Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 20

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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Power Grab by Arun D Ellis - book 8 in the Corpalism series

The 2,000 Martyrs

The mosque had been completely restored since the bombing yet the dishonour of this insult had not dissipated.

According to news reports at the time, 75% of the ground floor, as well as large parts of the first floor and the roof had been destroyed in the blast. Funding for the restoration had come from a variety of unnamed sources; payback on the investments was about to come due.

Arrayed in straight lines, 20 by 100, the men in their black robes stood at attention.

The Imam walked slowly along the front rank and then climbed the 3 steps to the small platform and stood in front of the microphone.

He was older than all of those assembled, venerable and authoritative. He stared out at the men in front of him, capturing the full attention of every one of them, then he raised his hands and spoke, his voice throbbing into the space, a powerful yet melodious sound, "You are the shahid. You are the spirit of all Muslims everywhere. You are the soldiers we will send deep into the lands of the unbelievers." He paused, the silence a single baited breath, "You are the sacred hand of vengeance."

Insha'allah, Insha'allah came the rumbling response.

He waited for silence then spoke again, "You will be the dagger driving deep into the soul of the west, destroying their culture and destabilising their lives. You will be a constant threat, moving from place to place, evading their police, creating fear in their hearts. Remember your brothers all over the world who depend on your efforts, on your determination and on your success."

He paused, "You will wreak havoc in their cities, in their streets and in their towns. You will defile their women and emasculate their men." He raised both hands to the heavens and put a deeper energy into his voice, "You will strike terror and fear into the infidel! Allahu Akbar."

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar resonated round the room, rising and falling in waves as row after row confirmed their obedience.

Behind a long curtain at the back of the mosque the man from the Committee sipped his iced tea and smiled.

Cheers


Arun

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Uprising by Arun D Ellis - book 1 in the Corpalism series

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








More books in the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

Preface


November 1973

"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unlikely a scenario this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.







Introduction


We will know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American people believe is false

William Case, CIA Director 1981



Mark Cholmondeley was seething.

Not an unknown state he had to admit but this time it was with good reason. It was intolerable that the UK Prime Minister could be summoned like a naughty schoolboy to answer to a group of doddering fools, made powerful simply because they'd been born into the world's richest banking families. Knowing that it was to them he owed his continuance in office served to increase his sense of humiliation. The only plus side of what was coming was that he would be sharing the carpeting with the similarly indebted, US president, Orland Stone.

This was why Cholmondeley and Stone were shown to a separate meeting hall at the back of the complex, whilst their peers, like them, delegates to the exclusive Bilderberg meeting, made their way to the main lobby.

To their chagrin they were made to wait on either side of huge double wooden doors for several minutes before finally being invited in.

They rose together and straightened their jackets, "After you, Mark," offered the President with a disarming boyish twinkle. Cholmondeley sighed under his breath, nodded with a tight smile and lead the way into the room.

In what was obviously a calculated plan to increase the sense of impending doom the room was dark; made so deliberately by heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking any hint of sunlight and every other wall lamp had been switched off.

There was a log fire burning in the magnificent fire place at the end of the room which, whilst throwing out some light, was also abetting the gothic effect. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, then they became aware of two high backed chairs in the middle of the room.

Ahead of them, above the fireplace hung a portrait sized blacked out screen.

"Take a seat, gentlemen," said a cultured voice.

As these words resonated a large letter G set in the middle of a set square and compass appeared on the screen with a flaming numeral 1 burning underneath it. Then six more screens flickered into life, three on each side of the room, all showing different graphics, each with a number underneath.

"Be seated," said the voice again, this time with a little more force to the command.

Stone did as he was bid. Cholmondeley adjusted his suit jacket again and took his seat more slowly, making a play of pulling up his trouser legs to avoid spoiling the creases, damned if he was going to jump.

"What went wrong with La Palma?" demanded the voice behind screen 1.

Whilst a dressing down and interrogation had been expected Cholmondeley had thought they would sit down round a table like gentlemen, not be made to go through this ridiculous farce with faceless TV screens. In his annoyance he left a gap which Stone filled.

"We did our bit, Mr Chairman, we provided the ordnance but the Brits messed up."

Cholmondeley was instantly furious; back-stabbing yank, "We most certainly did not, Stone."

"You drilled too deep," said Stone.

"We drilled to the depth instructed by your experts, so if anybody messed up then it was your people."

"We gave you accurate intel, pal, but you put amateurs on the job and they messed up."

"Mr Chairman," said Cholmondeley, standing up to address screen 1, "my people assure me that we drilled to the exact depth specified...."

"No way," Stone too was standing, a head to head confrontation, all pretence at diplomacy gone, "we gave you accurate figures, you messed up..."

"How can you know that?" demanded Cholmondeley.

"You blew the whole bloody island to smithereens, you idiot," snapped Stone.

The formless voice cut across their altercation, "We lost our trail leading back to Al Qaeda."

Cholmondeley and Stone froze in their adversarial positions, then sank back into their chairs.

The flames flickered on the screen with the number 2 on it, "You blew it, our justification for going into Iran."

The man had pronounced Iran as 'eye-ran'; an American voice with American directness. The skull and crossed bones on the screen made Cholmondeley shiver.

"Well?" This from another screen, one further to the back of the room, showing the number 3.

Cholmondeley was furious at not being able to say what he felt, for not having the courage to walk away from this puerile nonsense with the flames and the numbers and the icons, but then he spoke and there was a tremor in his voice, "It wasn't our mistake."

"It so was," stated Stone, "who did the drilling?"

"This whole operation was a complete fiasco," this came from screen 4 on the left, a thin, reedy voice, but no mistaking the venom, "years of planning...all for nothing."

"Do you people realise how much money has been lost?" demanded screen 5, this one portraying the all-seeing eye of the Illuminati. The bored tones were at odds with the seriousness of the charge.

The voice continued, "Everything was in place; resources, media stories, the vote to the UN for the official invasion of Iran has been prepared, palms had been greased, we were ready for the off and now we have to stand everything down and treat the whole affair like a natural disaster."

Both Cholmondeley and Stone had realised at the same moment that further protest was only delaying the inevitable. They had been brought here to accept blame not extricate themselves from it. Both men appeared to lose physical stature in that abrupt realisation.

"The primaries are approaching, Stone," said the American voice behind screen 2, "any more screw-ups and our support goes elsewhere."

Cholmondeley suppressed a smirk, he at least could not be threatened with democratic removal, not after the destruction of Parliament and the loss of so many MPs. He was necessary. It was his time to shine.

"You may leave, Prime Minister Cholmondeley," said the voice behind screen 1.

Cholmondeley's face betrayed his concern; would something important be agreed behind his back? Then he rose from his seat, looked over to his sometime friend Orland Stone, cleared his throat and left the room, his tread slow and very uncertain.

As soon as the door had closed behind him the screen 2 interlocutor spoke, "Listen up, Stone. In the coming weeks there will be an atrocity against one of the Israeli settlements in the West Bank."

Stone stared at the screen, his mouth suddenly dry.

The voice continued, "Israel will be forced to make a radical decision."

Stone spoke without thinking, "What does that mean?"

"It is not for you to question," the screen 1 voice cut in sharply, "it is for you to listen and to do as we bid."

"I am the President of the United States," said Stone, finding strength from somewhere, "and I will not be spoken to like this."

"My dear Stone, I thought we had made quite clear the tenuous nature of your position," said the thin voice of screen 4, the icon a rose with a cross inside, "perhaps we weren't clear enough."

Stone stared at the screen, impotent fury burning through his veins.

The American voice continued, "Israel will be forced to clear the Palestinians from the West Bank for the sake of security."

"All of them?" asked Stone, aghast, "Surely not, there must be some other way."

"Damn right there's another way, Stone," said the American, impatient with his errant countryman, "but this is the way it's gonna be. The West Bank will become Israeli territory, as will Gaza in due course and the US of A will support Israel in this matter. The only question is whether it's under your leadership or not, remember that."

Stone's head fell; his brief resistance over.

"Now to further business," said the voice behind screen 1, "recent figures indicate that over 75% of Americans are now living below the poverty line."

"I've followed your economic plan to the letter," said Stone, "it's not my fault, the recession has bitten deeper than anyone could've imagined."

"We have examined the details," the cold voice continued, ignoring the interruption, "and most of those living in poverty are in the South; the Hispanic South-West and the Black belt of the South-East."

Stone shrugged; this was not news.

"We intend for the US to break up into four separate countries," said the hitherto silent partner behind screen 6, a thick tone to the voice, a slight hiss to the words. Stone's instinct said South American.

"What?" said Stone, "No, that can't happen, not on my watch. Not today or any day."

"As previously stated, quite succinctly by my esteemed colleague, it will happen, President Stone," said the man behind screen 6, "with or without your help."

Stone had some difficulty understanding quite what had been said, the rich accent distorting some of the words but the key message came over, loud and clear. He asked, knowing he shouldn't, "But why? What will it get you?"

There was silence, then muted murmurings. Stone was beginning to wonder if he should leave, and then screen 1 flickered and the cultured voice broke the stillness, "We have sufficient wealth. Retaining these redundant parts of America will merely serve to drain resources, add to our tax burden."

The American voice broke in, harshly, "Cut 'em loose an' let 'em rot."

"You're talking about the United States of America," said Stone, pulling himself to his feet, "that's the name of the country, the United States."

"Well, son," said the American, his voice dry, "times change."

Stone thought he heard him snicker.

"The relevant parties have been financed and they will begin pressing for independence in the coming months," said screen 1, "your job is to accommodate them, do you understand?"

Stone stared at the screen above the fire.

"I expect an answer, Stone."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

∞

Cholmondeley was shocked at the sight of the man who came through the doors. He looked diminished. Gone was the boyishly bouncy, all-American kid made good, with his impossibly big, white teeth and equally impossible big hair and bone-crushing hand-shake.

Stone was shaking his head and muttering, "Looks like I'm going down as the President who oversaw the break up of the good old US of A."

"Surely they don't mean....." said Cholmondeley.

"They do mean exactly that," said Stone, "and don't think you guys got away with it either."

"What do you mean? Got away with what?"

"Brexit and that Scottish thing," said Stone, "that's just gonna come back and bite you in the ass."

"Did they mention that?"

"They didn't have to. Where'd' you think the pressure came from in the first place? Where'd'you think these fringe groups get their funding and media support?"

Cholmondeley loosened his collar, "Did they mention anything else about La Palma?"

"Like what?"

"About me?"

Stone sneered, "Not to me but if I were you I'd double my security detail."

"They did say something," pressed Cholmondeley.

"No, they didn't," stated Stone, "they threatened me with the coming elections, but they can't do that to you now. They'll need another stick to beat you with, to keep everyone else in line."

"Surely you don't think they'd...."

"Let's just say, I wouldn't make any long term plans."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun



More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

Something in the Wind


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.



The Diary - Final entry



He opened his diary, not so much a diary more a notebook, dog-eared and abused from months of being bent into his pocket, his constant companion for jottings and musings and now this, his end note. He began to write, not his usual scribble but a slow movement across the page, dignified and portentous. ‘I know there will be consequences, not just for me but for my family, who love me. But all other options were closed to me and for me this final act is a culmination of all that has gone before. This record that I leave behind will ensure there is no avenue of retreat’ That bit was important otherwise he might bottle it, ‘I must act and my deed must be so devastating that others can find the strength to shake themselves from their media induced lethargy, so that they may also shake themselves free of this overpowering and suffocating slumber, this all encompassing nightmare. I do this to redeem others.’ He finished with a flourish and tossed the pen down.

He sat in silence for a few moments then he picked up his cup, sipping lukewarm tea with a grimace, reading what he’d written, smiling and nodding. Then once again took up his pen ‘…and so to the deed, its conception, planning and …’ he paused, unable to think of the right word, “enactment?”… No that wasn’t right” he tried the word out loud but it sounded no better, “completion, fulfillment…” he screwed up his face, “Ah! Execution!” he burst out, then he wrote it down, ‘execution.’

The book would be left in the room for the cleaner to find. Hopefully it would be handed in and not just tossed in the rubbish. He considered keeping it on him and handing it in himself after this final act but somehow, leaving it for someone else to find suited his sense of the theatrical.





Chit Chat




Why is propaganda so much more successful when it stirs up hatred

than when it tries to stir up friendly feeling?

Bertrand Russell

Alex logged into 'froMe2u', the new social network site that was taking over from its rivals at a rate of knots; everyone was banging on, if not about the bomb-damaged building site that was Wembley Stadium then about the sentences being handed out to the rioters. He clicked onto Jessica's site – she was bound to be in on this, ever since he'd first met her and that was in primary, she was always riled up about something.

Megan had commented ...should be locked up for eva for killing 2 coppers.

all cops need guns- from Dan. Alex laughed, a bitten off snort, I bet that sent Jess through the roof!

feral dogs - Pete with a direct quote lifted from TV; always an original thinker.

worse than dogs- Wilson; in copycat mode.

we need guns like US- this from Nate. Alex grinned; good old Nate, always on about the US.

yeah blow those fuckers away- Kingers; frighteningly hostile.

lazy scroungers- Lucy could always be relied on to bang on about 'lazy' and 'scroungers', the fact she’d not had a proper job since Uni obviously escaping her – again.

slobs claim £££ in benefits spend it all on drugs and all the kids they keep having - Dan, trying to creep to Lucy, so obvious it was painful.

deport them all to some island - could this be an attempt at original thought from Wilson?

waste of space serve no purpose - Dell was blunt.

they rioting cause that boy was killed in the pig sty i wud do same for my friend

what the fuck u on jess - Alex did a double take; even from Jess this was extreme. He banged out a response, not sure if she was still out there but one day she would get picked up for comments like that and despite her views, he liked her.

what you know about it you weren’t there you don’t live in their world - Jess's response was quick, forceful and practiced; she'd obviously been getting stick from elsewhere.

they not like us the gov says they scum - he typed fast, angry that she wouldn't listen to reason

He waited for a reply but Jess was silent. She’d clenched her fists and stormed out of her room to the toilet, they were really getting her annoyed. Why were her friends such fools? Couldn’t they see they were being manipulated? Everything was all wrong, their responses were over the top. She rushed back to her pc and checked the flood of incoming messages.

Jess you suck - Cliff. Pathetic.

thick - from Dan, who’d barely made the grade in a single exam.

drugged up leftie - Deep, Tom, really deep.

they killed two cops deserve everything they get should be killed - Scary Kingers.

your so off track again- typical from Megan

shoot them myself- from Dell.

not for the gov to suggest sentencing - Jess's fingers flew over the keyboard

you'd better not come down to my local young lady - from Bill. Bill? Who the hell’s Bill?

why not am i not allowed an opinion - she demanded, tell me that Bill, whoever you are.

grow up Jess - responded Dell.

not if it’s contrary to what everyone else thinks, and it’s what the government thinks, so it must be right - answered Bill, clearly he knew who he was

the gov said they ruthless gangs - Pete with more TV quotes.

oh so now you’ve got a hotline to the gov - Jess's sarcasm was biting.

they were rioting or did you miss that bit - Dell's response was immediate.

they cop killers all our police need guns to shoot on sight - Megan made her point again.

courts full of woolly minded leftie liberals like you who can't deal with criminals - Tom was on one against the Left, clearly.

who said they were criminals - Jess's frustration was bubbling over, leaving her breathless.

come on Jess, you must see they're criminals - Alex chipped in. He'd never known how to stop her in full flow but she was a danger to herself so he had to try.

of course they're fuckin’ criminals the gov has proof they drug gang - Wilson was determined to have his say.

they’re the gov and wouldn’t lie - Lucy's comment betrayed anxiety.

how do you know that luce - Jess was hoping to gain an ally.

bloody right too - Tom’s comments were just as annoying when typed, as when they met face to face. Jess ignored him.

they should bring back hanging get rid of these scum - Cliff raised the stakes

scroungers living off the rest of us - Megan had picked up Lucy's earlier point and the argument had gone full circle.

they should be herded together into special camps - Wilson was struggling now to say something new.

Are you mad that’s exactly what happened in Nazi Germany - Jess was furious,

im talking about the gov doin it - Wilson, defending his position

Hitler changed the laws first you idiot made sections of society out to be evil so it was the gov in germany that did it. just like here, today, and you lot are falling for it - Jess pounced swiftly,

they trying to protect society from lazy scum - Cliff argued.

point proved i think - Score 1 to me. Jess was seriously considering 'un-friending' the lot of them.

rubbish you leftie idiot these scroungers are draining the country of resources that’s why we can’t afford the nhs or anything - Tom had found some more energy.

you saying the poor are why we have austerity, that they've taken all the money in benefits?

that’s what the gov says - Megan commented comfortably.

they should arrest you as well you’re a rabble rouser no better than those scum- Wilson added, daringly. Jess was a thought leader and it wasn't often he felt this comfortable slagging her off.

hey Wilson that's enough - Alex sprang to Jess's defence.

yeah Jess why don’t you just get lost - Tom; getting childish now.

yeah Jess - Cliff jumped on the bandwagon.

they should throw all the lefties inside as well - Ouch; et tu, Lucy?

leave sensible people to get on with things - Dell banged it out, thinking to have the last word.

Jess tried to stem the tide but found herself unable to type fast enough, for every response she sent she got 3 back, “morons!” she shouted finally before switching off.

Have a good week

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Helter Skelter by Arun D Ellis - book 7 in the Corpalism series

Descent 2

Goering has two but very small....

The days since what Louis now referred to as 'The Great Revelation' had passed in a haze.

He was distraught. He wasn't eating or sleeping, his head was filled with mush. The man he'd admired and trusted above even his own father, was a Nazi. So much of what had made Louis who he was had been based on a lie.

In their oft-repeated discussions about military matters the question of sides had always been skirted round, in a 'don't mention the war' kind of way. Gampy had been a German soldier. Nothing wrong with that, he was the right age; it was to be expected.

But not SS, not a Nazi, that was not to be expected, that was horrific.

He needed an explanation; how could such a benevolent man have been involved in something so heinous?

As a budding military historian with a special interest in 20th Century wars Louis had a considerable number of DVDs and books on the subject but it was to his video library he turned first, stored on his YouTube site, hundreds of videos, easy to access and meticulously (some would say, obsessively) catalogued.

He found one he'd watched many times before and clicked the play button. As expected, Hitler appeared on the screen, gesticulating wildly, addressing row upon row of Germans, all of them saluting. It made him feel sick.

He pressed pause and stared at the frozen image, wishing he could arrest the turmoil in his brain as easily. He pressed play and watched shot after shot of fanatical people, all seemingly mesmerised by their demonic Führer.

He stood up abruptly, leaving the video playing, and went in search of his books on Hitler; an extensive collection gathered over several years, some having been gifts from his great-grandfather, they sat alongside his Churchill and Stalin books. He flicked through one after the other impatiently then threw himself onto the sofa and buried his head in his hands.

Distraught, he grabbed his phone and texted Jenna.

They'd spoken the night before and she'd seemed to take it better than he'd expected, yet he was worried that he hadn't been able to see her expression, had been forced to trust the tone of her voice. She'd said it was so long ago, that it wasn't anything to do with him and who he was, but it hadn't helped. He felt the terrible guilt that he knew every German must carry with them. He needed to see her. He waited tensely for a reply and then gave up. Either her phone was off or she'd had second thoughts and was now ignoring him.

Left to himself he went online in search of books not on his shelves.

He found and downloaded five 'revisionist' books he felt might help him better understand his great grandfather and the 'other side' of the Hitler phenomenon.

He continued his search finding; 'Young Hitler' by August Kubizek[2]. He'd heard of it but never read it, had been told it was a romanticised view of the tyrant written by a latent homosexual. He checked the reviews. They recommended another translation; he found it and downloaded a copy to his Kindle. Then he ordered the hard copy version of the first translation. He would read both and get to the bottom of this if it killed him.

∞



Louis had always found Hitler's rise fascinating, and admired German military prowess. He had always been certain in the rightness of the Allied position and the wrongness of the German one. However, having spent two days reading what he would previously have called revisionist propaganda, he was feeling muddled; he needed to talk it over.

Much as he hated to admit it, the only person who could help him was Gampy Jaggs. To make matters worse, according to Louis' mother, Gampy was in hospital, apparently at death's door, following a fall. He phoned his mother, saying as soon as she answered, "I need to speak with great grandfather."

"Louis?" She sounded troubled; Louis had never called him by his formal title, not since he was a little boy who had trouble with the mouthful of words and ended up with Gampy.

"I want to talk to him," said Louis.

"He's not well, Louis. We agreed to tell you only because he thinks he's in the end stage."

"Well, you told me, and now I need to ask him some questions."

"He's not up to anything painful, Louis."

"He wanted me told and if he's going to die then I need to talk to him right now." The callousness shocked him as he spoke but he realised he meant every word.

"Louis!" There was a long silence then she spoke, quietly, "I need to check with your father."

"What's it to do with him? It's not his blood, is it?"

She sighed, "He has the right to an opinion, Louis."

"It's not like he's just had the shock of his life, either. He already knew, didn't he?"

"Of course he did, Louis, love, I could hardly have married him and him not knowing. It might have come out and then where would we have been?"

"Oh yeah, where would you have been?" Sarcasm dripping, Louis was angrier than he'd ever thought it possible to be, "You'd be right where I am now...up shit street. I don't understand so I need Gampy Jaggs to tell me. I need to ask him why."

"Ah Louis," she said, her tone unbearably soft and pitying.

"Don't 'ah Louis' me, just make sure I can visit."




Descent 3

Himmler has something similar...

The nurse finished puffing Gampy Jaggs' pillow, then she eased him back, "Are you okay there, Fred?" The Irish lilt made the soft words even softer.

"Yes, thank you, Shelagh," said the old man, face sallow against the whiteness of the pillows.

Louis pulled a face, his irritation with his great grandfather difficult to suppress.

"Now, don't you go over exerting yourself, with your visitor and all." She shot a meaningful glance at Louis, sensing his antagonism.

Louis waited until the door closed before launching into his interrogation, "Well?" he asked.

The old man looked fondly at his great grandson and sighed deeply.

"Mum's told me," said Louis, looking round nervously, "you were SS."

There was a slight nod of the head, the simple act seeming to tire the old man.

"What the fuck! How could you be one of those murderers? You said you were just a grunt, you said you were just doing as you were told, like everyone else."

"Everyone was a National Socialist back then," said the old man, imperturbably.

"They weren't all SS, though, were they?" pressed Louis, "The SS were the true believers."

"Everyone was a believer, both before and after the war."

"Don't give me that," said Louis, "decent Germans were against Hitler and his lunatic clique."

The old man closed his eyes against the loudness of Louis' voice, but his own voice came back strongly, "That's what they said after the war, it's what they say now because the world is so anti Germany."

"You started two world wars. You murdered millions and instigated the Holocaust...what did you expect?"

"We started neither war. Germany was the victim of prejudice and racial hatred."

Louis collapsed into the chair next to the bed. This was not how he'd thought it would go. He'd expected some bravado but not outright denial of the facts.

His great-grandfather sought for words, then expelled them in a rush, "The greatest lesson I have learned is that no-one can defeat the power of the Jews."

"Oh my god," said Louis, raising his hands to his mouth, "you're a racist."

"Louis, Louis, for all your studying, you know nothing."

There was a silence, broken by the old man's breathing, coming with difficulty through a rattling chest. Then he spoke again, "Germany stood against the greed of Jewish financiers. She tried to introduce a social structure that enabled the people to benefit from their labours....."

"What are you on?"

"No, no, Louis, listen to me...."

"No, you listen, you're so far out of order I can't begin to describe where you're going wrong."

"Louis, please, you must let me explain."

"Explain?" Louis' voice was high with indignation, "How can you possibly explain the Holocaust? The mass murders and rapes? The slaughter of millions?"

"And what of our losses?" demanded the old man, eyes flashing. "What about the murder of our civilians in brutal bombing raids? What of the immolation of Dresden? What of the millions of German women gang raped by the Russians?" He broke off, coughing, then resumed, "What about thousands of German soldiers left to die in the fields after the war, and the thousands of illegal executions by your own troops?"

Louis looked troubled momentarily then shook his head in negation.

His great-grandfather continued, remorselessly, his voice thick with emotion, "And all this crashed down on our heads because Hitler brought into being social reform that was alien to the Jews and the Liberal economy of the democracies."

"Rubbish! You were the greatest evil in history."

"Tch! What would the Indians and Africans of your Empire think about that statement? What about the Chinese and the Arabs? What of all the aboriginal peoples you conquered?"

"That was for trading purposes, and very different," said Louis, stoutly, "anyway, we were already looking to run the Empire down."

"Louis, read your books again...both wars were fought because Germany was proving to be economically more effective than any other European country."

"I don't care about all that, all I care about is you were SS."

"And proud to have been so," said Gampy Jaggs, defiantly, "proud to have fought for National Socialism and for the Führer and to have been there with him at the last."

The nurse came in, attracted by the old man's raised voice. Once she had satisfied herself that her charge was happy with the presence of this angry young man, she left, but not without giving Louis a hard stare from the door.

Louis deflated; this was far worse than he'd ever thought it could be. Surely his Gampy hadn't meant he was actually 'with him at the last'?

He forced out a question, hoping to catch the old man in a lie, "If you were in the bunker, how'd you escape from the Russians?"

The reply was terse, "Luck." Then he put everything he had into his voice, ignoring the pain in his chest, "Louis, you've studied history all these years, you think you know everything there is about the wars, but you know nothing of what we fought for or why we fought."

"To conquer the world," hissed Louis, mindful of the nurse, still within earshot no doubt.

"We fought to defend our way of life, to defend our social revolution."

"Social revolution? Oh yeah, where you're the master race and everyone else is subservient."

"Hitler never said that, that was allied propaganda."

"Ha, you're a right one to talk about propaganda, Goebbels invented it."

"Another lie from perfidious Albion; the Führer was proud to be German. He said the Germanic peoples were the most culturally advanced in the world. What leader doesn't say that about their people?"

"Bollocks," snapped Louis, "We had the biggest fucking empire."

"You're angry because you think he said that we Germans were better than the British, you don't really care about other people."

"I just meant that we were better than you."

"Don't you think that you English are related to we Germans? Aren't you Anglo Saxons?"

"Not the same thing at all," said Louis, "anyway that's off point, I want to know why you supported Hitler, why you were willing to compromise yourself to support that evil."

"I compromised myself when I lied about being in the SS, when I denounced the Führer."

"Well, if he was so great, why did you do that?"

"No choice," the old man sounded every one of his years, "the Jews had brought about our destruction. We had to denounce all the good National Socialism represented."

"The Jews did what?" Louis choked on the question. "And, did you say Nazis represented good?"

"Bah!" His great-grandfather waved his hand dismissively, "You will not listen to reason. I was wrong about you. I thought that now you were older you would understand."

"How can I understand?" said Louis, "Who could ever understand what you people did? Would the lovely Shelagh understand? Shall I call her in and tell her who she's nursing?"

"You must do as you think fit, Louis, I don't have the energy to fight. You have absorbed Jewish lies as gospel truths, without any academic challenge....."

"Jewish lies?" gasped Louis, "You gassed millions of innocent people, women and children."

"And how exactly did we do that?" The voice from the bed was unnervingly cold, not at all like the man Louis had been brought up to love, "I would be interested to know how we did this."

"You know how you did it," said Louis, "the entire fucking world knows how you did it."

"Ah, yes, of course, we converted shower rooms into gas chambers, that's right, isn't it?"

"This is nothing to joke about," said Louis.

"What were the mechanics of it? How does one convert a shower room into a gas chamber?"

"I don't know, Gampy," said Louis, aware he sounded childish and sullen.

"Why don't you know? Shouldn't you have made it your business to know? You're so willing to believe that's what we Germans did, shouldn't you at least find out how it's done?"

"No," said Louis, "not necessary."

"Not necessary? Not necessary? You think it is academically sound to make the accusation without any form of evidence? And you call yourself an historian."

"Evidence!" retorted Louis. "What about all the bodies? The film footage of the camps that the allies found? The bulldozers, the piles of starved and emaciated bodies."

"You mean the camps the British and Americans found? Those people died of typhus, you ignorant child, we didn't kill them, you did."

Louis was silent; appalled.

"The allies bombed our roads, our cities, destroyed our supply links. We couldn't get the insecticides to the camps to combat the diseases that were killing thousands...."

"Unintended consequences, you can't blame that on us..." began Louis.

"How many murder camps do you think there were?" demanded Gampy Jaggs, waving a finger at his grandson.

"Ha!" said Louis, "So you agree there were murder camps."

"And while you're on that question, where do you think they were situated?"

"I don't know," said Louis, uncomfortably aware of his lack of knowledge on this level of detail, "Germany, somewhere in Germany, and in Poland."

"It might interest you to know that real historians now agree that the only so-called 'murder camps' were those discovered by the Russians, in Poland."

"So what?" said Louis, smarting at the implied slur, "They were still murder camps."

"The Russians lied, just like when they accused us of killing the Poles in Katyn forest."

"Oh come on," Louis said, shaking his head.

"First it was said 4 million died in Auschwitz alone, then the figure was revised to just over 1 million. How long before it drops to half a million only?"

Gampy Jaggs reached a shaky hand out for his glass of water. He took a sip and then put the glass back, "You still haven't answered my question, how do you turn a shower room into a gas chamber?"

"I don't care," said Louis.

"Ha! And you want to be an historian."

Louis could see the disappointment in his eyes and responded, stung, "Someone will have worked out how they did it, otherwise it couldn't be history."

Gampy Jaggs continued to stare at him.

"Tell you what," said Louis, flourishing his tablet, "I'll look it up now and show you."

"And whilst you're doing that you might want to look at an American gas chamber, and compare the two. Also, give a thought to this question. If mass gassing is such an effective method of genocide, why is it that no-one else has attempted to copy the process?"

"What? You're trying to confuse me."

"Why didn't the Serbs gas the Croatians? Why didn't the Khmer Rouge gas their people? Why hasn't any other murderous dictatorship used gassing as a means of genocide?"

One hour later Louis gave up his research, tossing the tablet on his great-grandfather's bed. Gampy Jaggs woke with a start and moaned slightly.

"Okay," said Louis, grumpily, "but just 'cause gassing is complicated it doesn't mean the Germans didn't work out a way of doing it."

Gampy Jaggs moaned and pumped in more morphine.

"I'm going to look this up and find out more," said Louis, ignoring the old man's pain, "and I will prove to you how it was done."

"You'll never be able to work it out," said Gampy Jaggs, "the so called gas chambers were destroyed, they don't exist anymore."

"Of course they exist," said Louis, "I've seen them on TV."

"Reconstructions," said Gampy Jaggs, "More Russian lies."

"Bollocks," snapped Louis, "they were the real buildings."

"Reconstructions, look it up on your, your, thing....."

"Tablet," said Louis.

"Look it up," said Gampy Jaggs.

"I will if I want to," said Louis irritably, "anyway, I don't care about the mechanics, I just want to know why you were a Nazi, and a member of the SS."

"National Socialist, Louis. I believed in the Führer and his revolution."

"You were seduced by his lies, you mean," offered Louis, hopefully.

"Lies? The Führer never lied to us, he always told us the truth...."

"Oh, like he told you he wanted to conquer the world," said Louis.

"He never wanted that, he hated war, hated the sacrifice, he'd served in the trenches."

"He loved it," said Louis, "everyone knows he was obsessed with war."

"You're confusing him with Churchill, Louis. Besides the Führer did not start the war."

"Yes he did," hissed Louis, "he invaded Poland."

"Do your research, boy. The Poles were terrorising Germans who had lived for centuries on land that had been stolen from us and given to Poland after the first war. We had been forced to abandon the German people who lived there."

"Rubbish," said Louis, hoping desperately that it was.

"You call yourself an historian, yet you don't even know what happened in Europe between the wars, you have no idea how we Germans were treated by the rest of Europe."

"What did you expect?" said Louis, "You started the Great War."

"Louis, you are so woefully misinformed that this conversation is almost worthless."

"Oh, here we go again," said Louis, "you didn't start that war either. What? You got mugged off that time as well, did you?"

"We did not start either war and we most certainly did not declare war on Britain, ever."

Louis opened his mouth to argue but realised he couldn't because technically, on both occasions, Britain had declared war on Germany.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun




More books in the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

Prologue

The world is governed by very different personages
from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.

Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1844)


Of all the women in the group, for Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut gleaming bronze hair. He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status, he cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat. Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, others in crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance. All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At his nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them. The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier.

Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to their seats. After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet." Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."



episode 1

Workmen



Barry slumped onto the verge, regretting the decision even as his buttocks hit the turf. He'd struggle to get up from this position and his gang was just up the road and ready to take the piss. He could hear the comments in his head, fat bastard, beached whale and other such insults just waiting to find an outlet. Still, he was here now and he might as well get on with it.

He pulled out his note pad and punched the number into his phone. It was only 30 seconds before it connected but he was through to the usual auto service; if you want blah, blah press 1 or if you want such and such press 2. It took him 4 minutes to get through to the service he wanted, then there was a queue and he had to wait a further 5 minutes before a female voice came on the line.

"Hello, my name is Jane. How may I help you today?"

"Ah Jane," he said, for a moment forgetting why he'd called, "My name's Barry Halliwell, I'm ringing because I got a parking ticket the oth....." He was aware he'd put on his telephone voice, articulating carefully in the hope that a show of good breeding would get a better result.

"We can't take payments over the phone," said Jane, helpfully, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."

"Ah, no, that's not what I was after, erm.....I sent a letter with a copy of the ticket that I purchased on the relevant date." He spoke fast hearing her draw breath for her next dismissal, "the letter explained that I had displayed the ticket, but when I shut my car door the ticket must have blown off the dash into the car well and was missed by your warden. So I did in fact buy a ticket and, therefore, shouldn't have to pay a fine."

"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, brightly.

"Ah, yes I know that," he kept his voice even, "and it was, but on this occasion the wind must've blown it off the dash when...."

"Tickets have to be displayed," repeated Jane.

"Right," it was getting harder to maintain the even tone, but he managed to swallow his irritation, "I know that but the main point is that people buy a ticket, I mean, that's the whole point right?"

Jane didn't respond.

"That's the whole idea, to pay for the parking space for a given period of time, well I did pay and I have the ticket to prove it...."

"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, adding firmly, "at all times."

"I know that, Jane, but I'm telling you I bought a ticket, so I rented the space, and something occurred be it an act of god or what, but something occurred so that the ticket fell from my dashboard into the car well. I didn't avoid buying a ticket, I bought one, still have it and sent you a copy...." He was losing it, and losing her, he knew it but he couldn't stop.

"I'm sorry sir," said Jane, her voice still at the same equable pitch, "but I will have to terminate this call."

"Don't do that," said Barry, wildly, "it took me fifteen minutes to get through."

"Sorry sir," said Jane, sounding anything but, "I've advised you that tickets must be displayed so I can't help you any further, good day," with which she hung up.

Barry clenched his fists, incandescent with suppressed fury, knowing it was bad for his blood pressure but momentarily unable to get a grip. He breathed deeply and counted to 10 then punched the number in again. His heart slowed to normal during the enforced waiting period. He avoided looking at his team idling down the road, working on the childish premise 'if I don't look at you, then you can't see me.'

It was 10 minutes before he heard the voice he'd been waiting for.

"Hello, my name's Gareth, how may I help you today?" Smooth, silky.

"Hi Gareth," said Barry, aiming for instant camaraderie, "I'm having a little problem with erm.....a parking ticket."

"We can't take payments over the phone, sir" said Gareth, helpfully, man-to-man, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."

"I know that, Gareth but the thing is, you see, I did buy a ticket so this fine isn't really relevant to me."

"Was it adequately displayed in your car window sir?" asked Gareth.

"Right," said Barry, thinking 'this is going pear-shaped fast', "let me explain ..."

"I'm sorry sir," said Gareth, oil-slick smooth, "unless the ticket was displayed in your car window I won't be able to help you."

"I get that," desperation was taking his breath away, "but can you please explain the purpose of buying a ticket?"

"To rent the parking space sir," said Gareth, happy to oblige, "but the ticket has to be displayed. It's part of the terms and conditions. This is displayed on the sign where you would have purchased the ticket and on the reverse of the ticket."

"So you don't dispute that I bought a ticket?" This is not what he had meant to say, the conversation was getting away from him again.

"I'm not in a position to comment on that, sir."

'Stop calling me sir when you mean shithead', Barry thought savagely, whilst forcing his voice into an even tone, "Surely you have a procedure in place that takes accidents into account?"

"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."

"But that's criminal," now he'd lost it, "that means you get money for the parking and then you get to fine people 60 quid with no recourse or....."

"I'm afraid I can't progress this any further sir," said Gareth, all firm and righteous, "so I'm terminating the call, good day."

"Don't..." shouted Barry to the dial tone, "You fuckin' bastard, right, I'll 'ave you!" he snarled, manhandling the number into his phone, cursing violently as each digit went in, heart palpitating ferociously as he waded through the auto service and this time waiting a further 20 minutes for an operator, neurotically convinced they knew it was him and were making him wait longer on purpose.

"Hello, you're through to Diane," yet another well-modulated voice. Were they churning them out of a fucking sausage machine somewhere? "How may I assist you today?"

He launched straight away into his speech, hoping to catch her unawares, "I bought a parking ticket and I placed it on the dashboard of my car, but when I returned to my car I had a parking fine ...."

"Ah, well sir," began Diane.

"If you could just wait for me to finish please Diane, you see I then sent a copy of the ticket and a letter explaining what must've happened to...."

"Was the ticket displayed in your car window sir?"

"It was when I left the car but it must've fallen off...it was on the floor," he was aware how piteous he sounded; it was all he could do not to cry in rage and frustration.

"If the ticket wasn't adequately displayed we are entitled to levy a fine...."

"Surely once I present evidence that I bought a ticket ............"

"Do you still have the ticket sir?" asked Diane.

Breakthrough, he thought, she's listening, "Yes I do Diane," he said warmly, he could cuddle her.

"Good," said Diane, her voice bright and even more helpful than before, "then if you look on the reverse you will see it says in the terms and conditions...."

He blinked. For a moment he was too shocked to speak, then he rallied, he'd come too far to stop on a technicality, "Yes I know what it says, but you're not listening to me, I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there and now you're fining me for an act of god."

"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."

"Diane, please, am I talking to a human being or a robot here? I'm telling you that I bought your lousy ticket, I paid to park there, this fine is all wrong."

"I'm sorry sir, but unless the ticket is adequately displayed...."

"Right!" said Barry, "in that case give me my money back. The money I paid for the parking ticket, £3.50, I want it back. If you're going to fine me anyway then you have to give me my money back."

"I'm sorry sir," said Diane, sounding infinitesimally off-balance. He felt like he'd scored a goal at Wembley, "there are no circumstances under which we'd offer a refund."

"But I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there, so you owe me a fucking refund if you intend to sting me for 60 quid."

"If you are going to verbally abuse me," said Diane, balance restored, "I will have to terminate the call, good day."

He dialled again, he would do this all day if he had to; it now meant more to him than his job, in fact he would commit the rest of his life to achieving this one thing. Verbal abuse? I'll give you verbal abuse. He readied himself to launch a vitriolic tirade when he heard an electronic male voice on the other end, "We have received several nuisance calls from this number, therefore, I'm immediately terminating this call."


Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Extract from the books 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Corpalism'.

The Independents - You say ‘evasion’, I say ‘avoidance’


“Hello fellow Independents, my name’s Marissa Phillips, I’m a Tax Accountant” she smiled at the anticipated mock groans from the audience, “and I’ll be standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets.” She was easy on the eye, no doubt about that, one of those tall, effortlessly willowy women, ‘arm candy’ but she seemed to have a head on her shoulders so possibly worth the time taken to hear her out; this was demonstrated in the friendly applause from the floor. “I’m going to talk to you about the massive deception being wrought upon us; the myth that there is no money to support public services, to support the NHS, to fund proper state education, to provide social care for the less well off, that we are a 3rd rate nation unable to compete in the world.”

“It’s not that hard to expose the deception, although you wouldn’t believe it hearing the constant double talk, the economic mumbo jumbo coming from all parties.” she laughed lightly, “listening to them you’d think money, taxation, economics and government expenditure were the most complicated things in the world. Well they’re not; they make it sound complicated in the hopes they’ll convince us to leave them to get on with what they’re doing, without bothering to question anything. The shocking thing is that it works. Now, why is that?”

She paused and looked around the hall, waiting for a few moments to let the question sink in, “It works because we are predisposed to accept that it’s complicated, we believe in the concept that our leaders are special, that they are exceptional, that what they are struggling with is beyond our humble abilities to resolve. But we deceive ourselves,” she stopped, appearing to reflect, “or are we being deceived? I think they plant the seed and we allow it to grow. I think that they want us to believe that only they, the political class, can resolve the nation’s ills but in truth, it is they who make the problems in the first place. It is they who have set this country on its current course and they’ve done it for a reason… so, what is the reason?”

She pivoted 900 on skyscraper heels, and indicated their mentor, “Colin has said it’s all about money, it’s all about theft, it’s all about how the wealthy classes can extract as much money as possible from the system for themselves whilst leaving the rest of us and the country in a state of penury, it’s about creating a class of super rich by stealing from the state, by robbing the people of what’s rightfully theirs.”

“On the other hand, there are those who say that they are merely taking what is rightfully theirs, what they’ve earned by their own efforts” she scanned the room, ensuring she had their attention, “and I’ve met, worked with and worked for many of those in my time.”

She paused for a sip of water before continuing, “I’m a Tax Accountant as I said in my introduction and I’ve helped some of the richest people in the country use all the loopholes I could find to avoid paying tax.”

There was a collective gasp, she’d expected a reaction but this was a bit more tangible than a few people, it felt like the whole room had grown cold. She glanced over at Colin who nodded, Catherine smiled at her encouragingly and Maurice, the next one up, winked. She turned back to the audience, buoyed and feisty.

“Note, I said ‘avoid’ which is legal, not evade which is not. However…” she raised her hands to quell the rising tide of irritation emanating from the front rows, “however, tax avoidance on the scale to which these people have become accustomed is immoral, anti-social and repugnant and I quit my job six months ago for that very reason.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath then she continued “I know from 1st hand dealings that these people have no scruples, no loyalty and no conscience. They have quadrupled their wealth by investing in emerging markets and enslaving 3rd world workers whilst starving the UK of investment. They have off shored their bank accounts, registered companies abroad so that they don’t have to pay UK taxes and the political class has let them do this because it, more than any other section in society is willing to sell itself to the highest bidder…”

The applause returned; a light smattering at first then more focused; she was winning them round.

“But I get ahead of myself…Let’s consider the context here, let’s discuss the deception and the premise that comes with it: that the UK government can no longer support the services we have become used to, that government doesn’t have the funds anymore. Well the obvious question is... How can that be so? How can it be so?” she repeated, her hands outstretched, incredulity in every line of her body, “How can this country have less money now than it did just after the Second World War when we were virtually bankrupt? Yet at that time we could afford to establish the NHS which we are told today is too big to support.”

There were growls of support, and murmurs of ‘hands off our NHS’.

“The answer is simple, though you won’t find a single politician who will admit it, you won’t find one solitary MP who will tell the truth about the finances of the state and the reason is this; if they did then there would be a revolution.”

She turned to the panel and saw smiles of encouragement along the line, “It would be obvious to each and every one of us that the rich are sucking all the money out of our country before they desert us to live in their Caribbean paradises and we would REVOLT against it.”

The audience seemed shocked at the sudden vocal change on the word ‘revolt’, she’d seemed quite languid up until that point. Clearly she was more robust than she looked.

She took another sip of water, “Let’s consider how the process actually works or, should I say, is meant to work. Fact: Government has no money, any government has absolutely no money, for the simple reason that governments don’t make anything and they don’t sell anything. Ergo, everything they set in motion is a cost to the nation and it has to be paid for by the nation.” She paused and looked round the hall, “That’s where taxation comes in, that’s what taxation is all about, that’s why they take our money in the first place and why they take it in direct taxation, at source. The simple truth is that the government can only spend what it raises by way of taxation.” She paused again, “and it is a system that works or at least it worked in the past. However, in the last few decades those revenues have shrunk, the government has raised fewer funds via taxation.”

“Now, here…” she said, narrowing her eyes, trying to get her timing right, “here is where it all gets a bit murky or at least where they try to make it opaque so you won’t ask, why?....Why, at a time when there is more money than ever before floating around in the UK, when the number of UK billionaires stands at 73, and the country is richer than it’s ever been in its history, when there so many people in the country of working age, when there are more taxes foisted on us than ever before, why is it that the government says it doesn’t have the funding to carry on paying for things like the NHS?”

She stopped talking for a moment, obviously struggling, she drank from her glass and refilled it, then coughed, her emotional attachment to the argument becoming clear to all, “Why can’t we afford the social care bill? Why must we charge our children for the higher education that we had for free? We managed to afford it whilst we were still paying off the national debt for the Second World War, when there were fewer people in this country eligible to pay tax, when there were fewer taxes; no VAT for instance, less duty on petrol, cigarettes, alcohol. Why is it, that at a time when there was less money in the system as a whole, the government had more to spend than it does now, when there is more money in the system as a whole? Why? …Why?”

Marissa paused to look around the hall and waited for her words to settle into every corner, find a place in each mind. People started cheering and calling out “Why?”

She allowed the noise to peak before she started to wave for silence, “the answer’s simple, the answer’s obvious, logical, a child could tell you the answer yet we constantly allow the politicians to deceive us, to delude us, to lie to us, to paint a false picture for us. We let them tell us that we as a people are too greedy, that we have priced ourselves out of a job, that we expect too much of the NHS, that the NHS itself has become too expensive, that we pay too many people Social Benefits, that there are more old people weighing the state down with pensions, that we are a nation of scroungers living in million pound houses paid for by benefits, that we can’t compete with rising economic power houses like China and India but they LIE!”

More applause and cheering from the hall.

“They LIE, I tell you!” she thundered, her slight frame trembling, “They lie; and when you realise the truth you will be shocked at of the depth of duplicity involved, the magnitude of the sheer greed involved, the despotism it represents, the evil psychopathic nature it hides, the blatant manipulation that has been occurring, the involvement of the politicians, our politicians who are meant to represent the will, the wishes, the needs of the people, at the realisation that believing in the integrity of the political class is totally naive for they are by nature deceitful, scheming, egotistical, self serving tyrants.”

The audience was with her now; the applause self-sustaining, ripples dying away as new clapping started so that the effect was a constant sigh of sound.

She waved for quiet, “Back in the 50s there were rich people but they weren’t obscenely rich and there were poor people but they weren’t destitute. Everything was more equal; everyone paid tax and everyone paid their fare share, result, the government had more than enough money to spend. There was little personal debt, people took pride in owning what they had and many people lived in council houses or privately rented accommodation. That’s how it works when the money is evenly distributed, that’s how societies grow, and that’s how cultures develop. I’m not saying it was perfect but it appeared fair; and this continued and took us into the 60s.”

She glanced round the hall, noting the nods of agreement for her assessment of the situation in those times, “However by the early 70s the ordinary person was being encouraged to ‘buy’ their own home. The enthusiasm with which this was taken up was due partly to the lack of affordable rented accommodation, and partly to the promise of ownership. There was promulgation in 95% mortgages, a relaxation of checking mechanisms on actual earnings; the multipliers were relaxed to enable previously ineligible couples to borrow heavily.”

She took a breath and continued briskly, “By the late 70s we were starting to feel the pinch; old inefficient factories, competition from Japan and Germany who’d had massive post-war US investment in new ‘fit for purpose’ build. We’d had hospitals for so long those buildings needed replacement; the UK infrastructure needed reinvestment, revitalising, a little TLC. What we got in the 80s was a wicked evil person who said it was all the workers doing; it was they who were to blame for the lack of investment and the threats of foreign competition. She told everyone that there was no such thing as society; that it was everyone for him or herself; that the prize belonged to those best able to ‘get on their bikes’ and grasp it. This individualist premise was supported by a political determination to unpick the seams of society, to unravel the threads that hold people together, to break the bonds of unity that encourage generosity of spirit and altruism. Once that selfish argument took hold the weak became a sniveling millstone, the poor a grasping nuisance, the old an unloved burden. Added to that, the selloff of council houses had a two-fold effect reducing social housing stock and increasing home ownership amongst people to whom that level of debt had been hitherto unthinkable. Home became an investment rather than somewhere to put down roots and bring up a family; a ‘buy and sell’ commodity and we became nomadic in an attempt to attain wealth, more money-oriented and less family focused.”

She allowed a few moments for that to sink in, then continued, “Accompanying this permission to abandon societal ethics came de-regulation and authorisation to off shore manufacturing to countries unfettered by social conscience, where people were treated as slaves, where wages were insignificant, where rents were negligible, where a bribe could give the greatest financial returns to the most unscrupulous who were willing to profit from the suffering of others.”

She paused and scanned the hall, “So what are the lies that are the instruments of this deception? One such lie is that we priced ourselves out of the manufacturing market so that employers had no choice but to go abroad. NOT TRUE – there is always a choice - the choice to be made was between excessive profit and employment of your countryman, and PROFIT won out.”

Her face was stern, “Another lie they fobbed us off with for years was that the resultant millions, rendered unemployed when manufacturing was taken from this country, could be absorbed into a service based industry; that we could pay each other for doing service jobs for each other…self-evidently not true if you look at the numbers of long-term unemployed.”

She made a negating gesture with her hand, chopping it through the air, her tone scornful, “It was never the case that a service industry could support a nation, it has never been the case, it could never be the case and there is no working model which could ever prove the case, it’s a LIE! And they knew it to be a lie when they spun it.”

“And they told the lie to buy them time; time to build the infrastructure of their new economic empires in the 3rd world, to allow them to ensure they would have the mechanisms in place to guarantee them high returns on their investments when the economic structures started to collapse in the west, here in the UK. Over the years they have created a massive pool of unemployed, so much so that the benefits bill is astronomic, they reduced wages to the extent that a middle class family struggles to get by with two earners and has massive debt, where a middle class family in the 50s only required one wage earner and had no debt; this is what they have achieved.”

She paused, “And these unscrupulous rich, the evil 1%, are so greedy that they don’t want to pay tax on their incomes, they don’t want to contribute to the British nation so they off shore their bank accounts or they register as domiciled abroad in countries where the tax laws are more lenient and they can bribe officials. They do all this so they can keep all the money to themselves; so that they can have five mansions, with swimming pools, tennis courts and hundreds of acres of land, apartments in Paris and New York, villas in the Antibes. So that they can have million pound yachts, private jets, so they can own a fleet of the most expensive cars, they do all of this so that they can have lots of everything, more than any individual could ever use or ever need or ever really want and they do it so that they can have not just millions but billions.”

She took a deep breath, then continued her voice shaking, “They don’t care about world hunger, they don’t care that workers in their factories are suffering, they don’t care that a child dies every 3 seconds of a preventable disease, they don’t care about the unemployed, they don’t care about health care and education for the masses, they don’t care about social benefits for those less able …they care about themselves because as a self opinionated politician once said, ‘there is no such thing as society’.”

More applause from the hall.

“And the net result of their greed for the UK? less people working, less companies manufacturing, less exports even though the companies producing products in the 3rd world are British owned or British funded, with the greedy psychopathic 1% hoarding all of the money … there is less taxable money in the system.”

She took a moment to gain her breath, accepting the applause with a smile. Colin approached the table, whispered something in her ear, causing her to smile more broadly. He sat down again.

“I need to wrap this up,” she said, with a quick look of apology at the Panel, “I’ve overrun a bit …. So to finish, because most of the money is now in the hands of the greedy 1% and they have worked it so that they either don’t pay tax or they pay a negligible amount of tax, the government has less money. That’s why the government can’t afford the NHS, that’s why the government can’t afford the social benefits bill, that’s why libraries are closing, that’s why students have to pay for their own education, that’s why our troops, our sons and daughters are starved of equipment that could save their lives in the field, that’s why we have such a huge national debt, that’s why we have austerity.”

She took a last look round the hall, “And make no mistake, we are NOT in this together… politicians in the main are all independently wealthy, they rub shoulders with the rich and the super rich. Our politicians have had a taste of vast wealth and power and they want more; and because they want more they have sold out the 99% for their 30 pieces of silver, they have sold their souls for greed, but we will not let them get away with it!”

The hall erupted with applause and cheers.


Thanks for reading

Arun






More books from the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

The book 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' by Arun D Ellis

The Independents

You say ‘evasion’, I say ‘avoidance’

“Hello fellow Independents, my name’s Marissa Phillips, I’m a Tax Accountant” she smiled at the anticipated mock groans from the audience, “and I’ll be standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets.” She was easy on the eye, no doubt about that, one of those tall, effortlessly willowy women, ‘arm candy’ but she seemed to have a head on her shoulders so possibly worth the time taken to hear her out; this was demonstrated in the friendly applause from the floor. “I’m going to talk to you about the massive deception being wrought upon us; the myth that there is no money to support public services, to support the NHS, to fund proper state education, to provide social care for the less well off, that we are a 3rd rate nation unable to compete in the world.”

“It’s not that hard to expose the deception, although you wouldn’t believe it hearing the constant double talk, the economic mumbo jumbo coming from all parties.” she laughed lightly, “listening to them you’d think money, taxation, economics and government expenditure were the most complicated things in the world. Well they’re not; they make it sound complicated in the hopes they’ll convince us to leave them to get on with what they’re doing, without bothering to question anything. The shocking thing is that it works. Now, why is that?”

She paused and looked around the hall, waiting for a few moments to let the question sink in, “It works because we are predisposed to accept that it’s complicated, we believe in the concept that our leaders are special, that they are exceptional, that what they are struggling with is beyond our humble abilities to resolve. But we deceive ourselves,” she stopped, appearing to reflect, “or are we being deceived? I think they plant the seed and we allow it to grow. I think that they want us to believe that only they, the political class, can resolve the nation’s ills but in truth, it is they who make the problems in the first place. It is they who have set this country on its current course and they’ve done it for a reason… so, what is the reason?”

She pivoted 900 on skyscraper heels, and indicated their mentor, “Colin has said it’s all about money, it’s all about theft, it’s all about how the wealthy classes can extract as much money as possible from the system for themselves whilst leaving the rest of us and the country in a state of penury, it’s about creating a class of super rich by stealing from the state, by robbing the people of what’s rightfully theirs.”

“On the other hand, there are those who say that they are merely taking what is rightfully theirs, what they’ve earned by their own efforts” she scanned the room, ensuring she had their attention, “and I’ve met, worked with and worked for many of those in my time.”

She paused for a sip of water before continuing, “I’m a Tax Accountant as I said in my introduction and I’ve helped some of the richest people in the country use all the loopholes I could find to avoid paying tax.”

There was a collective gasp, she’d expected a reaction but this was a bit more tangible than a few people, it felt like the whole room had grown cold. She glanced over at Colin who nodded, Catherine smiled at her encouragingly and Maurice, the next one up, winked. She turned back to the audience, buoyed and feisty.

“Note, I said ‘avoid’ which is legal, not evade which is not. However…” she raised her hands to quell the rising tide of irritation emanating from the front rows, “however, tax avoidance on the scale to which these people have become accustomed is immoral, anti-social and repugnant and I quit my job six months ago for that very reason.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath then she continued “I know from 1st hand dealings that these people have no scruples, no loyalty and no conscience. They have quadrupled their wealth by investing in emerging markets and enslaving 3rd world workers whilst starving the UK of investment. They have off shored their bank accounts, registered companies abroad so that they don’t have to pay UK taxes and the political class has let them do this because it, more than any other section in society is willing to sell itself to the highest bidder…”

The applause returned; a light smattering at first then more focused; she was winning them round.

“But I get ahead of myself…Let’s consider the context here, let’s discuss the deception and the premise that comes with it: that the UK government can no longer support the services we have become used to, that government doesn’t have the funds anymore. Well the obvious question is... How can that be so? How can it be so?” she repeated, her hands outstretched, incredulity in every line of her body, “How can this country have less money now than it did just after the Second World War when we were virtually bankrupt? Yet at that time we could afford to establish the NHS which we are told today is too big to support.”

There were growls of support, and murmurs of ‘hands off our NHS’.

“The answer is simple, though you won’t find a single politician who will admit it, you won’t find one solitary MP who will tell the truth about the finances of the state and the reason is this; if they did then there would be a revolution.”

She turned to the panel and saw smiles of encouragement along the line, “It would be obvious to each and every one of us that the rich are sucking all the money out of our country before they desert us to live in their Caribbean paradises and we would REVOLT against it.”

The audience seemed shocked at the sudden vocal change on the word ‘revolt’, she’d seemed quite languid up until that point. Clearly she was more robust than she looked.

She took another sip of water, “Let’s consider how the process actually works or, should I say, is meant to work. Fact: Government has no money, any government has absolutely no money, for the simple reason that governments don’t make anything and they don’t sell anything. Ergo, everything they set in motion is a cost to the nation and it has to be paid for by the nation.” She paused and looked round the hall, “That’s where taxation comes in, that’s what taxation is all about, that’s why they take our money in the first place and why they take it in direct taxation, at source. The simple truth is that the government can only spend what it raises by way of taxation.” She paused again, “and it is a system that works or at least it worked in the past. However, in the last few decades those revenues have shrunk, the government has raised fewer funds via taxation.”

“Now, here…” she said, narrowing her eyes, trying to get her timing right, “here is where it all gets a bit murky or at least where they try to make it opaque so you won’t ask, why?....Why, at a time when there is more money than ever before floating around in the UK, when the number of UK billionaires stands at 73, and the country is richer than it’s ever been in its history, when there so many people in the country of working age, when there are more taxes foisted on us than ever before, why is it that the government says it doesn’t have the funding to carry on paying for things like the NHS?”

She stopped talking for a moment, obviously struggling, she drank from her glass and refilled it, then coughed, her emotional attachment to the argument becoming clear to all, “Why can’t we afford the social care bill? Why must we charge our children for the higher education that we had for free? We managed to afford it whilst we were still paying off the national debt for the Second World War, when there were fewer people in this country eligible to pay tax, when there were fewer taxes; no VAT for instance, less duty on petrol, cigarettes, alcohol. Why is it, that at a time when there was less money in the system as a whole, the government had more to spend than it does now, when there is more money in the system as a whole? Why? …Why?”

Marissa paused to look around the hall and waited for her words to settle into every corner, find a place in each mind. People started cheering and calling out “Why?”

She allowed the noise to peak before she started to wave for silence, “the answer’s simple, the answer’s obvious, logical, a child could tell you the answer yet we constantly allow the politicians to deceive us, to delude us, to lie to us, to paint a false picture for us. We let them tell us that we as a people are too greedy, that we have priced ourselves out of a job, that we expect too much of the NHS, that the NHS itself has become too expensive, that we pay too many people Social Benefits, that there are more old people weighing the state down with pensions, that we are a nation of scroungers living in million pound houses paid for by benefits, that we can’t compete with rising economic power houses like China and India but they LIE!”

More applause and cheering from the hall.

“They LIE, I tell you!” she thundered, her slight frame trembling, “They lie; and when you realise the truth you will be shocked at of the depth of duplicity involved, the magnitude of the sheer greed involved, the despotism it represents, the evil psychopathic nature it hides, the blatant manipulation that has been occurring, the involvement of the politicians, our politicians who are meant to represent the will, the wishes, the needs of the people, at the realisation that believing in the integrity of the political class is totally naive for they are by nature deceitful, scheming, egotistical, self serving tyrants.”
The audience was with her now; the applause self-sustaining, ripples dying away as new clapping started so that the effect was a constant sigh of sound.

She waved for quiet, “Back in the 50s there were rich people but they weren’t obscenely rich and there were poor people but they weren’t destitute. Everything was more equal; everyone paid tax and everyone paid their fare share, result, the government had more than enough money to spend. There was little personal debt, people took pride in owning what they had and many people lived in council houses or privately rented accommodation. That’s how it works when the money is evenly distributed, that’s how societies grow, and that’s how cultures develop. I’m not saying it was perfect but it appeared fair; and this continued and took us into the 60s.”

She glanced round the hall, noting the nods of agreement for her assessment of the situation in those times, “However by the early 70s the ordinary person was being encouraged to ‘buy’ their own home. The enthusiasm with which this was taken up was due partly to the lack of affordable rented accommodation, and partly to the promise of ownership. There was promulgation in 95% mortgages, a relaxation of checking mechanisms on actual earnings; the multipliers were relaxed to enable previously ineligible couples to borrow heavily.”

She took a breath and continued briskly, “By the late 70s we were starting to feel the pinch; old inefficient factories, competition from Japan and Germany who’d had massive post-war US investment in new ‘fit for purpose’ build. We’d had hospitals for so long those buildings needed replacement; the UK infrastructure needed reinvestment, revitalising, a little TLC. What we got in the 80s was a wicked evil person who said it was all the workers doing; it was they who were to blame for the lack of investment and the threats of foreign competition. She told everyone that there was no such thing as society; that it was everyone for him or herself; that the prize belonged to those best able to ‘get on their bikes’ and grasp it. This individualist premise was supported by a political determination to unpick the seams of society, to unravel the threads that hold people together, to break the bonds of unity that encourage generosity of spirit and altruism. Once that selfish argument took hold the weak became a sniveling millstone, the poor a grasping nuisance, the old an unloved burden. Added to that, the selloff of council houses had a two-fold effect reducing social housing stock and increasing home ownership amongst people to whom that level of debt had been hitherto unthinkable. Home became an investment rather than somewhere to put down roots and bring up a family; a ‘buy and sell’ commodity and we became nomadic in an attempt to attain wealth, more money-oriented and less family focused.”

She allowed a few moments for that to sink in, then continued, “Accompanying this permission to abandon societal ethics came de-regulation and authorisation to off shore manufacturing to countries unfettered by social conscience, where people were treated as slaves, where wages were insignificant, where rents were negligible, where a bribe could give the greatest financial returns to the most unscrupulous who were willing to profit from the suffering of others.”

She paused and scanned the hall, “So what are the lies that are the instruments of this deception? One such lie is that we priced ourselves out of the manufacturing market so that employers had no choice but to go abroad. NOT TRUE – there is always a choice - the choice to be made was between excessive profit and employment of your countryman, and PROFIT won out.”

Her face was stern, “Another lie they fobbed us off with for years was that the resultant millions, rendered unemployed when manufacturing was taken from this country, could be absorbed into a service based industry; that we could pay each other for doing service jobs for each other…self-evidently not true if you look at the numbers of long-term unemployed.”

She made a negating gesture with her hand, chopping it through the air, her tone scornful, “It was never the case that a service industry could support a nation, it has never been the case, it could never be the case and there is no working model which could ever prove the case, it’s a LIE! And they knew it to be a lie when they spun it.”

“And they told the lie to buy them time; time to build the infrastructure of their new economic empires in the 3rd world, to allow them to ensure they would have the mechanisms in place to guarantee them high returns on their investments when the economic structures started to collapse in the west, here in the UK. Over the years they have created a massive pool of unemployed, so much so that the benefits bill is astronomic, they reduced wages to the extent that a middle class family struggles to get by with two earners and has massive debt, where a middle class family in the 50s only required one wage earner and had no debt; this is what they have achieved.”

She paused, “And these unscrupulous rich, the evil 1%, are so greedy that they don’t want to pay tax on their incomes, they don’t want to contribute to the British nation so they off shore their bank accounts or they register as domiciled abroad in countries where the tax laws are more lenient and they can bribe officials. They do all this so they can keep all the money to themselves; so that they can have five mansions, with swimming pools, tennis courts and hundreds of acres of land, apartments in Paris and New York, villas in the Antibes. So that they can have million pound yachts, private jets, so they can own a fleet of the most expensive cars, they do all of this so that they can have lots of everything, more than any individual could ever use or ever need or ever really want and they do it so that they can have not just millions but billions.”

She took a deep breath, then continued her voice shaking, “They don’t care about world hunger, they don’t care that workers in their factories are suffering, they don’t care that a child dies every 3 seconds of a preventable disease, they don’t care about the unemployed, they don’t care about health care and education for the masses, they don’t care about social benefits for those less able …they care about themselves because as a self opinionated politician once said, ‘there is no such thing as society’.”

More applause from the hall.

“And the net result of their greed for the UK? less people working, less companies manufacturing, less exports even though the companies producing products in the 3rd world are British owned or British funded, with the greedy psychopathic 1% hoarding all of the money … there is less taxable money in the system.”

She took a moment to gain her breath, accepting the applause with a smile. Colin approached the table, whispered something in her ear, causing her to smile more broadly. He sat down again.

“I need to wrap this up,” she said, with a quick look of apology at the Panel, “I’ve overrun a bit …. So to finish, because most of the money is now in the hands of the greedy 1% and they have worked it so that they either don’t pay tax or they pay a negligible amount of tax, the government has less money. That’s why the government can’t afford the NHS, that’s why the government can’t afford the social benefits bill, that’s why libraries are closing, that’s why students have to pay for their own education, that’s why our troops, our sons and daughters are starved of equipment that could save their lives in the field, that’s why we have such a huge national debt, that’s why we have austerity.”

She took a last look round the hall, “And make no mistake, we are NOT in this together… politicians in the main are all independently wealthy, they rub shoulders with the rich and the super rich. Our politicians have had a taste of vast wealth and power and they want more; and because they want more they have sold out the 99% for their 30 pieces of silver, they have sold their souls for greed, but we will not let them get away with it!”

The hall erupted with applause and cheers.

Hope you enjoy the book and have a nice week

Cheers Arun