat had got Declan to carry a deck chair up the hill and he sat reading the racing pages of his newspaper whilst Declan and Marvin dug up the grave.

He’d considered making them do it during the night, less likelihood of being spotted, but he’d had little faith they’d have been able to find it without him and he had no intention of being in a graveyard in the dark. Hence the daylight raid at 6 a.m.

"See the game last night?" Marvin was burly enough to talk and work but every time Declan answered it involved him downing tools.

"Yeah, fuckin' Arsenal," moaned Declan, pulling himself upright, shovel half in, half out of the hard-packed soil, "why do they always lose when it comes to the big games?"

"Fuck knows," said Marvin, "if only the ref had given that pen."

"It was as clear as day, so t'was," said Declan ramming his shovel into the clay, and preparing to lean, "how he missed it, I don't know."

"It's always the fuckin' same when we play in Europe," moaned Marvin, throwing soil over his shoulder without looking, “they always back Barcelona, so they do. Seems to me like they’re under instructions."

"You're not wrong, there," said Declan, his body weight now totally supported by his shovel.

"Alright, alright," said Pat, "nobody told you buggers to stop digging, did they?"

Cheers

Arun









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Chapter 37 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

37

Trust, but verify.
Ronald Reagan

"How's this going to work then, Mags?" asked Alb.

They were in Gerry's apartment, hoping to remain undisturbed. If Val wanted to find Alb she'd go to his place first and that would give them time to collect their thoughts. They'd set up a game of RISK© on the coffee table; that should do as a cover if they needed one.

"Well," said Mags, eyes bright with the excitement she seemed to be carrying round with her all the time of late, "Mackie will open an account, we CHAPS the funds across. Mackie will get one of his geeks to bounce the money around the world a dozen times or so, splitting it down into negligible sums. The money will be used for purchases and then the products will be sold and the money will re-enter the system at a new point, whereupon it will be gathered and dumped in the destination accounts. Following all that Mackie will take delivery of the goods."

Gerry's face was a picture; this was the woman whose previous claim to fame had been the quality of her Angel cake. Was there no end to her other talents?

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," said Alb, "once this Mackie chap has got his hands on our cash what's to stop him doing a runner with it?"

"He wouldn't do that," said Mags.

"Oh, come on, Mags," said Alb, "What's to stop him?"

"And he's a spook," said Gerry, trying out the word, marvelling yet again at how their lives had changed in such a short time, "he'll have lots of fictitious accounts. Alb's right, what's to stop him buggering off to Fiji or some such place."

"Because he's Mackie, that's why," said Mags, "When he gives his word you can count on it."

"But Mags," pressed Alb, "be fair, we're talking about our life savings here."

"That's right," Gerry said earnestly, "we'll all be thrown out of here and that's just for starters."

Mags stared at them both, hands on hips, "Alright," she conceded, "I'll go and see him. Tell him I want to watch the operation through to conclusion."

"Is that such a good idea?" said Gerry, uneasy now at the turn things had taken, "What about if things go wrong?"

"It will be perfectly fine," said Mags, pushing past them.

∞

"Right," said Alb waving his pointer at the flip chart, "the state opening of Parliament will see all of our targets bagged up together in the House of Lords....."

"So we're really going to hit Parliament?" asked Bill.

"Yes, of course," said Cynthia irritably, "that's what we've all been discussing all this time, haven't you been listening?"

"Yes," said Bill, "but I still can't understand why. Parliament represents us, the British people, so in some respects, we'll be attacking ourselves, surely?"

"No," said Wilf aggressively, "they've been stitching us up for years. This is pay back."

"You have promised the Queen's safety," said Fiona, "I won't stand for that, you know."

"Neither will I," said Cynthia, pinching her lips together in a tight line of disapproval.

Gerry affected disappointment, though truth be told he would've had difficulty harming the Queen, and said sombrely, "The Queen is strictly out of bounds."

"But Charlie boy will be there and he's an acceptable target," said Alb, "are we all agreed on that?"

"Oh absolutely," stated Fiona and Cynthia together.

"After what that man let them do to poor Princess Di," added Dora, "I only hope I get there before anyone else."

"Oh, there'll be a queue for him alright," said Esmé grimly.

"Right," said Alb, pointing to the sketch on the chart, "the Lords is here, to the South of the building, this is where they'll all be gathered." Alb still had a kernel of doubt about Mackie's true motives in helping them but he had to admit the man was proving useful; the low down he'd provided on the inside of the Houses of Parliament was a god send.

"There are two entrances we need to be concerned with," said Gerry, warming to the task, it was a near as they were ever going to get to a battle plan, "the Cromwell entrance here and the Peers entrance here."

"The fire escapes are here, here and here," continued Alb, "We send the hit squad in the two entrances and we will be waiting when they all come running out."

"Lambs to the slaughter," said Tom.

"These are not lambs," said Alb, angrily, "these are wolves, they've sold our country for their thirteen pieces of silver and they must pay the ferry man."

"You mean the price," offered Harry.

"I know what I mean," said Alb.

"Now we need to assign targets to key individuals to ensure that we don't miss anybody."

"We claim Prince Charles," said Cynthia emphatically, to nods from Esmé and Fiona.

"And I want the Labour leader," said Bill.

"And I want the Tory scumbag," said Ron.

"Less of the scumbag," said Bill.

"Hey," said Mags, "they're all traitors, remember that, they've all sold the nation out."

Ron and Bill eyed each other mistrustfully.

"This has got to be the perfect op," said Gerry, "so we must prepare and that means planning, and planning and planning again."

"And training," said Alb, "brush up on your physical conditioning." He was looking worriedly at Mort and Reg as he spoke. They both knew too much to be left out but were definite liabilities for the combat.

"The WI will be ready," stated Vera, stealing Cynthia's line and smiling wickedly as she did so.

"I've got a few comrades down the Legion," said Dave, "they've expressed an interest."

"What? The WI? The bloody Legion?" questioned Alb and Gerry in unison.

"Who've you lot been talking to?" squeaked Jonesey.

"Just a couple of the lads from my old regiment," said Dave. He looked offended.

"I told you I was going to get the WI involved," Cynthia said snappishly.

"What friends?" asked Harry, looking at Dave, "Do I know 'em?"

"Stan and Roger for two," said Dave.

"The wheelchair brigade?"

"Don't you worry about them," said Dave, "we have plans."

"What the hell?" said Alb, completely outraged now. "You can't just go around telling every Tom, Dick and Harry...no offence Harry, Tom... we'll have the Old Bill down here before you know it."

"Has anybody else said anything?" demanded Gerry.
There were a few nervous glances exchanged, "I contacted a few of the Chelsea boys," said Frank, who'd been unusually quiet this whole time, "and they seemed well up for it."

"What?" demanded Alb, "Who?"

"Just a couple of me old muckers," Frank mumbled, looking hard at Lenny and Sticky both of whom to his certain knowledge had also put the word out.

"For crying out loud," hissed Alb, "this is a top secret op, we can't let word of this get out before the kick off or the bloody place will be crawling with MI bloody 5."

"Well, I'm sure the WI know how to keep a secret," Cynthia said, with no sense of irony.

"It's alright, Alb," said Mags, comfortably, "Mackie will give us the heads up if anything goes awry."

"But that still doesn't mean you can go blabbing to everyone you know," stated Gerry, "secrecy is the key here, remember, careless talk costs lives."

Cheers

Arun








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Chapter 36 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

36

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
William Shakespeare

"Right, now everyone's here," said Gerry, "let's get straight down to business, are we all in?

He was deliberately not clarifying whether or not they were 'all in' to do the same thing. There was a brief silence, then general nods and grunts of agreement. "Ok, Alb, over to you mate."

Alb stood up, his back was aching but he wasn't about to show weakness, not when they were making progress at last, "First on the agenda, what are we going to call ourselves?"

He rushed on, like Gerry, not wanting the debate to start again, "we've got all the suggestions here and Gerry and I have identified the top ten favourites," he pointed at the A4 sheets Mags had stuck up on the walls, "all you need to do is write your name under your first choice."

There was a short silence as they digested this; then Wilf spoke for all of them, "Why do we have to write our names? I'd rather put a tick or a cross."

"I agree, no names, no pack drill," said Bill.

"What if someone puts more than one tick down?" said Alb, "That would confuse things a lot."

"No-one's going to do that," said Bill.

"But what if they do?" said Mags who had thought of the possibility in the first place, "You know, if they can't make up their minds."

"I'm just going to tick my favourite," said Wilf shuffling over to one of the sheets.

"Me too," said Bill.

The group moved up and down, staring at the A4 sheets and there was some dark muttering from some about it being the first time they'd seen the choices. It took much urging from Gerry and Alb, standing at people's shoulders and virtually pushing pen to paper in some cases, but finally each person had cast their vote. Mags took down all the sheets and started the count.

Alb grabbed one of the sheets, anxious to keep the momentum. "Right, that's 5 votes for 'NOD' as in 'Not too Old to make a Difference'," Cynthia's face went pink, that one was her idea. Alb snatched another sheet, "6 votes for ' Rebels with a Cause' or RC for short."

"As in arsey," Wilf added, leaving no doubt as to the originator of that one.

"Only 1 vote for 'People's Revolutionary Army'," That was Ron's; considered too red by everyone else. Alb flashed a look of commiseration at Harry before he announced, "2 votes for 'The Eden Village Hall Freedom Fighters'."

He shuffled the papers before handing them back to Mags, saying, "Nil points for the rest. However we do have a winner and by a big majority...with 15 votes, it is 'Pensioners Against Corruption and Tyranny'."

Alb was particularly taken with the acronym, P.A.C.T.

"That's 29 votes," said Mags her arms tightly folded in triumph.

"So what?" demanded Wilf.

"There are only 27 of us," stated Mags.

"What?" said Wilf looking around and making a quick head count, "Who the fuck voted twice?"

"I'm not going to say I told you so Wilfred," said Mags, "but....."

"What we gonna do then?" demanded Gerry.

"Vote again, I suppose," said Alb.

"There's no need for that," said Mags.

"Why not?" demanded Wilf, "If some people voted twice then we should vote again."

"Maybe they did vote twice, Wilfred," said Mags, "but even if you take 2 off the winning choice it still has 13 votes."

"But that's still not the majority," said Ken, "shouldn't we do an elimination thing, you know so it's truly fair. Like with Proportional Representation, we eliminate the one with the least votes then people who voted for that one get to vote again for their other favourite."

"I think Ken has a point," said Val.

"Well I don't," stated Alb keen to break up anything that included Ken and Val.

"Thank you Alb," said Mags coquettishly, slipping her arm possessively through his.

"Well I think we should vote again," said Harry, "I've changed my mind."

"What did you vote for?" demanded Wilf.

"I'm not telling you," said Harry, "it's a secret ballot."

"It's not a ballot, it's just a bloody name, that's all, just a vote for a name."

"We can't all vote again," said Gerry, "Just the ones who voted for the one with the least votes."

"Ok, that's People's Revolutionary Army', with 1 vote," stated Alb.

"Right," said Wilf forcefully, "Who voted for 'People's Revolutionary Army'?"

Three hands went up. "And me," said Harry.

"What the hell?" said Wilf, "It only got 1 vote. What are you lot playing at?"

Mags smiled, "We should've put our names, then we wouldn't have this mess."

"Mags had it right, 'P.A.C.T' got the most votes so it should be the first choice."

"But it might not win next time," objected Harry, "maybe people will change their minds and we'll get a new choice... like 'The Eden Village Hall Freedom Fighters'."

"Why do you have to turn everything into a competition?" Wilf was unreasonably angry.

"I don't," disputed Harry, "not everything."

"It's not about that," interrupted Alb, "It's about a name that represents us and what we stand for."

"You're only sayin' that because you suggested 'P.A.C.T'," said Harry.

"'P.A.C.T's' a good name," said Alb, "it says something, 'Pensioners Against Corrup....',"

"I'll vote for that," interrupted Wilf, bored with the process, "Then it'll have 14 votes, the majority."

"Yeah, but others might change their votes," said Harry.

"But they aren't going to, are they," said Wilf, "I mean 'P.A.C.T.' is the best name, isn't it."

"You didn't think so at first, Wilf," said Cynthia tartly, "because you voted for something else."

"Oh, hell's bells," hissed Wilf, "look, it's really simple, 'P.A.C.T' already has the most votes, so we go with first past the post, the one with the most votes."

"But it doesn't have the majority of votes," said Ken.

"It does," snapped Wilf, "the majority of us voted for it."

"Ken's right," said Val, "something as important as this should have an overall majority."

"As important as this?" said Wilf, "It's just a fuckin' name."

"No need to swear, Wilfred," said Fiona, giving Pete a hard stare.

"I think we should vote again," he responded dutifully.

"Me too," said Jonesey. Dave was nodding vigorously as were Dora and Fiona.

"Okay," said Alb taking control, "let's have a vote on whether we all vote again."

"A vote on whether we vote again?" questioned Reg.

"And this time put our names," said Esmé.

"But I don't want to put my name," said Bill.

"Why not?" asked Dave.

"I don't want anyone trying to pressure me to vote for a name I don't like," said Bill.

"What?" said Wilf. As if.

"I don't want anyone leaning on me to vote for their suggestion," said Bill.

"I agree with Bill," said Vera, "I think it should be a secret ballot."

"It's not a ballot," stated Wilf, "we're choosing a name, any old name to call ourselves, that's all."

"Well I think you're missing the point," snapped Cynthia, "it's not just a name, it's what people are going to call us. In the newspapers and on TV, in the streets and the pubs."

There were murmurs of agreement and some chests being pushed forward proudly at the thought of making the news.

She went on, buoyed by their support, "If we choose a stupid name we will be mocked but if we have a good name that represents what we are trying to achieve then we will get some respect."

Wilf buried his head in his hands.

"Alright then," said Alb, "so let's vote on it."

"Firstly we should vote on whether or not we want a new vote," said Mags, "show of hands please. If you think we all need to vote again then please raise your hands now." 18 arms were raised.

"That's a yes then," said Alb.

"And please raise your hands if you want a secret ballot," said Mags. 15 arms went up.

"That's yes again," said Alb.

Mags was in her element, "Next thing we need to vote on is whether or not we want one vote where the choice with most votes wins or do we want to follow the principles of Proportional Representation where the names with the least votes are discarded and we then vote again for our new favoured choice."

There were blank looks all round. Mags was undeterred.

"Raise your arms if you want highest votes wins," she cried. 20 arms went up."Right, all of you take one sheet of paper from this ream and looking at the choices around the room please write your favourite, then fold the sheet over and give it me."

There were groans that this entailed the need to move round the room. Reluctantly they wandered about and scribbled their thoughts on the paper. It took about fifteen minutes but eventually they had made their choices.

Mags did the calculations and then cleared her throat importantly. "Okay," she said, "1 vote for 'The Eden Village Hall Freedom Fighters'."

"Rats," said Harry.

Wilf grinned, he'd scared anybody off voting for that one, couldn't have stood it if Harry had won in the end.

"2 votes for 'People's Revolutionary Army'." Ron beamed, he'd gained another vote, "and 4 votes for 'N.O.D.'"

Cynthia crossed her arms and frowned heavily; she'd lost a vote and needed to know who had bailed on her.

Mags continued reading out the results and a warmth entered her voice, "7 votes for 'R.C.' and still, the number one choice with 13 votes," she looked over at Alb and smiled broadly, "we have Pensioners against Corruption and Tyranny ...'P.A.C.T'."
 
Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 35 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

35

Milton Friedman's misfortune is that
his economic policies have been tried
John K Galbraith

The Preacher stood in front of the studio audience. He'd come far since those days on London Bridge, and the empty seats in the old, draughty theatre. Now he had a universal platform; he was on TV and he could access more people than he had ever dreamt possible. Was what he had to say worth risking that? Was Barry right; he should temper his comments, consider what was at stake? If he went ahead with his idea for tonight's show it could all end. He rubbed his face, the mandatory studio make-up irritating his skin. No more time for doubt; he was live.

He didn't bother with the formalities, he went straight in, "Things that bother me, that drive me to distraction, that make me insane, that have me raging at the TV or throwing clenched fists at imaginary targets," he paused, "I used to have a Christian name but now I have a forename, why? Why? Because of the Muslims, because they don't have Christian names we can't have Christian names. Does that make sense to you? There are over 55 million Anglo Saxon Britons in this country; we make up nearly 90% of the population yet because of the Muslims, who make up less than 5%, we no longer have a Christian name, we have a forename."

He resumed pacing, "If they wanted to make the Muslims feel more comfortable why didn't they just put the option, 'Christian name or forename,' on every form?" he stopped and looked out at the camera's red eye, "Makes sense to me."

The studio audience, having started out a little uneasy, was starting to relax.

"Another thing that bothers me, I'm English, born in England, I've always lived in England. I love this country. My ancestors on my father's side are all English, admittedly there has been some degradation on my mother's side, she's Scottish you see," he was laughing now, "I have Scottish family and they're always giving it all that about us English, so ignore that."

He continued pacing, "I love England, I support all English club sides when they're playing other countries. Where the Olympics are concerned I support all Britons, even Scottish ones, but the thing that bothers me is that when I complete a form I want to tick the box marked English or British, but I can only find UK National. What the hell is a UK National?" he didn't wait for an answer, "Apparently it is a term used to cover British subjects, but what does that mean?

The audience waited, they wanted to know the answer.

"Well, it means you and me and ex-pats overseas, but it also covers immigrants, asylum seekers and under the Borders, Citizenship and Immigration Act of 2009 anyone who has been here for 5 years," he raised the palms of his hands, "these people are all UK nationals."

He started to pace, "My ancestors have been here for thousands of years, as I am sure have many of yours. My ancestors fought to keep these islands British, to keep them for us, but our leaders, our politicians have conspired to give away our country to foreigners," he paused, "you thought you were British, that you were English or Scottish or Welsh or Irish but you're not. You thought you had a special meaning, that you belonged to a special group of people, that you meant something, well you don't, you're not special, you're just a UK National, the same as any Johnny-come-lately foreigner who turns up at passport control, who wanders in with no empathy and no love of this country, no love of its history, its people, its culture, its heritage, its customs, its religion, its armed forces or its sports teams. Your rights are being eradicated in favour of foreign nationals who have countries of their own to go back to," his voice rose in a shout, "YOU COUNT FOR NOTHING! And you have nowhere to go. This is it."

He paused, the unforgiving studio lights catching a glistening in his eyes, he swallowed hard and continued, "Another thing that bothers me, every poster, every advert, every Government issue leaflet, every NHS leaflet has 1 token white person, all the others are black and Asian, Sikhs and Muslims, Chinese or whatever, in spite of the fact that there are 55 MILLION OF US!"

He picked up the pace, "Now I'm willing to bet that if you find yourself agreeing with what I've just said, if it annoys you as much as it does me then you will find yourself worrying that you're racist. I'll bet that most of you are thinking that about me right now, 'he's racist' so, I will answer that burning question, 'No, I'm not racist'. And on that topic, isn't it funny how one always has to say, 'I'm not a racist but....' You can't say anything about nationhood without feeling the pressure that someone is going to call you racist."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, his concern evident. They looked pressured, but had the safety of silence knowing his questions were rhetorical. A few nodded discreetly but several others seemed to be looking worriedly at black or Muslim members of the audience.

"You are a racist," yelled out a young white male sitting in the centre of a multi-ethnic group.

"I'm a patriot and I want to maintain England's Englishness."

Some cheered, others, emboldened by the heckler, booed.

"Ask yourself, why are the people coming here so intent on making this country a facsimile of the one they chose to leave? Who gave them leave to change our mores and culture in order to feel more at home? Why are we, the indigenous population finding our rights eroded by laws designed to prevent us raising our objections?"

He let them stew on that for a few moments and then continued, "Precedents from history for you; after the collapse of the Hapsburg Empire in 1918 various countries were created out of the collection of small states and principalities, countries such as Yugoslavia, made up of Croats, Serbs, Bosnians amongst others; Czechoslovakia, comprising Czechs, Hungarians, Germans, Poles Slovakians and Ukrainians; Poland was re-created and given back a huge slice of eastern Prussia, the population being made up of Poles, Ukrainians, Belarussians, Lithuanians, Czechs and Germans."

He walked to the back of the stage and took a sip of water, then walked quickly back, "Thus, a mish-mash of countries were created, populated by dozens of different nationalities, with different religious beliefs; Jews, Christians, Muslims, Greek Orthodox, who all wanted their culture and their religion to be paramount and who wanted their language to take precedence. A great deal of ethnic cleansing took place during World War II, concealed by the war and nothing to do with the Germans. In the latter part of the 20th century Yugoslavia broke apart and descended into the brutal ethnic cleansing that we all saw on our TV screens. In my view, this is where we are headed if immigration to this small island is not curbed."

He paused, "But why are we in this muddle? What's its origin? I believe it is linked not only to the EU but also to the Thatcher and Blair years." He took a deep breath; now was the moment of truth. Barry was right, it was one thing saying this sort of thing in the confines of a theatre albeit being recorded on iPhone and the like, it was quite another saying it on live TV.

He faced the camera, "I think we need look no further for our answer than Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph," he paused, there was no reaction; no-one knew what he was going to say, "and I think it is primarily because of their Jewish religion and their belief in a form of Jewish economics."

There was an uneasy stirring in the audience, this was very unsettling for some of those present.

"But don't take my word for it, listen to Milton Friedman on YouTube, or read his presentation, 'Capitalism and the Jews,' he is more than willing to propound his view that the Jewish form of capitalism can only thrive in a totally free market and it is this idea that lead directly to the neo Liberal policies of the last three decades."

He paced a little, he knew the danger of the line he was treading, "Friedman promotes the free market economy completely and I believe that his economic principles have been adapted to form the basis of the free movement of labour across European borders culminating in the aberration known as multiculturalism."

There was a lot of murmuring; some seemed resolved to leave, others to fidgeting.

"Friedman believed in a free market, a totally free movement of capital and total freedom to make as much profit as possible. Again don't take my word for it, listen to Friedman, read what Sir Keith Joseph wrote. They preached less state control so that the individual could be free to do what they wanted economically. As a result of his ideas, in both Britain and the US, we have an economy run along Neo Liberal lines, the aims of which are to make as much profit as possible for the shareholder with scant regard for the state or the national economy. The argument being that those things will look after themselves. Tell me, how can things look after themselves when the rich offshore their profits and evade paying taxes, refuse to contribute to the rest of society? How can things look after themselves when the rich pay themselves 400 times as much as the average worker? How can things look after themselves when it's the law of the jungle that presides here? Not the Nazi law of survival of the fittest; this is Friedman's law of survival of the greediest. And I ask you, how can we defend ourselves against this evil when we no longer stand together but are separated by the divisive curse of multiculturalism?"

He paused for breath, then was off again, "This conforms to Friedman's teachings; the individual seeking the maximum profit for himself; off-shoring accounts is the natural thing to do, as is sending your jobs abroad to dictatorships where wages are a pittance, as is running the NHS into the ground until it can no longer function, to privatise it and deny us free health care at the point of need. It is free enterprise capitalism that allows them to run down social services, abandon the people, abandon the nation state, abandon the concept of Britishness."

He paused, then changed tack, "It is quite natural that people from countries poorer than ours should want to come here. In of itself, this is not a problem; we have been absorbing small and regulated numbers of immigrants for years. What causes the problem is when the numbers are unregulated, when those coming in are so poor that they will work here for a pittance, when the numbers are so great that whole towns are changed irrevocably. This is happening because the powers that be want us to be swamped, want to destroy our culture, our sense of community and who now aim to destroy our national fabric so that they can fully command our economy and achieve even greater wealth at our expense via the doctrine of Neo Liberalism."

He looked exhausted, the studio lights unforgiving, visible sweat on his face. He spoke more gently now, as if conserving energy, "Friedman explained that his economic policies had been those of the Jews for two thousand years and that they were the most effective policies. This, he said, is why Jews have thrived everywhere. However, he seems to have forgotten that Jesus was a Jew who lived two thousand years ago and he was fundamentally the first Socialist."

His voice took on a desperate note, "The realities of what Friedman and Joseph preached are everywhere around us. This is why our society is collapsing, our social services shrinking and our economy is in ruins. It's why the NHS will be privatised, and it's why this country is being swamped by cheap foreign labour."

"I beg you to turn away from the teachings of Friedman and Joseph and instead look to the lessons taught by the other great Jewish leader, Jesus Christ."

Then he was gone from the stage.
 
Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 34 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

34

The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.
George Orwell

Breakfast was a lively affair and the dining area was unusually full very early. Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron and Wilf had been up with the larks and eaten a bacon and egg repast extremely quickly. Dave and Sticky had joined them, bringing over a plate of buttered toast and marmalade and a large pot of tea.

"I don't care what Alb says," said Wilf, "they're a 5th column, they shouldn't be here."

"I agree," said Johnno, "they have no loyalty to Britain, they're foreign for Christ's sake, they have their own countries and their own traditions."

"And their own history," added Dave, putting aside his personal liking for East Europeans in an effort to fit in.

"It's the Muslims that bother me," said Pete, "we're Christians, they're our traditional enemies aren't they? What are they doing here?"

"Exactly," said Wilf, "I think we need to organise our own campaign, do our own op."

"Like what?" said Ron, still uncertain about taking action. He was hoping to get away with agreement in principle whilst avoiding any actual involvement.

"We could burn down one of their mosques," offered Sticky.

"Sounds like a plan," said Dave, although he looked quite concerned at the prospect.

"Make it the biggest one," said Wilf, "something showy."

"There's a really big one in London," said Bill.

"How are we going to get to London and back?" asked Pete.

"Train," offered Wilf.

"How will we burn down this mosque thing?" asked Ron, worry in his voice and manner.

"We'll just start a fire," said Wilf.

"Just like that," said Pete, "anyway, it's a long way to go to start a fire, can't we do a local one?"

"But it would be a statement," said Dave, "to do the biggest one in the UK."

"Nah," said Sticky, self-taught expert on mosques in the UK, "that's in Surrey - the largest mosque in Europe - holds about 10,000 of the buggers at any one time."

An awed silence followed as they tried to imagine the need for a church that big and failed.

"But it sounds really hard," said Pete, first to recover, "and Surrey's a long way to go as well."

"Man up," said Wilf, "we can do this, we're trained."

"I'll get the tickets," said Dave, thinking 'that could be my contribution'.

"What about hiring a car?" said Johnno, a long train journey not being his idea of a fun day out.

"Who's going to drive?" asked Dave.

"My licence's still valid," Bill said, importantly, puffing out his chest.

"Say we hired a van instead," said Pete, "then we could take the...whatever we need to start a fire, in the back."

"What about a mini-bus?" asked Dave, "Bill, can you drive one of them?"

"Fuck sake," moaned Wilf, "this is a military op, forget comfort, we need to toughen up."

"Maybe there's another way of doing this," offered Pete.

"Like what?" asked Johnno.

"I don't know," said Pete, "but to be honest I'm worn out by all this talking and we haven't even done anything yet. We're old, what chance is there of us carrying this out?"

"You're a quitter," said Wilf, "and quitters never do anything, except quit."

"Well, we did have a big breakfast," said Johnno, "and I could do with a nap."

The others, with the exception of Wilf, all nodded their agreement.

∞

Fiona was watching Pete; she was not best pleased to see him with Wilf and that crowd of ne'er do wells. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed. She'd dressed as usual in one of her twin-set and pearls combos, this one a pale blue cashmere set above a navy wool skirt. As always she looked perfect; Pete had yet to notice she was even in the room.

Vera, sitting opposite her, missed very little and nudged Cynthia who glanced over, then smiled with malicious enjoyment.

"I think we should form our own breakaway unit," said Dora, talking round a mouthful of food, "and attack some of these fast food chains, burn them to the ground."

"But they'll be insured," said Esmé, her experience with Greenham Common and later the anti-vivisection group she'd belonged to had taught her that.

"But it will mean they have to start again, won't it," said Dora.

"What about the WI?" said Cynthia, "We could get them involved."

"That might work if we want to run a picket line round a MacDonald's or something," said Vera.

"Sounds good," said Fiona, tearing her eyes away from the back of Pete's head with some difficulty.

"I don't think that would work," said Dora, "I think people would just walk past us."

"Especially the kids," said Esmé, "they have no respect, they won't listen to us."

"Burn them down," said Dora.

"But that's so aggressive," said Vera.

"These are desperate times," said Dora, "and desperate times call for desperate measures."

"What about poisoning their burgers or something?" said Vera.

"How would we do that?" asked Cynthia, "We'd never get anywhere near their stock."

"Besides, we don't want to harm their customers," said Esmé.

"We could rope in the WI, and get them to attack a MacDonald's in their area," said Dora.

Vera was not convinced, "What makes you think the WI would get involved?"

"I know some people," said Esmé, eyes shining, "I could put some feelers out."

∞

"We could always get a list of names of bankers or stock brokers," said Ken, "I can get those really easily."

"Well I'm in," said Harry, wondering if he could get milkmen put on the list without having to reveal his sordid family history.

"Me too," said Tom, his voice a growl, "bloody bankers broke my Dickie, ruined his business. He lost his house and his marriage as a result of those bastards, definitely time someone paid them back."

Ken frowned, he'd not heard Tom mention having a family, not in all the years he'd known him. He'd thought him a loner, must be the highland thing he had going on. "Would your Dickie be able to help us then?" he asked, "with transport and that?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "he'd be more than willing once he knows the plan."

"But it's quite an enterprise," said Gray, glad that Reg had stayed with Gil and was not in the room to hear all this, "Hot tar and feathers, it's not going to be easy to arrange, boyo."

"I reckon Dickie might be able to rope in a few of his mates as well," said Tom.

Val slipped into the vacant chair next to Ken. A waft of perfume enveloped them all, causing Tom to cough. "What did we all think of what happened last night?" she asked.

"We're going our own way," said Ken, firmly, "we're hunting bankers."

"Are you?" asked Val, "What, all of you?"

They nodded, some with more energy and enthusiasm than others.

"But what about Alb and Gerry's plan to attack Parliament?"

"We thought they could handle that on their own," said Tom, "that would free us up to take out some of these greedy buggers in city suits."

"Sounds rather complicated to me," said Val, "and how can Albie and Gerry take out Parliament on their own? Actually I don't think we can do that, the whole thing is ridiculous, if you ask me."

"But we're not," said Tom.

"Not what?"

"Not asking you."

"Charming." She looked at Ken, waiting for support but it was not forthcoming.

"It adds to their plan," he said, "...we take down a few bankers and they attack Parliament. It sends a message that we're unhappy and we can still have an impact if we want to."

With the exception of Val the others all nodded.

∞

Mags and Alb had their heads together in the corner. Gerry was trying very hard not to feel left out; his best friend and the woman he admired but who never seemed to notice him. If it weren't for the serious nature of what was going on at the moment he might have had to say something. As it was he amused himself by watching the room start to fill up.

Mort and Nobby were sitting together at the back, had been there some time, Mort looking spaced as usual and Nobby trying to engage him in hopeless conversation. Frank came in and flopped down next to Nobby, putting his newspaper down to save a place, probably for Lenny.

Dora and Esmé walked in together, with Cynthia bringing up the rear, all three casting nervous glances over at the spot so recently occupied by a dead body. Cynthia held her hand to her nose, as if to protect herself from any lingering smell. Ken and Val sidled in, joined at the hip as usual. Wilf came in at a march, head stuck out, looking for trouble. Bill and Ron entered, talking civilly to one another, by the looks of it, then Dave, Sticky and Tom, and Gray and Gil, no Reg. The door closed then opened again as Vera hurried in.

"Alb, Mags, looks like most of 'em are here," Gerry could wait no longer to disturb their tête a tête.

"Before you start in there, Alb," said Wilf, "you need to know that we're doing our own op."
Alb's mouth opened in surprise.

"Actually, so are we," said Cynthia.

"And us," said Ken.

"What?" said Gerry getting up alongside Alb, "you can't go splintering off, this is a team effort."

"Well, we didn't like that Bob chap," said Tom, nodding at the now empty space, "and we don't really trust your Mackie friend, no offence Mags, and anyhow, we want to go it alone."

"We're going to picket the fast food chains," said Dora.

"Well we're going to take some bankers down," said a thoroughly invigorated Ken.

"We're going after the Muslims," said Wilf.

"Hold on, hold on," said Gerry, "we can't do all of that."

"You aren't," said Vera, "we are."

There were general nods and much mumbling of approval for their own individual schemes. The door at the back opened and Harry came in, quickly followed by Lenny who moved to the seat held vacant by Frank's newspaper.

"What we gonna do, Alb?" said Gerry, "the whole thing's coming undone."

"It's that Mackie's fault," muttered Alb, "he's confused everything."

"It was our idea," said Gerry, "now everyone's trying to take over."

"Well, we've told you how we feel," said Cynthia standing up and turning to leave, "so we should do our planning separately from now on."

Some of the others started to stand up but subsided quickly when Mags rose, obviously in a fury, "I don't believe what I'm hearing," she said, hands on substantial hips, "you've just been told how the system works by someone who used to run these shows and you're still thinking of making piddling, ineffective and meaningless shows of resistance."

"Don't you start, Margaret Pickles," said Cynthia, "we're not going to let you boss us around the way Alb and Gerry do."

Alb frowned and harrumphed, Gerry cleared his throat and was about to comment when the door opened and Pete and Fiona sidled in. All heads turned and Fiona coloured, hand going to the pearls at her throat.

Mags spoke again. "I don't boss anyone around Cynthia Carlyle, but I do know what I'm talking about, which is more than can be said for you."

"How dare you," yelped Cynthia.

"How dare I? How dare you? What difference do you think your little plans will have on the whole scheme of things, eh? Tell me."

"Well we...." began Dora.

"Say you picket a few fast food chains, do you think people will listen to you, do you think you will stop their trade? If so for how long? An hour? Half a day? A whole day? And you," she continued, turning to berate Ken, "you're going to take some bankers down. How? And do you really think that will terrify the banking community?"

She walked towards Wilf who stood his ground, Ron cowering behind him, "And as for you lot, you're going to attack the Muslim community. What all four of you? There's over 3 million of them, what effect can you possibly have on the whole scheme of things?"

"There's five of us for the op," Wilf said sullenly, "But Johnno's having a lie down."

The room was uncomfortably silent. Alb glanced round, said, "Where's Jonesey?"

There was a chorus of 'allotment' and Harry volunteered to go and fetch him, hastily departing before the atmosphere got any worse.

Mags continued relentlessly, the interruption not swaying her from her path, "The media will portray you all as fanatical racist old fogies, you'll be castigated. They will crush anything you hope to start within minutes. Why do you think Alb and Gerry decided to attack Parliament?" She was at her indomitable best, all resemblance to the contented matron doling out cake and comfort a distant memory. No-one attempted to answer, they muttered, and shuffled and looked at the floor or the walls or the ceiling. "Because that's the power base, that's how they control everything and everyone, if we destroy the power base then we weaken them and those who follow can change things."

Finally Cynthia's dislike of Mags over rode caution. "Change things how?" she demanded.

"They can change the laws," said Mags, "and make things difficult for fast food chains, they can ensure we don't introduce Sharia law, they can reduce immigration and imprison bankers."

"But how do we know they'll do that?" demanded Dora.

"How will they even know why we've done what we've done?" asked Dave.

"We'll leave suicide videos," offered Lenny, "like the Muslims."

"Hey, that's good, I like that," said Wilf, "I've always wanted to make one of those."

"Really?" said Cynthia.

"Actually that's a brilliant idea, Lenny," said Mags, "then we could all leave our reasons for doing what we're doing and we could attack them at their core, how's that for a plan?"

They looked at one another, and gradually one by one, nodded their agreement.

"Great," said Alb, keen not to lose the moment, "now let's choose a name."

"Not so fast, Albert," said Cynthia, "I think we should all get together into our groups and discuss what we've just heard."

"And when we come back can we have some more Angel cake?" asked Mort, "I really liked the last lot you made, Morag."

"Morag?" mouthed Mags to Alb. He shook his head and whispered, "Just go with it."

"We need to make sure everyone's in on this," said Gerry, "Harry should be back with Jonesey shortly, but we need Johnno and Reg as well."

"And whilst you're at it you can think about what we can call ourselves," said Alb.

Cheers for reading

Arun








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Insurrection by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

5

By abortion, the mother does not learn to love,
but kills even her own child to solve her problems

Mother Theresa

The Preacher collapsed into a chair in the rundown dressing room, drained and tired; it had been a good session. There was a knock at the door and a man strode in, shaking the rain off his coat and brushing his hair back with his hand. A powerfully-framed man, mid-thirties, the Preacher had noted him in his audience, he’d come early and stayed until the end. He might even have been before.

“Hi, Barry, Barry Onslow,” he said, sticking his hand out for the Preacher to shake. When no hand materialised he let his own drop, ignoring the slight. “And that was truly amazing.”

The Preacher’s eyes narrowed and he tilted back his head, unused to such praise.

“I mean, you really had them there,” Barry continued, unfazed by the silent scrutiny, “especially with all that ‘live your life’ stuff.”

The Preacher said nothing; he didn't trust many people and this man was too confident and bullish.

“Look," said Barry, unruffled, "those people out there, they’d like to hear more from you.”

“They are always welcome to listen,” said the Preacher, his voice a quiet dismissal. He was still trying to get the measure of this new arrival; irritated that once he would have been able to assess in seconds what now seemed almost impossible, so out of touch was he with the world.

“Well that’s just it, er…I don’t know your name?” said Barry, settling himself into a chair he’d pulled from a stack in the corner. When he received no response he continued smoothly, “Where are they welcome? Here? Do you own this place?”

The Preacher shook his head, “No, I use it when I can get in.” He left a pause, then thinking it would do no harm to unbend a little, volunteered, “At night it’s usually full of the homeless.”

“So where can people hear you? Some of these people are busy, with jobs and families ….”

“Of course,” said the Preacher, “I know how busy they are – that is part of my point, after all.”

Barry recognised the need to proceed slowly, “I’m just saying that not everyone can get here.”

“I also work on London Bridge…..I go to them because I know they can’t come to me.”

“Right,” said Barry, his attempt at patience abandoned at the first hurdle, “Look friend, I get what you’re saying but if you want to get through to as many people as possible, to get your message across, then you need to be more organised, you need to have a proper place to present your views, you need to have regular times, to advertise….”

“No,” said the Preacher, his eyes darkening, “I’ve turned my back on that culture.”

“I get all that,” said Barry, leaning forward in his chair, causing the Preacher to sit back in his, “but what about the people who would join you? What about the people who would also turn their backs on this crazy world of ours if they were just shown the way? If they were just given some help, some hope, guidance even? Surely you want to reach out to them?”

The Preacher shrugged. Barry took it as a sign and arranged a session for that afternoon.

∞

The Preacher scrunched up his eyes and rubbed his face. He was bone-tired. He had nothing inside him, no clue what to talk about, his mind a blank and then it came to him and he said, quite conversationally, "I have always held the firm belief that it is any woman's right to have an abortion if she feels it is the correct thing for her to do. It's her body that will be ruined by the pregnancy and she will be the one left holding the baby if the male runs out on her."

Barry froze; abortion, what next! He started to make swift assessments of the audience then gave up worrying; if it worked, it worked, if it didn't, then he'd lost nothing by it.

The Preacher started to pace slowly, "It is a valid argument; it could also be that the relationship is not one in which she would like to raise a child but that is a different conversation, that of the inherent responsibilities attached to the act of copulation."

The Preacher's glance fell on a woman looking up at him, she was nodding emphatically. He recognised that with his next words he was going to alienate her. "However," he was nodding himself now, "the current pro-abortion argument only takes into consideration the views and feelings of one, possibly two, of the three individuals involved."

He stopped and looked out into his audience, "Please can I have a show of hands, who believes abortion is acceptable?" Several arms went into the air and he did a rough count, "Well I make that roughly two thirds the hall, which must mean that the rest of you don't support it. Now, of those who support the idea of abortion, do you have any views you would be willing to share? Please raise your arms."

"You madam," said the Preacher, pointing to a matronly woman with a bitter expression.

"Why should the woman have to carry and look after a baby on her own? Two people made the mistake, it's a shared responsibility," she said, emphasising her point with a chopping movement of her head.

"Agreed," said the Preacher, "however, that's not relevant to the concept of ending another life that's merely relevant to the female position."

"Are you saying then," said the woman, her tone challenging, "that the woman has no right to choose? It's her body, why should she be the only one to bear the consequences?"

He looked out into the audience, making eye contact with the first few rows, raising his voice to reach those at the back, "This woman's argument is about the selfishness of the male who leaves the pregnant female in the lurch. Followed by the self interest of the female who would sacrifice her own child so that she can continue to live an unencumbered life."

"That's not what she meant," stated another woman, half standing in her agitation.

"Then help me to understand," said the Preacher moving towards her.

"Mistakes happen," said the woman, "why should two people who had a short sexual relationship have to commit to each other forever as punishment for that mistake?"

Several people applauded, others jeered.

"I understand your argument but what has that to do with terminating a life? That's like running your finger down a telephone list and saying whether or not a person should be allowed to live."

"No, it's not," shouted a man, "those people are alive, a foetus is nothing more than gunk."

"It's murder," shouted a woman from the back of the hall, "if you don't want a baby, use a bloody contraceptive." There were cheers from some parts of the hall, a few bursts of laughter. "Abortion isn't contraception, that's all some girls see it as these days."

"You'd have us go back to backstreet abortions with coat hangers," shouted the first woman.

"It's a woman's right to choose what happens to her body," said another, standing up and then sitting down again, point made.

"You are making my point," said the Preacher, "when we discuss abortion we talk only about the rights of the woman who will carry that child."

"What about where the baby threatens the mother's life?" asked a man from the balcony.

"Or rape?" demanded another man, "why should she get saddled with a rapist's child?"

"Again," said the Preacher, "you all make valid points....yet, it's all about the mother, or the partners who don't want a baby, or the family of a rape victim."

He paced back and forth whilst the audience argued amongst themselves, then he spoke again "Of course, where the mother's life is at risk, abortion is the only course of action. And if the rape victim is a child then clearly the experience of birth could be dangerous and mentally disturbing. So in child rape scenarios, abortion is acceptable." He waited whilst the murmurs of assent rippled round the audience, seeing nods of approval. "However I maintain that all other scenarios put the selfish needs of the potential parents above those of a defenceless individual."

"Contraception doesn't always work, mistakes happen...." This came from the matronly woman who had spoken before. His argument clearly wasn't reaching her.

"What about the child's rights?" demanded another woman, leaning over the balcony and shouting down at her.

"Shouldn't have sex if you're not prepared to live with the consequences," stated an elderly man two rows back from the front.

"Fuck you!" shouted the matron, "why should women be denied free sex? Men have always had it easy and women have always been made to feel like sluts if they do the same."

"You're a chauvinist," shouted another woman, "you want to fuck around but marry a virgin."

The Preacher returned to the centre of the stage and watched as the arguments flew around the hall. He waited for things to calm but when they didn't he reached down for the foghorn he had taken to keeping nearby and let rip. Shocked silence.

"I hear all of your arguments," he said, his voice emollient and placatory, "and I understand the points you are making but none of them address the crux of the matter."

He paused, waiting until he had their full attention, "Which is that, except in exceptional circumstances, abortion is the act of ultimate selfishness effected by either an individual or group of individuals who have behaved or are behaving irresponsibly."

The argument in the stands between both camps erupted again. He left the stage.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Insurrection by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

5

By abortion, the mother does not learn to love,
but kills even her own child to solve her problems

Mother Theresa

The Preacher collapsed into a chair in the rundown dressing room, drained and tired; it had been a good session. There was a knock at the door and a man strode in, shaking the rain off his coat and brushing his hair back with his hand. A powerfully-framed man, mid-thirties, the Preacher had noted him in his audience, he’d come early and stayed until the end. He might even have been before.

“Hi, Barry, Barry Onslow,” he said, sticking his hand out for the Preacher to shake. When no hand materialised he let his own drop, ignoring the slight. “And that was truly amazing.”

The Preacher’s eyes narrowed and he tilted back his head, unused to such praise.

“I mean, you really had them there,” Barry continued, unfazed by the silent scrutiny, “especially with all that ‘live your life’ stuff.”

The Preacher said nothing; he didn't trust many people and this man was too confident and bullish.

“Look," said Barry, unruffled, "those people out there, they’d like to hear more from you.”

“They are always welcome to listen,” said the Preacher, his voice a quiet dismissal. He was still trying to get the measure of this new arrival; irritated that once he would have been able to assess in seconds what now seemed almost impossible, so out of touch was he with the world.

“Well that’s just it, er…I don’t know your name?” said Barry, settling himself into a chair he’d pulled from a stack in the corner. When he received no response he continued smoothly, “Where are they welcome? Here? Do you own this place?”

The Preacher shook his head, “No, I use it when I can get in.” He left a pause, then thinking it would do no harm to unbend a little, volunteered, “At night it’s usually full of the homeless.”

“So where can people hear you? Some of these people are busy, with jobs and families ….”

“Of course,” said the Preacher, “I know how busy they are – that is part of my point, after all.”

Barry recognised the need to proceed slowly, “I’m just saying that not everyone can get here.”

“I also work on London Bridge…..I go to them because I know they can’t come to me.”

“Right,” said Barry, his attempt at patience abandoned at the first hurdle, “Look friend, I get what you’re saying but if you want to get through to as many people as possible, to get your message across, then you need to be more organised, you need to have a proper place to present your views, you need to have regular times, to advertise….”

“No,” said the Preacher, his eyes darkening, “I’ve turned my back on that culture.”

“I get all that,” said Barry, leaning forward in his chair, causing the Preacher to sit back in his, “but what about the people who would join you? What about the people who would also turn their backs on this crazy world of ours if they were just shown the way? If they were just given some help, some hope, guidance even? Surely you want to reach out to them?”

The Preacher shrugged. Barry took it as a sign and arranged a session for that afternoon.

∞

The Preacher scrunched up his eyes and rubbed his face. He was bone-tired. He had nothing inside him, no clue what to talk about, his mind a blank and then it came to him and he said, quite conversationally, "I have always held the firm belief that it is any woman's right to have an abortion if she feels it is the correct thing for her to do. It's her body that will be ruined by the pregnancy and she will be the one left holding the baby if the male runs out on her."

Barry froze; abortion, what next! He started to make swift assessments of the audience then gave up worrying; if it worked, it worked, if it didn't, then he'd lost nothing by it.

The Preacher started to pace slowly, "It is a valid argument; it could also be that the relationship is not one in which she would like to raise a child but that is a different conversation, that of the inherent responsibilities attached to the act of copulation."

The Preacher's glance fell on a woman looking up at him, she was nodding emphatically. He recognised that with his next words he was going to alienate her. "However," he was nodding himself now, "the current pro-abortion argument only takes into consideration the views and feelings of one, possibly two, of the three individuals involved."

He stopped and looked out into his audience, "Please can I have a show of hands, who believes abortion is acceptable?" Several arms went into the air and he did a rough count, "Well I make that roughly two thirds the hall, which must mean that the rest of you don't support it. Now, of those who support the idea of abortion, do you have any views you would be willing to share? Please raise your arms."

"You madam," said the Preacher, pointing to a matronly woman with a bitter expression.

"Why should the woman have to carry and look after a baby on her own? Two people made the mistake, it's a shared responsibility," she said, emphasising her point with a chopping movement of her head.

"Agreed," said the Preacher, "however, that's not relevant to the concept of ending another life that's merely relevant to the female position."

"Are you saying then," said the woman, her tone challenging, "that the woman has no right to choose? It's her body, why should she be the only one to bear the consequences?"

He looked out into the audience, making eye contact with the first few rows, raising his voice to reach those at the back, "This woman's argument is about the selfishness of the male who leaves the pregnant female in the lurch. Followed by the self interest of the female who would sacrifice her own child so that she can continue to live an unencumbered life."

"That's not what she meant," stated another woman, half standing in her agitation.

"Then help me to understand," said the Preacher moving towards her.

"Mistakes happen," said the woman, "why should two people who had a short sexual relationship have to commit to each other forever as punishment for that mistake?"

Several people applauded, others jeered.

"I understand your argument but what has that to do with terminating a life? That's like running your finger down a telephone list and saying whether or not a person should be allowed to live."

"No, it's not," shouted a man, "those people are alive, a foetus is nothing more than gunk."

"It's murder," shouted a woman from the back of the hall, "if you don't want a baby, use a bloody contraceptive." There were cheers from some parts of the hall, a few bursts of laughter. "Abortion isn't contraception, that's all some girls see it as these days."

"You'd have us go back to backstreet abortions with coat hangers," shouted the first woman.

"It's a woman's right to choose what happens to her body," said another, standing up and then sitting down again, point made.

"You are making my point," said the Preacher, "when we discuss abortion we talk only about the rights of the woman who will carry that child."

"What about where the baby threatens the mother's life?" asked a man from the balcony.

"Or rape?" demanded another man, "why should she get saddled with a rapist's child?"

"Again," said the Preacher, "you all make valid points....yet, it's all about the mother, or the partners who don't want a baby, or the family of a rape victim."

He paced back and forth whilst the audience argued amongst themselves, then he spoke again "Of course, where the mother's life is at risk, abortion is the only course of action. And if the rape victim is a child then clearly the experience of birth could be dangerous and mentally disturbing. So in child rape scenarios, abortion is acceptable." He waited whilst the murmurs of assent rippled round the audience, seeing nods of approval. "However I maintain that all other scenarios put the selfish needs of the potential parents above those of a defenceless individual."

"Contraception doesn't always work, mistakes happen...." This came from the matronly woman who had spoken before. His argument clearly wasn't reaching her.

"What about the child's rights?" demanded another woman, leaning over the balcony and shouting down at her.

"Shouldn't have sex if you're not prepared to live with the consequences," stated an elderly man two rows back from the front.

"Fuck you!" shouted the matron, "why should women be denied free sex? Men have always had it easy and women have always been made to feel like sluts if they do the same."

"You're a chauvinist," shouted another woman, "you want to fuck around but marry a virgin."

The Preacher returned to the centre of the stage and watched as the arguments flew around the hall. He waited for things to calm but when they didn't he reached down for the foghorn he had taken to keeping nearby and let rip. Shocked silence.

"I hear all of your arguments," he said, his voice emollient and placatory, "and I understand the points you are making but none of them address the crux of the matter."

He paused, waiting until he had their full attention, "Which is that, except in exceptional circumstances, abortion is the act of ultimate selfishness effected by either an individual or group of individuals who have behaved or are behaving irresponsibly."

The argument in the stands between both camps erupted again. He left the stage.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Sample from the book 'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis

Welcome to ‘Boro


He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened his front door to the unwelcome sight of an ugly youth in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment.

“What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?” Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words. “I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely 6 inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so angry then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that the six year old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan. He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right. Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy,” he instructed.

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head.

Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose. The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?”

The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.” Terry grinned and made ready.

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore. “Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adoring fans.

Hope you're having a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Insurrection by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

Society needs people who take care of the elderly and who know how to be compassionate and honest

Alvin Toffler, The Third Wave


All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."

∞

During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."

Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."


2

Very little is needed to make a happy life;
it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.

Marcus Aurelius

Skies darkened over central London, lightning cracked and thunder roared as the heavens let loose a deluge of biblical scale. Everywhere the citizens of that great metropolis scurried for shelter from the sudden squall; some of them diving into the entrance of an old theatre. Then, as soon as it had started, the rain stopped; to be put down as yet another of the meteorological anomalies brought about by global warming.

Deep inside the theatre the Preacher prepared himself mentally before he strode onto the stage. He stepped onto his gaudily painted box; it was the one he used on London Bridge and it made him feel confident. He stared out at the sparse gathering, 12 in all, ‘not bad, a few more than yesterday.’ He pondered his approach, he never had a planned set, always played it by ear but he needed some inspiration. He looked around and saw a half eaten burger lying nearby and he had it. “GREED!” he yelled surprising himself; he thought he had given up the aggressive approach.

A few heads turned. “We constantly gorge ourselves while others starve, while they scrabble around in the dust for a morsel before they begin their futile search for water. Yet we take our good fortune for granted; we are like the sinners of old who have turned their backs on their fellow citizens and soon the world will turn its back on us.”

Audible groans met his words and some of those who had sought shelter at the theatre entrance scurried away. A few remained; curious maybe or still uncertain of the weather, either way they stayed.

He cast his net wider, “We are so corrupted by self-serving greed that we don’t consider the homeless, the weak, and the ill. We glibly drop our coins in the charity boxes believing that we are cleansed, that we have bought some respite from the final judgment but we don’t see the truth - we are lost in the wilderness of selfishness and we need the desolation of despair to bring us back to the world of humanity.”

He pointed to the heavens, “Global warming is just the beginning for it is one of the Horsemen that were promised - Judgment Day is at Hand.”

There were more groans and several of his unwilling audience drifted away from the entrance only to be met with another torrent of rain followed by a crush of people trying to get inside.

Heartened, the Preacher leapt off his box, left the stage and dashed up the aisle to the entrance where he tried to coax people further inside. At first, reluctant, they resisted his efforts but with more and more people seeking shelter they found themselves forced in. Finally, accepting the inevitable, they consoled themselves with the promise that they would make a run for it the minute the rain stopped.

He got back on his box, spread his arms and began afresh, this time for-going greed for a new tack, “The four horsemen are here and one of them is the complete collapse of neo-capitalism; the financial system has collapsed, we just haven’t accepted it yet.”

His eyes wide, he scanned the shadows of the room, where his audience, some seated, relaxed in their plan to wait out the rain, appeared to be either deep in conversations of their own or otherwise engaged with their phones. He still didn’t have them. He tried again, “And why is capitalism in its final death throes? Why is the world economy in ruins? Because our foolish leaders have for the past 30 odd years sold the naive theory of perpetual growth, an insane psychopathic theory based on nothing but whimsical day dreaming by so called economic geniuses.” He stepped off his box and moved to the edge of the stage, “These people only understand the simple parameters of numbers and equations and they have built our world on their restricted thinking, on their limited understanding of the world, and of nature and the natural resources that exist on this planet.”

One or two heads turned, interested in his comments on natural resources and the obvious links to global warming. He pressed on, "They see the world as a series of columns on a spreadsheet and they see people as resources put there for them to exploit and we, the people, allow them to behave as if this is acceptable." He paused, raised his hands questioningly as if inviting his audience to consider his words. They continued with their conversations.

The Preacher put his hands to his forehead and tried again, "Don't you see? The world has been here for billions of years, life has been here for billions of years but it is only in the last few decades that people have become slaves to the machine, the ever hungry, grinding machine of supply and demand, of servitude to the quest for more and more money whereas the true meaning of life is just to live your life."

He looked out into the audience, "Don't you understand!" he shouted. Some stopped their conversations and stared at him. He didn't care anymore; at least they might listen for a few seconds.

Again he approached the edge of the stage, "Listen to me, please listen and examine your lives, think about what you're doing, how you're spending your time."

A couple in the front stared at him, they were holding hands, "Listen to me," he said catching their attention, "just for a minute, think, do you believe in god?"

The girl smirked and the boy shook his head, "No thanks, mate, we don't do the god thing."

"Neither do I," said the Preacher excitedly, "there is no god, no heaven and there is no hell."

"Right," said the boy. The girl looked behind her and pulled a face at someone in the next row.

"So tell me," said the Preacher, "if there's no god, no heaven and no hell, why do you spend your life travelling to work in a box, then sitting in a box for 8 hours a day before returning home in a box to sit in another box, watching a box until you end up 6 feet under in a box? For what? For barely enough money for your family, your children's education, your enjoyment?"

The boy grinned, "You gotta work mate, or you can't buy things."

"Nothing wrong with having money to spend," said the girl, snippily, "how else are you going to improve your position in life?"

"Madness!" yelled the Preacher reaching to the heavens, "Do you hear yourself? You were born free; free to wander, free to enjoy each day as your own, free to do with your life as you wished but you have allowed their conditioning to convince you that working in near slave conditions for the super elite is the natural way of things."

"Hang on a minute," said the boy, "I'm not a slave, I've got a good job."

"See," yelled the Preacher, reaching out to the others in the audience, "Social conditioning has blinded him to reality. You have all been groomed by the super-rich elite to do their bidding."

"Wanker!" said the boy, and the girl giggled.

"You have been tricked into thinking that what you do is necessary to make society run, but that isn't true, that isn't right, for societies have existed here on earth for millions of years."

"Let’s get out of here," whispered the girl, "he's annoying me."

"You don't see that the dull and mundane function you perform every day isn't even designed to be of any real use, it's only purpose is to make profit and the question you should be asking is, who benefits from that profit?"

"Leave it out, mate!" shouted someone from the back of the hall.

"Ah!" cried the Preacher, stretching his hand in the direction of the heckler, “Leave it out!” Everyone paused their conversations and looked a little worried as the Preacher ran around the stage repeating, "Leave it out!" at the top of his voice.

"Nutter," said the boy.

"Why do you work?" demanded the Preacher, spinning on the spot, "you work to make rich people richer. Why do they want to be richer? Because they want to live like Kings and Queens."

"To be fair, he's got a point," murmured the boy.

"And whilst they live their lives to the full, enjoying each day and each night to the maximum, living each second of their lives, you exist in stress and misery in your meagre surroundings."

"Commie bastard!" yelled someone.

"I want you to think about this," said the Preacher, "You were born into this world as free individuals yet you will spend your entire lives trapped in debt and economic servitude. Held captive by a system created by the wealthy and designed only for the benefit of the wealthy."

"Commie bastard," repeated the heckler.

"The rich live like gods, they live large on your labour. You will never be free all the while you play their game and work within the system."

"Nutter!" yelled the boy and the girl giggled.

"Am I the nutter?" the Preacher's voice rose, he pointed at the boy who squirmed at the unwanted close attention, "Who is looking the wrong way through the glass, me or you?" With that he spun off his box and disappeared back stage, leaving the theatre strangely silent and empty.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun