Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 28

Chapter 24 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

24

Old soldiers never die;
they just fade away.
Douglas MacArthur

They were sat around one of the tables in the communal dining area; several cups of coffee later their heart rates were up.

"Okay, leave this to me," said Wilf.

Watching him fish a dog-eared scrap of paper out of his trouser pocket and stand abruptly to go over to the public phone in the corner caused the rates to accelerate to dangerously high levels. Johnno in particular was finding it hard to breathe.

Wilf looked down at the paper each time he stabbed out a number; the movement was slow but held a level of aggression that added to the tension of the moment. He allowed the phone to ring three times before he hung up. He waited 2 minutes, checking his watch to ensure the timing then repeated the process, checking the number again against the paper in his hand. This time he waited 3 minutes before re-dialling, foot twitching. He looked over at the watching group as he listened to the ringing, his breathing heavy. A gruff voice answered, one he recognized instantly, shouting "Who the fuck is this? Stop ringing my phone, you bastard!" before hanging up.

Wilf was taken aback; then he remembered the others were watching, had probably heard the shouting if not the words, and nodded to indicate this was what he’d expected, "It's been some time," he said to them, by way of explanation. He phoned again.

"Who the fuck is this?" said the voice in his ear.

"It's Wilf," he said gruffly, cupping his hand round the mouthpiece and turning away from the watching group.

"Wilf who?"

He paused, then, "It's Dog," he muttered.

"Did you say dog?"

"Yeah, it's me, Dog." Louder now, exasperated.

"Dog?" mouthed Bill. Johnno and Pete shrugged and Ron pulled a comical face.

"Are you pullin' my chain, mate?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butcher," snapped Wilf, "it's me-e-e, Dog."

There was a brief silence on the end of the phone, then, "Oh fuck, not 'Mad Dog Murchison'?"

"Yeah," said Wilf, looking relieved, the others had begun to look a little concerned but Wilf felt his credibility was back.

"Fuckin' 'ell Dog…fort you was dead! How you keepin', mate?"

"I'm good Butch, but listen up, I need a meet."

"A meet?"

"Yeah, you know."

"What?" The tone was puzzled, no longer angry.

"I need a meet," said Wilf, "I need some stuff."

The others looked at each other, definitely uncharted waters for them. Wilf was struggling between the need to get through to his long time friend and comrade and maintain his cool in front of his worried and open-mouthed audience.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Dog? What kit?"

"Come on Butcher, stuff," said Wilf. He was starting to wish he was somewhere else; that he’d thought to make this call in private.

"What stuff?"

Wilf banged his head against the wall, "Butcher, hells bells, listen to me. Can we meet?"

"Not going well, is it," whispered Ron to Johnno, they all shook their heads.

"What d’you mean, meet?" said Butcher, "Where the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Best you don’t know," said Wilf, "but can we meet at the 'D & D'?"

"The what?" Butcher was shouting now.

"The fuckin' 'D & D'," yelled Wilf.

There was another silence, then, "Are you serious?"

"At last," said Wilf, blowing out a quick breath, turning to grin at the others.

"The 'D & D'," said Butch, "You mean like 'the old days'?"

"Hole in one," said Wilf, "Tomorrow."

Pete waved frantically at Wilf who turned his back on him.

"You want to meet at the 'D & D' tomorrow?"
Butcher was speaking slowly, but at least he was getting it.

Pete struggled out of his chair, moved across the floor towards Wilf, trying to hurry, but he’d been sitting too long and it was more of a hobble. He reached his side and tugged his sleeve.

"Like in the old days?" Butch was using a sing-song style which was starting to irritate Wilf and Pete pulling at his sleeve wasn’t helping. He gave Pete a 'fuck off' look and Pete mouthed the
words ‘pension day’. Wilf closed his eyes and put his palm to his forehead, "Shit." The others all nodded. "Wait a minute," said Wilf, into the mouthpiece, "tomorrow's no good, I need to pick up my pension tomorrow, make it Thursday."

"Who the fuck is this?"

"What?"

"Who is this?" repeated Butch, "Is this you Denny? Is this another of your fuckin' wind ups mate?"

"It's Dog, it's 'Mad Dog'." Wilf had forgotten to turn away from the group as he spoke and Johnno mouthed the words 'Mad Dog' to the others and their eyes visibly widened. Wilf heard Butch calling out to someone else in the room with him, "You're not gonna believe this I've got bloody Denny on the phone here, he's trying to wind me up, making out he's one of the guys from the old days," he laughed, "That fuckin' Denny."

"No," yelled Wilf, "Butch, it's me, 'Mad dog'."

"Yeah okay Dog," said Butch, "what you want then?
How about some assault rifles or some M16s or AK47s?" he snickered, "or maybe a couple of glocks?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butch," said Wilf, "Not on an open phone...they'll pick that up."

"Come on, Denny, stop pissing about," said Butch.

"Fuck," hissed Wilf, banging his head on the wall.

"What's wrong?" asked Bill, rising from the table.

"Nothing," snapped Wilf shoving his palm in Bill’s direction, "nothing. Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', from the old days."

"Yeah, right on," laughed Butch, "you can't carry this on, Den mate, you're blown."

"Butch," said Wilf, desperation in every fibre, "I didn't want to have to mention this but, Congo, 5 Commando, '64, you an' me, 3 weeks stuck in the bush surrounded by those bloody Simbas an' nothing to eat or drink ....'cept that bastard Richards."

There was silence on the other end, the guys round the table strained their ears to hear more.

"Mad Dog?" the voice was now a hushed reverent whisper.

"Yes." Finally, respect.

"It's really you?"

"Thursday," said Wilf, "down the D & D. Usual time."

"Usual time," said Butch, "wait a minute, Dog mate, are you serious? You seriously after stuff?"

"Yes."

"But....but.... I'm bloody retired, you prick."

"So?"

"So? Whaddya mean ‘so’?" said Butch, "I'm eighty fuckin' four, an' you must be the same, what the fuck you on about? What do you need stuff for?"

"Got a mission," said Wilf, "can't talk now, the busies might be listening in, talk on Thursday, down the 'D...."

"Are you fuckin' senile or something? You got a job on, an' the busies might be listening… what the fuck you talkin' about, the bloody busies aren't going to be listening to me, are they? I can barely cross the room without needin' a bloody piss, what the fuck you talkin' about?"

"Thursday," said Wilf before hanging up.

"Well?" said the others in unison.

"It's on," said Wilf.

Cheers for reading

Arun







More in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions




 

Chapter 23 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

23

This multicultural approach, saying that we simply live side by side and live happily with each other has failed. Utterly failed.
Angela Merkel

The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."

He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none.
I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."

He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."
He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"

He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."

"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.

"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this," He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."

There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity.
But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"

He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."

He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people
into adopting our culture, our philosophy."

He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."

He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."

He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case.
The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."

He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."

He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."

He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."

He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."
 
Cheers

Arun








More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Chapter 22 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

22

The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven't changed in 70 or 80 years. Your body changes, but you don't change at all.
Doris Lessing

"It's been a long time, Margo," said Mackie, leaning back and appraising her under bushy eyebrows.

They were ensconced in a booth at the back of the pub, in a semi lit corner, affording a modicum of privacy. Both had contrived to sit with their backs to the wall, whilst still managing to maintain a professional distance from one another. Mags had forgotten quite how much space Mackie occupied, not as bulky as he was once yet he was still an imposing figure. She was glad she'd taken the trouble and dressed for the assignation, pulling out all the stops in her favourite royal blue shirtwaister that made the best of what nature had given her and what superb foundation under-garments helped her maintain.

Mags ducked her head in acknowledgment, strangely affected by the use of her proper name; she’d dropped Margo fifteen years ago, when she'd moved into Eden Hall, along with her previous persona, "Twenty five years and 3 months, give or take a few days."

"You’ve been counting," he said, with a familiar raise of the eyebrows, a tease.

"Not at all,” she replied pertly, “I checked before I came out."

He allowed the lie to stand, "Do you miss it?"

"Always."

"Moi aussi," he said after a brief pause.

She ignored the French, he did that to disconcert people, “Do you keep in touch with the others?"

"All dead." His response was succinct. She was surprised, they were all similarly aged so she had expected a few others to be still clinging to life. "Strains of the job," he murmured, seeing she wanted more, the lie slipping easily off his tongue, “weigh more heavily on some than others."

"I see," she said, a little concerned that maybe all their deaths hadn't been of quite natural causes, "nothing untoward in their departing, I hope."

He lifted his brows again, and tilted his head on one side, waiting until she broke her gaze, then, "And how are things with you?"

"Fine, I’m fine, and how about you, Mackie and erm... Rose?"

"You know perfectly well her name was Ruth," said Mackie.

"Ruth, that's it," said Mags, "how is she?"

"No idea," said Mackie, "left me years ago, took the children and emigrated; Australia, married a sheep farmer from what I could gather."

"Really?" said Mags, "A sheep farmer. Do they have sheep farmers down there still?"

"Apparemment," he replied, subject closed. "Did you want a sandwich or something?"

"Actually, if you don’t mind, they do a lovely Ploughman's here," said Mags.

"Ploughman's it is then," said Mackie strolling off to the bar, then the toilet.

Whilst he was gone Mags made a quick search of his coat, finding nothing.

Mackie returned with more drinks, "The food will be along shortly." He glanced at his coat. "Did you find anything of any use?"

She sipped her drink, "No, but then you knew I wouldn't."

"So now, tell me Margo, what is it that you've dragged me all the way down here for?"

"I think I'm going to need your help."

"In what regard?"

"Well, I have some friends down here, where I live...."

"The 'Eden Hall Retirement Village'," said Mackie, emphasising the village part of the title.

"Yes," answered Mags, not bothering to ask how he knew, "I've grown rather fond of them...."

"D'entre eux?” His face was a study in nonchalance, “Or of someone in particular?"

"Of them," she said firmly. Mackie was a dear old friend, once somewhat more than that, but she would never trust him with details of a personal nature, you just never knew how things would be interpreted or which side of the fence he actually sat on.

Mackie nodded and sipped his drink, the food arrived and they waited whilst the waitress sorted the table out to accommodate the over-large plates.

"Anyway," said Mags, idly watching the retreating back and wondering at the skill and indefatigable nature required to be on your feet all day and keep smiling, "as I say, I've become quite attached to my friends," she bit off a piece of cheese, chewed slowly, "the thing is, they've become a little, how can I say this, disillusioned, with the state of the country at the minute."

"I think everyone is a little disillusioned," said Mackie, wincing as the acidity of the onion found his ulcer, “but to be honest Margo, I don't really see that's a reason to....."

"Of course not," said Mags, interrupting him, "you don't think I've brought you out of hiding and all the way down here just because a few old folk have become disillusioned, do you?"

He waited in silence, the expression one of controlled patience.

"That's the cause of the problem," said Mags, "but it's not the reason I need your help."

There was a silence whilst she worked on a way to phrase it.

"Well, there's just no other way to say this, basically, they've decided that the state has failed them and they have to go to war to clean up the streets."
Mackie stared at her; she was pleased to have been able to surprise him. "To drive the foreigners out, they intend to go to war."

Mackie shook his head, then tried to hide his smirk behind a slice of French bread but it wasn't possible.
He started to laugh.

"Mackie," said Mags, "I'm serious."

"Of course you are,” he managed, still laughing.

"This is not funny, Mackie." Mags assumed her school mistress face.

"They intend to go to war," said Mackie, struggling to swallow his laughter, "your old codger friends intend to go to war."

"Yes," said Mags, evenly.

"With whom exactly do they intend to go to war?" asked Mackie.

"Well, that's just it," said Mags, "they intend to attack the Muslim community."

Mackie was dabbing the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, "How?" he asked, "A bunch of old men?"

"They were all in the military," stated Mags, keeping quiet on the subject of the women for now, "well, most of them, and they all have some form of expertise."

"Expertise?" He’d stopped laughing now, "Most of them are older than me, for Christ’s sake. How can they expect to do anything?"

"They've had military training," said Mags. She'd noticed he seemed to have quite a bit of background information and wondered for how long he had been keeping tabs on her.

"But that was years ago, Margo," said Mackie, "how can they possibly hope to get in and out of any target area at their age?"

Mags bit a piece of cucumber, "Think about it, Mackie, after all you were meant to be the brains of the outfit."

"Look Margo, we go back a long way, you and me, and in some ways, I owe you, I don't deny that... but this doesn't concern me, it barely concerns you, if you're honest."

She held her nerve, waited him out, eyes on his, putting everything she had into the look. He fidgeted and she knew she had him; it would still take time but he was hooked, he just didn't know it yet.

"Besides which," he continued, "I have absolutely no idea how they intend to get close enough to their targets and then get out again...." he paused, frowned, "unless... they don't intend to get out again."

"Mackie," said Mags, patting her mouth with her napkin, "they're old, as you said, we're old, and the rest of our lot are already dead. We're dying just sitting here; in fact one of us might drop dead whilst we're sitting here."

Mackie cast a quick glance down at his drink. She could see his mind working, sifting through the possibilities.

"Don't be melodramatic," said Mags, "no-one's poisoned your drink.” She smiled then, a ghost of the old Margo lighting her face, “Although it’s good to know you still think me capable.”

He moved his hand across the table, covering hers for a moment and looked into her eyes, searching for motive and understanding.

“Mackie, trust me, it’s as simple as it sounds. They're old and they’re angry and they’re ex-soldiers. They’re sick of watching Muslims blowing themselves up in civilian areas and well, what’s good for the goose...."

"They're going to blow themselves up in a Muslim community?"

"No, not that, but they do intend to go on the rampage to drive the foreigners out. Enough to make a political statement and one of the statements is that they're not too old to do something about this mess."

"I see."

"Good," said Mags, relaxing, "so you'll help me."

"Help you dissuade them, you mean?"

"No," said Mags, disappointment etching new lines, "of course not, what makes you think that? I just said I need your help."

"What help?" he sat back from her, crossing one leg over the other, forcing her to lean towards him to keep the conversation going.

"We both know that the country's in a mess."

"Everyone knows that, Margo."

"Yes, but we know why," said Mags, "at least you do. I only have a rough idea, but you were at the top so you know the bigger picture."

"Margo." He was shaking his head, looked ready to up and leave.

"Come on, Mackie, admit it, they've got a point and they have the right to fight back."

"Are you crazy?” his voice was a hiss of irritation. “Fight back? Against whom?"

"Now you’re getting to it."

"Look Mags," he stopped, took a breath, then continued, "there is no-one to fight back against. It's just something that is happening and it can't be stopped. Call it what you will, social evolution, progress, it cannot be stopped."

"Can't it?" said Mags, not in the least convinced, "Are you really saying it is natural social evolution that has brought us to this point."

"Yes." He was getting drawn in despite himself; he’d always enjoyed sparring with her and age hadn’t softened her mettle.

"I don't think so and I know you know so,"

"What on earth does that mean, Margo?" said Mackie.

"Look Mackie, I'm not stupid, I know that we little soldiers just go around doing as we're bid, that we live in a lower physical world to the powers that be, the ones who control everything...."

"Oh don't give me that," said Mackie, "please, don't go all Illuminati on me."

"It's not the Illuminati is it, or the Masons, I mean you can call them whatever, it's always just a trick anyway, to give them a name I mean, we both know that there are those who hold all the power, those who control everything, those who rule the planet and then there's the rest of us, the ones who do as we were meant to do."

"Margo," said Mackie, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I think you've been reading too many of the wrong books."

"No need for books, Mackie. You don’t think I didn't know what was going on all those years? That the things we were doing were designed to have the outcomes that emerged."

Mackie sipped his drink, his eyes watchful under beetling brows, "This is not a good idea, Margo."

"Oh, look Mackie, I told you, I like my friends, if this is going to result in a negative outcome for me, well I'm old and yes I've had a good life...”

"This is crazy, Margo," said Mackie, "can you hear yourself?"

“I can understand if you're still in the game, or that somehow you feel conscience bound to defend them or perhaps you're really one of them, what do I know?...”

“Get a grip of yourself, Margo, you’re rambling and it’s past being entertaining.”

She had tears in her eyes now, “All I want from you is that you help me guide my friends onto the right targets, so we don't punish the wrong people."

"But we're old Margo, we're old and past it."

"But that doesn't mean we don't care, does it? It doesn't mean we don't still love England, does it?"

"England?" He was grinning now, she’d reached him somehow.

"Oh, I’m sorry, of course, you're Scottish… well, that’s another thing, breaking up Britain, that's part of their plan too, isn't it, to weaken us, make it so that the British race is no longer a challenge, but a challenge to who?"

"To whom," he said, under his breath, "look Margo, you have to know what you're asking. You’ll be killed …all of you...they'll..."

"I thought I made it clear, dear Mackie, we're old and we're ready to die, so what difference does it make?"

"Put like that, none I guess, but you've got to understand, things aren't as simple as they were in our day."

"I gather that," she'd softened her tone, the gentleness adding to the intimacy, "but I also know we fought for a cause, we did what we did for
Britain and the Empire, but what are they fighting for now? What's the game now, Mack?"

"I need to think for a bit," said Mackie.

"No, that's the last thing you need to do."

Mackie raised his eyebrows, head tilted back, eyes taking on an amused glint. For a second she saw the man he used to be in that gesture, the man she had once loved and who had once loved her.

"If you think, you'll find reasons not to help, you'll find some form of justification in their actions, you'll avoid your true emotions, your true feelings."

"Oh no, not feelings, Margo," sighed Mackie.

"Why do you think any of us got in the game in the first place? Do you think it was the life? Do you think we yearned for the cloak and dagger world? No, we did it for our love of our country, for the love of our nation, out of loyalty, out of national pride....."

"And that's how they used you Margo," said Mackie, "and the others, because you allowed your emotions to rule your minds. If you'd thought about what was going on for just one minute then you'd have seen where it was all leading."

"Well, we didn't, did we," said Mags, "and you’re to blame for that, aren't you, you and people like you who sold us the lie that everything we did was for country when in reality we were no longer playing a national game but were serving the new global aristocracy in their clamour for more and more wealth and power."

"I see you've had time to think things through a little," said Mackie.

"What's the benefit of hindsight if you can't do something with it?"

"Maybe I don't want to change things," said Mackie, "maybe I like the way things are turning out."

"If I believed that to be true I wouldn't have reached out to you," said Mags, "I know you were as idealistic as the rest of us when you started out, I was there remember, besides, I think I got to know you quite well."

He raised his glass, "Here's to that," he smiled.

"I need you to help me explain to my friends what's really going on, who the enemy really is." said Mags.

"And you think they'll believe me," said Mackie.

"We'll they're more likely to believe you than me," said Mags.

"Oh, like that is it?" said Mackie.

"I've been lying low these past years," said Mags, "as far as they're concerned all I do is volunteer, do good works and make Angel cake."

"Angel cake? What the hell is Angel cake?"

Mags ignored the question, "I need you to explain the global nature of our problem and we need a strategy that might have a chance of winning."

"Then you're mad," said Mackie, "for one thing most people can't begin to understand let alone believe the size of the conspiracy and as for a strategy that can defeat them, well, it's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because they'll just adapt it to take advantage of whatever else happens, don't you get it Margo, you can't stop them, you only slow them down or deflect them a bit but you can never stop them achieving their goal."

"I disagree," said Mags, "and the Mackie I knew would never accept defeat before he'd even played a stroke."

"For one thing this isn't cricket and for another, what on earth makes you think I agree with you? I could still be with them, I could be sitting on a nice big fat cheque for all you know."

"You could," said Mags, "but then I still remember what you said to me when I first joined."

"Really?"

"You said to me, 'If we don't, who will?'"

"Great," said Mackie, "not exactly original, or overly powerful."

"No, but at the time it was, at the time when we were facing nuclear threat from the communists or backdoor betrayal by our so called allies, it was powerful then, to me."

He sipped his drink, "So is this what this is? A question of 'if we don't who will?'" He knocked back the rest, "You know, Margo," he said, his mind made up, "I'm pleased we had this chat."

Mags bit into her tomato.

"Very pleased," said Mackie, "I miss the game but it would be fun to see someone upset their plans, even if only for a short time, yes, that would be fun."

"So you'll help me?"

"I'll be in touch," said Mackie, "but don't expect too much."

Cheers

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions




 

Chapter 21 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

21

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.
Margaret Mead

He ran towards Captain Younghusband, holding his rifle aloft and shouting vigorously, but the movement only served to exacerbate his need to pee, "Where are the latrines?"

"Come on, men!" yelled Younghusband, waving his sword, "We can still fight our way out of this. Maintain tight formation and let's make a move to the ridge."

"Over there, Alb," said a soldier, looking remarkably like Gerry, "but the bloody Zulus are everywhere, hold onto it, man."

"I can't," answered Alb, "I really have to go."

"Come on men!" Younghusband urged them on up the slope; tightly packed, bayonets out and holding the black swarm at bay.

Slowly the small red pocket of troops made its way across the Isandhlwana slopes, passing mutilated bodies of their fallen comrades; all around them buzzed Zulus. Alb found himself in the centre of the formation, with the walking wounded. "I really need to go," he muttered to a man with a savage wound in his chest.

He stopped at a huge rock that had appeared in front of him, and clambered on to it. Off to the right he saw a small cluster of men, "Lt. Pope!" he shouted, "Lt. Pope, are the latrines over there?" but no-one answered.

"Get down from there!" yelled Younghusband, "Stop messing around, if you need to piss then piss where you stand."

Suddenly the whole battle stopped and everyone stared menacingly at Alb, "Ugh, But I really do need to go," moaned Alb to thirty thousand heads, all shaking in disapproval.

"What do we do, Albert?" asked Younghusband.

"I don't know," said Alb, "if only I could find somewhere to pee then I could think straight."

"Go where you are and that's an order!" yelled Younghusband, "ready men, CHARGE!"

Alb struggled to free himself from wet and cold entanglements, realising with a sense of miserable humiliation that he'd wet the bed.

∞

"Thing is," said Pete, taking the opportunity of a lull in the game's flow to air his irritation, "I heard that one in four kids are born to foreigners, now that really annoys me."

They'd got together over a game of bridge - Bill and Pete partnering up against Ron and Johnno, with Wilf interrupting and generally being a nuisance. Unusual for Bill and Ron to be at the same table but thus far it was working quite well.

"Good point," mused Johnno, "although of course, in the old days we had big families. My mum was one of seven and her mum was one of thirteen, would you believe. But nowadays we just have the 2 .6 we're supposed to have whereas....”

“…the Catholics and Muslims have loads," Pete finished his sentence for him.

"Not all Catholics are foreigners," said Bill, stiffly, eying Pete sternly over his cards, "I'm a Catholic."

"I mean East European Catholics," said Johnno, "you know, Poles and Irish and that."

"The Irish aren't East European," said Bill, scathingly.

"Might as well be," said Wilf, "they hate this country."

"Yeah, the enemy within, waiting over the border," said Ron, never one to pass up the opportunity to annoy Bill.

"There's nothing wrong with Catholics," said Bill, rising to the bait, "my family has always served this country well."

"That's as maybe," said Pete, "but you can't deny that Catholics have always wanted to take over, the Gunpowder Plot and all that. Somewhere there's always a Catholic plotting."

"Apparently Mohammed has replaced Jack as the most popular English name," said Wilf inconsequentially.

"I think Alb's right," said Johnno, laying a card, "our parents and grandparents defended this country against foreign invasion but somehow we've let the politicians mess things up."

"I agree," said Bill, "and dare I say it, Enoch Powell seems to have got it right."

"Exactly," said Johnno, "he might’ve been a bit ahead on the timing but in the long run …."

"Did he put timing on it?" asked Wilf, shuffling round the table looking at all their cards.

Pete frowned, “He said there’d be rivers of blood, didn’t he?"

"For which they called him a racist," said Johnno.

"I think he said other stuff," offered Ron, "like black faces and stuff."

"So?" said Bill, "he was still right, wasn't he? We've had the recent riots that started over some black kid.
And we had the rioting back in the 80's, you know Toxteth and that... what about when they hacked that copper up?"

"Yep," said Pete, "bloody savages, would never have happened if they hadn't been let in here in the first place." His voice had risen and the hand holding his cards was shaking. The next stage would be acute breathlessness if he didn't calm down and they were all aware of it.

"See your point, Pete, but don't let it get to you...” Johnno was the only one allowed to allude to Pete's affliction, suffering as he did from a long established 'dicky' heart.

“We started it off letting Sikhs get away without wearing helmets ‘cause of their turbans,” said Ron, idly fiddling with his cards.

"Now we have to pander to their every whim,”
Pete’s breathing was growing ragged, but he had a point to make, “Like, what can we call them these days? Are they black or are they coloured?"

"Well, if they weren't here, it wouldn't be an issue, would it?" said Bill.

"Exactly," said Johnno, "so Enoch was right after all."

"Course he was," said Wilf, stoutly, "I've seen ‘em in action, don't forget, in the Congo."

Johnno continued, his own temper rising, “And then there's the Muslims - if they're not blowing us up, then they're despoiling white girls - once they get to doing their Sharia law thing god alone knows where we'll be."

"But what can we do about it?" Pete’s voice had lost the vigour that outrage had bestowed, "I mean, look at us, I can barely breathe, and Bill...there's your gout and your piles," he took a quick breath whilst Bill looked to the ceiling, "Johnno's got his heart and....."

“Exactly," said Ron, cutting him off before he could enlighten the others as to his own ailments, "so what does Alb think we're going to do? We're hardly in any fit condition, any of us, are we?"

"Yeah," agreed Johnno, "anyone of us could drop dead at any time."

They paused and checked each other out, to see if they could identify which of them was most likely to drop dead in the next few minutes.

"But that's the whole point," said Bill, stiffening his spine and ignoring the pain in his foot, "it won't matter if we're killed 'cause we're all pretty close to our maker as it is."

"That bit makes sense," said Pete, "but I can barely walk across the room without needing to sit down."

"If we could come up with an idea that didn't require anything too physically demanding then maybe we could do something." Bill’s voice was wistful; his eyes had taken on a far-away glaze.

They sat in silence for a few contemplative moments, thinking of better days.

Wilf made a throat clearing noise and muttered, "Jonesey was a sniper with the Paras, and
I'm not a bad shot."

Ron looked up from his cards, "Eh? What’s that?"

"We'd just need to set up a hide somewhere and we could pick 'em off all day."

"Pick who off?" Ron’s tone was shrill and argumentative, “an’ what’s a hide, when it’s at home?”

Bill had caught on, "If you were in the back of a van or something, then we could move you around, you wouldn't get caught and we could increase the number of targets."

"Sounds good to me," said Wilf, his glance at Bill showed new respect.

"Sorry, have I missed something?" Ron looked quickly round the room; they still had it to themselves. "I know Alb's been on about us killing people but I thought it was just talk..."

"You think we could do something then?" Pete said, hope rising.

"Hey, sorry to be a party pooper an' all that but where’d we get a van let alone a bloody rifle?"

“Getting a gun is easy,” Wilf brushed Ron's objections aside, “It's getting away with killing people that’s the hard bit."

Ron fell silent, looking from face to face, weighing what he thought he knew about them with the strangers who now sat in front of him.

Wilf had been damaged by his Congo experience so he wasn’t surprised by his comments. He knew Johnno had reactionary ideas but not like this. He'd never liked Bill but liked him even less now that his expression had hardened. Pete had always seemed a bit bland but it seemed now that it might have been simply self-preservation around his breathing problems.

"We could get them from an arms dealer," Wilf said calmly into the silence.

They lifted their heads from quasi contemplation of their cards to stare at him, Ron’s voice rose, "An arms dealer? And I suppose you’re going to tell us you know an arms dealer?"

"Let's just say I know people, from the old days,”
Wilf’s face had assumed a stony look, his blue eyes now unnervingly cold. "Won't be cheap though, kit like the stuff we need always comes with a high price tag."

"Well, we’ve got money," said Bill, a wry smile on his face, "That's about all we've got left, isn't it."

"I was going to leave mine for the kids," said Ron, his voice bitter.

"Are they the same kids who let you move in here instead of offering you a room with them?" asked Wilf.

"I didn't want to move in with them," he lied, "I like my freedom."

"The kids don't need our money," said Johnno, placidly, "besides there won't be much left by the time we die, will there? What with the price of this place."

"I could put some feelers out," Wilf seemed keen, his mind already on the task.

"Shouldn't we check with Alb and Gerry first?" asked Ron, stalling.

"Why?" asked Wilf, "they might have brought it up but that doesn't necessarily mean they're in charge, they've not got my military background."

"Infantry, both of them," said Bill, conscious of his own, hitherto unspoken, field promotion.

Pete and Johnno lifted their shoulders, neither of them willing to get into an argument with Wilf.

"Let me find some prices first, and then we'll take it back to the group. They’ll soon see who’s really in charge."

"I'm not sure we need to worry about that," said Johnno, when push came to shove they’d both known Alb and Gerry for years, and Alb had always been the leader.

"Rubbish," said Wilf, deliberately misunderstanding his meaning, "you'll get people wandering off doing their own thing, it'll be bedlam."

"Like us you mean," blurted Ron.

"Not at all," said Wilf, "'cause clearly we know what we're doing."

Cheers

Arun






More from the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions



 

Chapter 20 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

20

The chief value of money lies in the fact that one lives in a world in which it is overestimated.
H. L. Mencken

The Preacher strode onto the stage. He appeared to be extremely agitated, rubbing his hands and pulling at his hair. Barry was rubbing his hands as well although for entirely different reasons; the theatre was now full, even with people standing in the aisles.

There was a buzz of anticipation.

"I can't stand it any longer!" The voice was a scream. "The insanity of it all, it's tearing into my brain," he fell to his knees, "it's totally insane yet I seem to be the only one who sees it, how can that be?" Barry was imagining this on the big screen, a real crowd pleaser.

"'Cause you're a nutter," yelled someone from the back, clearly not a follower, just there for the spectacle. He was hushed by several people close to him and subsided quickly.

"You say that!" said the Preacher latching onto the comment, standing up, arms held high, "but am I? Am I the insane one? Think on it for a moment. Here, let me help you," he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and held it up, "If you can't quite see what this is it's a ten pound note. All of you, if you have paper currency get it out of your wallets or your purses, please, do it now, for me."

He waited whilst most of the audience did as he bid, though a few of them, Barry noted, studiously ignored the entreaty.

"Okay, let's see what we have here, look what it says at the top, 'I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of ten pounds'," he was now striding around the stage, "that's what it says, I promise to pay the bearer ten pounds." He stopped in his tracks and asked, "But tens pounds of what?"

"Money, you idiot," yelled the same heckler. There was a bit of a scuffle as those nearest turned on him. It was all over in a moment and peace was restored.

"Money?" questioned the Preacher, "What is money? I know what gold is, I know what silver is and I know what diamonds are. But what exactly is money?"

"It's how we value things," said someone in the front row, not barracking, more conversational, "to make exchange easy."

"Exactly," said the Preacher, nodding appreciatively, "it's sole function is to make exchange of products simpler, so you don't go away with half a chicken or something."

He left a pause, allowing them to think on it, then said, "But tell me, if it's only a means of exchange how did the rich manage to buy the world with it?"

There was a general silence as people considered his words.

"We all know that 97% of the money in the world doesn't exist and that's thanks to Fractional Reserve Banking, or should I say fictional reserve banking."

He grinned at his own joke, his smile partly hidden by his hair, "Money is no longer attached to the Gold Standard, therefore, it isn't based on anything. So when it says, 'I promise to pay the bearer on demand ten pounds,' I have to ask, ten pounds of what?"
Silence.

"The world is owned by the rich shareholder, the rich superstar, the rich industrialist, the rich aristocracy."
He was now marching around the stage, "It doesn't matter who or what they are, if they're rich then they own a part of the world, but they only own it because they've got lots of money. Which means they own part of the 97% of the world’s fictional money, the pretend money that only exists on a computer." He stopped abruptly and stared out at the audience, "Which means that if they cashed in their fictional nonexistent money they'd get something like this ten pound note offering to pay the bearer the sum of ten pounds of nothing." He held the note aloft, "Which means the rich have managed to buy the entire world with paper nothing that has a value of nothing and we've let them do it."

Now he had their attention. Some were visibly struggling to rationalise the process but his words had made immediate sense to some others.

"We even support them in the notion because we have bought into the idea that through home ownership we too can own a small part of the world.
Not only that, but we believe that by investing in a house and spending massive sums on home improvements we can increase our money and buy a better house and that by this simple process we too can become wealthy, by this process we can escalate ourselves up some social ladder of prosperity."

There were several nods in the audience.

"You nod but do you really understand?" he pressed. "By buying into the process, by accepting our pitiful little houses as some sort of investment in this crazy system we have not only supported the concept that the rich can buy the world with valueless paper but we have also accepted our own lowly place in the system."

Several blank faces greeted his final words.

"They have bought the world with the promise to pay nothing to anyone. We have accepted this and our place because they have told us that we too can own something if we play by the rules. But those rules are designed to keep us on the lowest rung of this fictional ladder and we tolerate this, worse, because we're all snobs, we've propagated the idea and now we all believe it is imperative for us to get onto the property ladder."

He waited for their response but there was none beyond uncomfortable shuffling and throat clearing.

"For Christ's sake!" yelled the Preacher, unusually angry. "In the past our ancestors found a plot of land and built their own home, with as many rooms as they wanted, what is wrong with us?"

"You can't just build your own home," yelled a voice from the back.

"You're right, we can't. They have created laws against it, but they can buy the world with a worthless piece of paper which we are obliged to respect. Consider this... a man buys a patch of land....."

"Why's it got to be a man?" shouted a female voice.

"Forgive me," said the Preacher, "a woman buys a 100 acre plot of land with fictional money promising to pay the bearer ten million pounds of nothing. She builds a house and puts up a private property sign and everyone obeys the instruction to keep out.
However this applies only to humans, no other living creature or organism feels obliged to keep out, why?"

"Because they can't read," shouted a joker.

"You can't tell an ant that the rich own the land it's walking on, you can't tell a bird not to land on a rich person's house, you can't tell a fox, a mouse, a rat, a rabbit, a frog or a hedgehog that it can't cross a certain piece of land because it is owned by someone, you can't tell them because they are free from the artificial constructs that bind us. They don't accept the concept that another living organism can keep a patch of land for themselves simply by promising to pay the bearer nothing for the right so to do. You can only tell this to humans because we have been seduced into thinking that somehow we have benefited from the trade off."

He turned and walked around a bit, then he shrugged, dropped the ten pound note to the floor and walked off stage.

Cheers

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium edition




 

Chapter 19 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

19

Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.
Mahatma Gandhi

"That went well, didn't it?" Alb was stretched out on his sofa, feet up, book laying open across his stomach, slippers on, completely relaxed.

The shed had cleared quicker than even Wilf had dared hope, shoving as he did from behind, screaming ‘rats’ every time anyone looked like slowing down. The 'ladies first' concept had gone out the window yet despite this Val had made sure she was out in record time. Miraculously no-one had been seriously hurt in the stampede, although the same couldn't be said for the deckchair and some of Jonesey's vegetables. Mags had retained her dignity, helping Johnno to his feet and allowing him to lean on her as they followed the trail of destruction.
Alb and Gerry had been last to leave, making desultory efforts to clear up although how you could make a shed full of tat look anything other than abandoned it was hard to see.

"I thought it did, yes," Gerry looked no less comfortable than Alb, installed as he was in a reclining wing armchair with his feet on a pouffé, a leather one this time rather than the velvet brocade Ken favoured.

"Kill a banker, has a certain ring to it..." Alb murmured.

"Has indeed..." Gerry was slipping to sleep, eyes closing, breathing slowing.

"Perhaps it was Suez," said Alb, his voice suddenly loud, alert. "What do you think? I think we lost a lot of credibility in the world with that little fiasco and it made us look weak in front of the kids."

Gerry pulled himself back from the brink of sleep with difficulty. Alb wanted to talk so talk they would. "What about Northern Ireland?" he offered, adjusting the recliner to make conversation easier, “What with all the rioting an' that... that would've unsettled kids as well."

"How so?" Alb was intrigued.

"Well, watching a bunch of Irish Catholic thugs throwing stones at our troops, made the army look
powerless, not good for morale. Lenny talks about it a lot from when he was over there, and I always felt it had a negative effect on people, probably lead to all that mods and rockers stuff."

"See your point," said Alb, "first steps in destroying our national pride. Should've let us smash the bastards, invade the Republic."

"Exactly," said Gerry, "if it'd been Israel or America they'd have invaded."

"Of course they would," said Alb, "hell, if it'd been Israel they'd have bombed Dublin."

"America would've dropped the Bomb," said Gerry, escalating happily.

Alb frowned, "It's our bloody leaders who're soft on foreign policy. I thought they were meant to protect the nation. That's where Thatcher did us proud though, she sure showed them Argies."

"Damn right," said Gerry, comfortably, "put us back on the map."

"But now, it's like we don't have a society anymore," said Alb.

"Well, it was Maggie that said there was no such thing," Gerry reminded him.

"Yeah I know, but there used to be, didn't there."

They fell silent for a while, in contemplation, Gerry just drifting back to sleep when Alb spoke again, "Greed, foreigners, Common Market, recession, TV, gay marriage...take your pick."

Gerry was instantly awake and angry, "Gay - hah! I can still remember what that word used to mean."

"It's as if they've actively been working on the destruction of our values," said Alb, his tone matching the despair of his words, "they've destroyed the social shape of the nation."

"I swear they'll wipe us from the map, and then they'll rewrite history so we never even existed," said Gerry, who, as always when he became agitated for any length of time, felt his face growing tight as it reddened alarmingly, his heart thumping.

"They're doing it already," said Alb, "my son and his mates never learnt about British history, not about the empire, they did the Romans and the Tudors but when it got to the empire they skipped it and went onto American history, and that was just the history between the wars."

Gerry was quiet, making a deliberate effort to slow down his responses, calm his racing heart.

He noted Alb’s reference to Colin, his only child, but didn’t pick up on it. The boy had broken Alb’s heart a long time ago, emigrated, and to Germany of all places and Gerry had no time for him.

"Colin went on about it at the time," said Alb, "he was into military history and was disappointed when they didn't do the 18th and 19th centuries, wanted me to write a letter of complaint."

"Did you?" Gerry was curious, having not heard the tale before.

"No, should've done now I think back on it, just didn't think it mattered that much at the time."

"Probably wouldn't have made any difference," offered Gerry, still maintaining his study in calm.

"It's not just that, Gerry, it's all the other stuff, the other things we let go, the things they did to us that we never argued against, always pushing us and we were always just giving way on them."

"Yeah, like taking us into the Common Market without asking us in the first place." Gerry's heart was back to normal, the high colour no longer infusing his face so he felt comfortable essaying a mild comment or two.

"And going metric, and bringing the West Indians and Punkawallahs in," said Alb.

"…and allowing the East Europeans in to take our jobs."

"You only have to watch the bloody adverts to get an idea of what I'm talking about," said Alb, "virtually every advert has a foreigner or a black in it, like they're everywhere, when they're not...these adverts aren't representative, they're biased."

"But I thought we said they’re everywhere, Alb, isn't that what this is all about?"

"Well yeah, they are everywhere," said Alb, "but there's not as many of them as they're trying to make us believe."

"Not with you," said Gerry, the need to sleep dragging down his eyelids.

"I'll make it simple - London is full of blacks, the Midlands full of Muslims and the South is full of East Europeans. They're told where to settle when they arrive, so they blanket the area, change the culture, religion and language of the place, like Southampton with all the mosques, and if you live in any of those places you're in the minority and powerless to change it. We're still the majority in the whole country but it doesn't feel like it."

"But why'd they do it, Alb? Why would they let it happen?"

"I don't know Gerry old mate," said Alb, "but I'm not
going to stand for it, if I have to I'll die trying to stop them."

Gerry nodded, no need for words, Alb knew where he stood.

"I've been too busy in my own little world, worried about god knows what, but now it's different, I can see clearly..."

Gerry waited for the next bit, knowing Alb there had to be a next bit but he was quiet for so long Gerry thought maybe he'd fallen asleep.

"....but then I could always see it, you know, Gerry, I always knew what was happening but I was either too lazy or too scared to do anything about it...”

"I know what you mean..."

"But not now, now I don't care what they say or do to me, I'm going to do something, I'm going to make them sit up and pay attention."

"Yeah," said Gerry, voice thick with sleep, "that's fighting talk, Albie, let's get them."

∞

Mags slipped out into the Rose Garden, checked no-one was nearby and pulled her mobile out of the pocket of her dress. She dialled the number from memory.

It rang once and was answered, a gruff "Hello," muttered by a voice she recognised immediately.

"It's me." Old habits die hard and maintaining anonymity still felt important.

Silence, then "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't call this number ."

"We did," said Mags, refusing to let the cold tone throw her off track, "but I need your help."
Silence.

"Could you meet me at the 'Dog and Duck'? It’s the nearest pub I know."

"When?"

"Do you need direc....?”

"Not necessary," his voice held a hint of a smile, "I know where you are."

"Okay, lunch time, Wednesday?"

"Jusque-là" he said, hanging up.

It took her a moment to realise he’d agreed.

Cheers for reading

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' Series















Compendium editions

Chapter 18 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

18

“A small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission can alter the course of history.”
Mahatma Gandhi


"What's this, a mother's meeting?" asked Harry, poking his head round the shed door with difficulty. He looked back over his shoulder, "Here, Sticky, I told you they was having a secret meeting, didn't I."

"Not very secret, clearly," said Alb, a deep line of irritation scoring his forehead. This meeting of the Great and Good was turning out to be the worst kept secret of the decade. "How many you got out there?"

"Just me and the lads, we've been up the cemetery for a bit of a nose, see who's snuffed it lately." He beckoned the others, Sticky and Tom, Dave following behind, pausing every few feet for a breather.

"There's no room," protested Ken, his voice distorted by the blood congested in his nose.

"Leave the door open," Harry was determined to be in on it now he'd found them, "we can listen up, and hey, there's a deck chair here that Dave can have."

"Well I was saying...." began Alb.

"No, you were not, Albert," said a petulant Val, "I was." Everyone stared at her. "Well I was."

"Seconded," said Vera.

"You don't second things like that, Vera," said Bill, rolling his eyes.

"Over here, Dave," Harry yelled, “I've commandeered you a deck chair."

"I can't sit on that," Dave was emphatic, breathless but emphatic, "I'll never get down there for starters, gotta keep my leg straight, won't bend anymore, not with me scar tightening like it does."

"Well, okay Val," said Alb, coldly, viewing her with unusual distaste, “what were you saying?"

"Got room for one more?" Mort, sounding querulous but determined, obviously not content to be left at home, was attempting forcible entry, pushing his way through the group clustered round the door.
They fell back in deference to his mental state, no one ever sure how much he understood.

"No!" snapped Alb and Gerry together.

"Why not?" demanded Mort, his mind for once rapier sharp, "I thought you said we were all in this together."

"We are, Morty," Mags said, already moving backwards regardless of who was behind her, treading on Ron who finally decided to give up his crate and struggled to his feet, "there's room, if everyone just squeezes up a bit."

"Ouch!" yelped Vera, "that's my bunions, you blithering idiot, Ron."

"Oops, sorry," said Ron, trying to pull back and bashing into Jonesey, who groaned theatrically. "Sorry, Jonesey," Ron said, stepping back onto Mort's foot.

"Ow, ow," said Mort, still half in and half out of the door, "that's my bad foot." He stumbled and, reaching out for something to hold, poked Gerry in the eye. Gerry yelped.

"Is everyone alright?" demanded Val, "I'm a nurse and I'm here if you need me."

"For fuck's sake, you're not a nurse, woman," snapped Wilf.

"Language, Wilf," said Gerry, his hand pasted to his eye, whilst nodding in Mag's direction.

"Right, what's all the kerfuffle? Thought this was a serious meeting?" asked Tom, poking his head into the shed and eyeballing Alb.

"We're here to work out a plan," stated Alb forcefully, bending with difficulty and producing an extendable pointer from under the table. He made sure Val was looking, then with a smug look he flicked his wrist; the stick shot out whacking Jonesey in the face, he let out a scream and fell off his chair, landing on Vera's bunion, she yelled abuse and pulled her foot out from under him, falling back against Mags in the process who fell onto the table which flipped through the air and smacked Wilf in the face, just as he was bending down to see if he could help Jonesey. He fell forward, crushing Jonesey underneath.

"What the hell are you doing, Alb?" yelled Bill, "You'll have someone's eye out with that."

"Sorry, sorry," said Alb, surveying the chaos with genuine horror, "really sorry everyone, I didn't realise how long it was."

"Somebody take that bloody thing away from him," hissed Wilf, holding his mouth and gingerly checking his few remaining teeth, "bloody menace."

"Idiot," moaned Ron, who'd used the opportunity to reclaim his crate.

"Sorry Ron, sorry Wilf....really sorry everyone," repeated Alb, to general muttering and angry looks, "erm...if we can...erm," he looked to Gerry for support.

"Er, yes," said Gerry, who, despite his eye, now watering happily, had been struggling not to laugh the whole time, "Er...I think we should just plug on, where were we? Er, Alb, I think you were about to say something."

"I was Gerry," said Alb, "thank you...." He watched as everyone struggled back to their original positions, the table now discarded at the back of the shed.

"We're here to discuss the overall subject first," said Val, "I mean it's a bit early to say that we agree with your crazy notion of, what was it? Fighting back?"

"What time is it?" demanded Wilf.

"Why?" said Mags.

"Corrie," said Wilf, “it'll take me 15 minutes to get back to my place."

"You could make it in 10 if you ran," said Gerry.

"Yeah," said Alb, "make it part of your fitness training."

"Sod off," said Wilf.

"I propose we convene a meeting to discuss avenues other than armed conflict," Val's voice was sharp with sarcasm, "like a strongly-worded petition or a sit down protest at the town hall or something more in keeping with our status."

"Oh, what a marvellous idea," said Ken, desperate to get back into Val's good books.

"Thank you, Ken," she murmured, duly rewarding his effort.

Alb looked at them both with unconcealed loathing; he'd had his fill of their bleating, "We're way beyond 'sit downs' here. This is going to be hard core."

Mags started to speak but Alb shoved her with his elbow, fearing some outburst about 'ends not justifying means' or some such left wing, pacifist nonsense.

"Look," said Gerry, "people with more influence than us have protested peacefully, people with better connections than us, but they've all got nowhere, you've got to ask yourself, why?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know, Gerald," said Val, "but I seriously think we should consider the benefits of such a protest."

"Never achieved anything," stated Bill, nodding solemnly at his own point.

Ron wanted to disagree but found for once that he couldn't, in all honesty, so he kept schtum.

"What about Gandhi?" said Ken.

"I'll have a shandy" Harry yelled from the doorway.

"They got booze in there?" asked Dave.

"You got booze in there?" demanded Sticky, "'cause it's bloody dry out here."

"I'll have a shandy," said Dave.

"No-one's having a shandy," snapped Alb.

"But Ken said...." pressed Harry.

"No he didn't," said Ron, his voice emerging from Mags' skirts.

"I could've sworn...."

"I thought he said something about a handy?"

"A handy?" said Mags, "what's a handy, Ken?"

"Er...what?" said Ken.

"She said, 'what's a handy'?" demanded Gerry.

"I don't know," said Ken.

"But you just said 'who wants a handy'," offered Mags.

"No, he didn't," said Val, "he said, 'what about Gandhi'?"

"Oh yes," said Ken, "what about Gandhi?"

"What about him?" demanded Gerry.

"Oh," muttered Ken, "well, I don't know."

"For god's sake, speak up Ken," said Gerry.

"You meant regarding peaceful protests," said Val.

"Oh yes, of course," said Ken, "Gandhi achieved everything by peaceful protest."

"Different situation," said Wilf, "we couldn't have held India. God knows how we ruled it in the first place, when you consider how many of them there are."

"Well I disagree," said Ken, "Gandhi's one of my personal heroes. Like Martin Luther...."

"Dead," stated Wilf.

"Or JFK," said Val.

"Dead," said Wilf.

"Then like John Le..."

"Also dead."

"I still believe there's room for peaceful protest," said Val.

A commotion at the door dried Alb's retort on his lips; he closed his eyes and counted to ten.

"Is this the hot bed of revolution then?" asked an enthusiastic Gray. Behind him stood Gil, with Reg leaning unsteadily against him. Harry had moved away from the door on their arrival and was perched on the edge of a wheelbarrow talking to Dave. Sticky and Tom were resting comfortably on a bench, Sticky, having got bored with trying to listen in, was regaling Tom with stories of how he lost half his lung; that Tom had heard the story many times was evident by the closed eyes and stiff expression.

"No room," stated Alb.

"You can have my space," said Wilf, "I'm leaving in a minute to watch Corrie."

"No, you're not," said Alb, "Quick, Gray, come on in."
Gray squeezed past Ron at the door and found himself crushed into a tiny space between Mags and Jonesey. He realised they were all crammed tight, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh and saw no point complaining, although he rather wished he'd stayed outside with Gil and Reg.

"Well, when do we start?" he asked, hoping they'd almost finished

Val's words dashed that, "We're discussing exactly what it is we're going to start," she said, hoping to forestall Alb.

"I thought it was the big fight back," said Gray, "you know, Zorro style."

"Exactly," said Alb, trying to raise his fist in revolutionary gesture but everyone was squeezed in so tight he could barely move, "we must make an assertive act."

"What on earth are you going on about?" said Val, "what's an assertive act when it's at home?" She felt a hand where a hand had no business being and stepped back abruptly, hoping to cause pain. The hand did not return.

"We must do something that will make them sit up and take notice," said Gerry.

"Okay," said Wilf, keen to end the meeting, "we need to kill someone, to make a point, some politician or something."

"Oh, my god no, not you as well, Wilf," said Val.

"Christ Almighty, woman, if the Mau Mau can do it, why can't we?"

"Mau Mau..." squeaked Vera, "Wilf, that was years ago..."

"Now that’s more like it," said Alb, wanting to rub his hands together but too restricted to do more than fidget, "we use our military training to start our own revolution."

"Make it a Tory," said Ron, enjoying the banter.

"Typical," hissed Bill, too far away from Ron to make eye contact.

"We're goin’ta kill a Tory," said Ron, luxuriating in the enforced distance.

"No, you're not," Bill was incensed.

"At last, someone with some common sense," said Val.

Then Bill continued, "If we're going to kill anyone it should be a Labour lout, they're the ones who let all these damned foreigners in."

"No, they're not," said Ron, "it was the bloody Tories."

"Labour signed that European Treaty that allowed them all to come over."

"It was the Tories who took us into the Common Market in the first place," Ron flashed back.

"Ok …enough," shouted Alb, "We'll kill a LibDem."

"Seconded," said Wilf, struggling to raise his arm.

"Oh no," said Ken, stoutly, "I don't think that would be a good idea, I mean, what have the Liberals done?
They've never really been in power, have they, not by themselves."

"Well, I think it's a good idea," said Tom, who'd given up pretending to listen to Sticky and had rejoined Harry at the door.

"What about a banker?" offered Ken. His son-in-law was a banker and a more arrogant, pompous self satisfied prick he could not imagine. Widowing his daughter was to do her a great service even if it might take her a while to realise it.

There was a general silence for a moment. Then some audible grunting noises as they mulled over the idea. Even Val had nothing to say and was frowning in a considering sort of way.

"Banker's a good idea," said Alb, tipping back his head to view Ken the better.

"Yeah," said Gerry, "Not bad, at all...Val?"

She took a deep breath, and then said slowly, "Well, I don't see anything really wrong with killing a banker."

"At last," said Wilf, "agreement...can I go now?"

"But what've they to do with immigration?" asked Gil, poking his head in under Tom's arm.

"Good point," Gray's support of Gil was instant and unequivocal.

"Nothing really," said Bill, "but I still think it's a good idea."

"Yes," said Mags, "I think we should definitely kill some bankers."

"I could get some names for you," offered Ken.

They all looked at him, impressed at his sudden enthusiasm.

"Okay," said Alb, his voice vibrating with happiness, "we've agreed that we're going to kill some bankers, some big wigs in the city. But I still think we need to kill a politician."

"Or some politicians," said Gerry.

"Why not all of them?" said Val sarcastically.

They all looked at her.

"Good idea," said Alb and Gerry in unison.

"What's that?" Vera’s voice was shrill as she pointed down at Ron’s feet.

"What's what?"

"That thing by your feet, it moved."

Wilf, seeing his chance to clear the shed, screeched as loud as he could, "Aaghh, a rat!"

Cheers

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Chapter 17 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

17

It has been said that when human beings stop believing in God they believe in nothing. The truth is much worse: they believe in anything.
Malcolm Muggeridge

Barry had upped the ante a bit with this one, moving the venue and taking a chance on filling it. Turned out to be no trouble at all; he could have gone for bigger. It was still word of mouth and a bit on Twitter; low key enough for Blackmore to believe he was still in control. For his own part he was a bit worried it was gaining its own momentum; might be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. The money was good though and he was enjoying being part of something real.

The Preacher was in full swing and the audience was giving him their complete attention.

"In the 1930s the German nation's children were seduced by the grand assertion that they were the new master race, the young Olympians who would inherit the world, when in reality they were destined to a life of despair as their futures spiralled out of control. Such was the pitiless evil of the Nazi empire."

He looked around the theatre, larger than usual but with barely an empty seat, "But that was the 1930s and that was the Nazis. This is now and we live in completely different times, we live in a completely different world."

He raised his hands, "I would like to speak of my children, young adults now, my two sons and my daughter. I love my children as I'm sure you do yours, if you have them. I don't see them often since my divorce but I do know what they have become, and I'm sure that some of you would recognise the characteristics."

He stopped talking, this was obviously painful for him and very personal. There was silence whilst they waited for him to collect himself. Not much fidgeting, Barry noted; a good sign.

Then he raised his head and his voice rang out, "Glued to the TV, obsessed with ludicrous soap storylines, the drama being played out more real to them than real-life. On Xbox, playing the latest violent action-packed game that makes reality seem pale and insignificant. On one of those social sites talking inane drivel to their friends. Texting feverishly. They don't read and can't spell. They have no idea about the UK beyond the confines of their own town, know nothing of our history unless it's US biased cinema in glorious Technicolor. They drive rather than walk, leave lights on, bath instead of shower, and in short, don't give a damn. Does this ring any bells?"

There were nods of agreement from the older members of the audience.

"But they do know about mobile phone contracts, in fact they have several mobile phones, I've even inherited some myself, the ones they no longer want, I actually took on their contracts so that they could upgrade. They have to have the latest tablets, the most up to date PCs, TVs ...the list goes on."

He paused and checked the nodding heads, "The ad men have seduced our young people; they have mesmerized them with photo shopped images of super models and ridiculously over-paid sporting personalities. Promoted as false idols these prescription meds addicted film stars, and singers who condone violence to women and who prostitute their talent for fame. Seduced them with a flashy, selfish, skin-deep alternative reality of stardom, fame and celebrity; the antithesis of hard work, stoicism and compassion. All of these things have been designed to turn our children into consumer addicts; believing themselves to be inheritors of the world by right; the modern-day Hitler Youth."

Barry was fascinated. He had no clue how to report this back up the line; the preacher was unique, a one-off and it was hard to gauge his impact. The audience was also hard to read; murmurings and mutterings but to what end? All he could say for sure was that they were still listening and no-one had walked out.

The Preacher wandered around the stage, "We have failed our young because we did not stop the Corporations seducing them with their adverts.
Worse yet, we encouraged it by buying them the next new thing, by getting them the biggest and the best that money could buy simply because we could. Or was it because we wanted to get them the things we never had as children?"

He paused and looked around at the nodding heads, "We gave them cold, heartless, meaningless things and deprived them of emotional engagement."
He took a quick sip of water, "We bought them a colour TV and piped SKY® into their rooms and left them with a plastic and glass companion that had no soul. We left them to feed off inane US imports with their false concepts of wealth and greed and lust and promiscuity and gender confusion. We left them to absorb all this by themselves without guidance and discussion and challenge. We deprived them of the core concepts of love, compassion and communication. I ask you, what have we created?"

They were silent as they waited for him to continue, Barry could sense their discomfort but it was obvious they would sit it out to the bitter end.

He noted with mounting concern that the mobiles were out, filming the speech. Christ, he'd be on YouTube® next...that might draw too much attention from Blackmore.

"We have created a generation of indifferent, avaricious, selfish, dysfunctional, celebrity adulating, trivia junkies who believe that the most important thing in the world is to tweet their latest sociopathic self aggrandizing thought."

This got him applause from parts of the theatre, some people were standing up.

He continued, "They buy ridiculously cheap products knowing that someone was forced to make it in near slave conditions for a pittance and they don't care."

He was on a roll as he worked the stage, "Billions of people are suffering in poverty, hundreds of thousands are dying needlessly every day, and all our kids want to do is watch TV, text, spend, eat crap food, burn fossil fuels with no regard for the consequences and generally lay around all day doing nothing. I ask you, are such individuals really worthy of life?"

There were a few concerned looks, Barry thought he'd gone too far even for this crowd, most of whom had clearly heard him speak before.

"Our children are the new Nazis for they know that over a third of the world suffers so they can live a life of self indulgence and they don't care, worse still they think it is their birth right. Our children bitch and moan at us, we have spoiled them and we have allowed the media men to turn them into moribund social and economic leaches whose sole purpose is to consume and create waste."

His voice tailed off as he paused in the centre of the stage. "And so it is, we have sold our children's souls and created a social nightmare, we have given birth to a greedy self interested society that must be destroyed before the rest of humanity can live."

He walked off so quickly from the stage that even Barry was taken by surprise.

Cheers for reading

Arun








More from the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Chapter 16 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

16

A society grows great when old men plant trees
in whose shade they know they shall never sit.
Greek proverb quotes

Alb stuck his head out of the shed door, had a quick squint round the allotment, checking for interlopers, then pulled back his head and closed the door. This had been Jonesey's idea – in response to Alb's badgering it had to be said - a meeting of the Great and Good he’d called it although, to Alb's mind, membership of that exclusive-sounding club was a bit random. He didn’t much care – it was a chance to further expound his ideas and for that any audience was a good audience. Although he did appreciate the fact they’d kept it small – the shed was a decent size but not really suited for a big group sit-down.

He noticed that Johnno had made himself comfortable on the best seat in the house. Not that he begrudged him; he had a heart condition and was poorly with it. As for Bill and Ron, they'd contrived to sit as far apart as could be managed in a confined space; Bill perched on a distinctly ramshackle chair and Ron, more relaxed, sitting on one of the many wooden crates.

Annoyingly Val and Ken had turned up; he'd had more than enough of their comments. Even more annoyingly they'd entered together, giggling and Alb was irritated to see them now ensconced on a couple of plastic chairs in a cozy spot between a lawnmower that had seen better days and what Jonesey had informed them was a patio heater.

At least Mags had made herself scarce; he hadn't seen her since her strange behaviour that morning and was quite happy to keep it like that. Gerry had flung himself into an old deck chair; he’d regret that when he tried to get up again. Jonesey had opened up an old picnic table with a flourish and it was now decorated with several blank sheets of paper.

"Right, meeting called to order," said Alb, resisting the urge to fiddle with his braces. They were new and he’d thought them rather fetching until Gerry had teased him; now he wasn’t so sure.

"You in there?" Wilf opened the door with a bang and pushed his way in, struggling over a bag of potting compost, lowering himself down gingerly onto one of the other crates. Alb sighed, Wilf was a mate and a good one at that, but this was meant to be a small group.

"Shove over will ya, Ron," said Wilf irritably.

"I can't, I'm wedged in, there’s no room this way."

"Well, you shift over then, Johnno," said Wilf.

"Leave Johnno where he is, Wilf, anyway I need to squeeze in somewhere." Jonesey's whole demeanour shouted 'it's my shed and who invited you anyway?'
Wilf took an exaggerated lungful of air, "it's worse than the black hole of Calcutta in here."

"I agree," said a voice from the shadows, "it's really stuffy and close."

"Ken?" Wilf said, peering into the gloom, "Is that you?"

"I don't like it being so close, Alb, I really don't."

Alb bit back on a rude reply, just as Val spoke, "Don't you worry Ken, I'm here, I know first aid if it gets too much for you."

"I'll bet you do," muttered Gerry, under his breath.

"You there as well, Val?" Wilf nodded, see one, the other's not far behind, "How much room you got back there?"

"Cut it out all of you and shift round a bit," said Alb, "Ken, how much room have you got?"

"Well, not much Alb...."

"You got loads of room," said Gerry, from the relative comfort of his deckchair, "shift over."

Wilf narrowed his eyes, taking in Gerry's relaxed posture, calculating the amount of space that would be released if the deckchair went out the door. As if on a signal the door opened and Vera came in saying, "room for a little one?" followed by Mags, who wisely said nothing.

"I can move a bit," said Ken, shifting a millimetre or two before Alb leaned over and gave him a hard shove, almost knocking him off his chair.

They all spread round and breathed a collective sigh of relief. Bill made the mistake of standing to stretch his legs and the chair disappeared from behind him, Jonesey settling onto it quick as a flash, daring Bill to challenge his right.

"What was that?" squawked Val, pointing into a corner.

"What was what?" Ken's voice was only marginally lower.

"Down there," said a near hysterical Val, "I saw something move."

"Probably a rat," said Mags, mildly.

"Aaghh!" screeched Val and Vera in harmony.

"It wasn't a rat," stated Alb, trying to fix Mags with a
glare. She looked back coolly.

"I'm sure it was a rat," said Val, sniffling.

"It wasn't a rat," said Wilf, "the only things in here are spiders and crane flies and...."

"Oooh!" squealed Val, clearly not an insect lover.

"Val, there's nothing in here, okay," snapped Alb, giving Wilf his hardest stare.

"But there will be spiders," said Mags, unhelpfully, with a dark look at Alb, "this is a shed, after all, it's their home."

"That's enough," said Gerry, firmly, struggling to get out of the deck chair, unwilling to take any more nonsense, "no spiders and no rats in here, isn't that right, Wilf."

Wilf got the message and grunted some form of grudging agreement, wondering how quickly he could grab the deckchair and turf it out if Gerry ever actually got up and out of it.

"See, Val," said Alb, "there's nothing in here, just us, okay?"

"But I'm sure I saw something," she murmured pitifully.

"Probably just a shadow or something," said Alb, reaching over and patting her hand.

"Sure?" she said, appealing to him with water filled eyes.

"Of course, Val, dear," said Ken, getting in on the act, patting her other hand.

"Right then, shall we get on with it?" said Gerry, sighing deeply.

"Meeting is now called to order," said Alb.

"Anymore for anymore?" Nobby's voice sounded loudly from outside, just as Lenny's face appeared, flattened up against the grimy window as the door opened and Frank entered, saying airily, "We left Morty back at the ranch, too much excitement for one day."

Nobby and Lenny squeezed in after him leaving Gerry with no choice but to wriggle out of the deckchair, clatter it closed and, to Wilf's delight and Jonesey's dismay, toss it outside. Alb made an, 'is this your idea of a select group?' gesture at Jonesey who shrugged, disclaiming responsibility for the new arrivals.

"This isn't going to work, people," said Ken, the cozy corner now having become distinctly bijou, forcing Val and he to stand in seriously close, face to face proximity which ordinarily would have been fine but not quite the thing in public.

"Johnno, mate, are you ok?" Jonesey leaned towards him, talking across Ron, still resolutely squatting on his crate despite his view now comprising just legs and bottoms.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me, I'll say if I have a problem."

"What's this bloody meeting about, anyway?" demanded Wilf, "Corrie's on in a minute and I don't want to miss it."

"Bugger Corrie," hissed Alb, "this is important, Wilf."

"Nothing's more important than Corrie," stated Wilf, gravely.

"What about the country?"

"Sod the country, I'm almost in the grave, what do I care about the bloody country, it's for the young 'uns now, let them sort this bloody mess out."

"He's got a point, Alb," said Ken, "perhaps we are being a bit hasty."

"Good point, Ken," said Val.

"Crap point Ken," snapped Alb, "but what else can you expect of an Iti?"

"Yeah, Ken," said Jonesey, "why are you even here?" this despite the fact that Ken had been one of the few of those present he had actually invited.

"Leave him alone, both of you," said Val, "he has every right to be in here, like the rest of us."

"Only if he's part of the team," said Alb.

"What about Wilf?" Bill said, sticking his oar in, "he's only interested in Coronation St."

Typical nosey parker, thought Ron, giving him the evil eye, unnoticed, hidden as he was in the safety of his lowly position.

"Forget all that, we need to work out a plan of action." Alb's irritation was coming to the surface.

"I don't think we have a plan of action, Albert," stated Val. He could just make out her eyes in the dim light and, rat forgotten, they were snapping with suppressed anger. "In fact, I don't think we have any idea what we're meant to be doing. It's just you and Gerry going on about things."

"Seconded!" stated Wilf, with a short nod, "Now, are we done?"

"I thought we made it clear," said Gerry, "we're fed up with how Britain has been changed."

"Well, that's just progress, Alb," said Johnno, "you can't stand in the way of progress."

"But it's not progress if it destroys the base," said Mags, who'd somehow wriggled her way to the front and was now shoulder to shoulder with Alb. He was feeling rather oppressed by her proximity and concerned lest she start banging on about Hitler again. She continued with some vigour, "Progress should be an advancement of things, for the better."

"That's right," said Alb, pleased to be able to agree with her, "look at the country today, it's full of foreigners, junkies, gangs, terrorists, muggers....."

"Tourists?" said Ron, his voice coming up at Alb, seemingly from beneath Mags' skirt, "What have tourists got to do with it?"

"Tourists?" said Alb, "what d'you mean, tourists?"

"You said tourists." Ron was struggling to get up and make his point more forcefully but he was hemmed in.

"I didn't," said Alb, "I said...."

"Yes, you did, Alb," said Jonesey.

"We're not attacking tourists, Alb," Val's tone brooked no argument.

"What the hell?" said Alb tetchily, "Who said? I said... I said...what did I say, Gerry?"

"Terrorists, mate," said Gerry.

"Seconded," stated Wilf, "now can you please get to the point."

"Seconded what?" said Ken, to Val's obvious approval.

"Terrorists," said Bill, privately thinking Ron was either deaf or a fool, possibly both.

"You sure, boyo?" questioned Jonesey, "'Cause I could've sworn he said tourists, and, I dunno, seems a bit strong to go around doing in tourists, just sayin' mind."

"I didn't say tourists, for crying out loud, I said terrorists."

"He didn't say tourists," added Gerry, "he definitely said terrorists."

"Yes," Alb looked to Wilf for more support.

"Terrorists," stated Wilf.

"Well, that's okay then," said Jonesey, "'cause we've all been tourists, I've only been to Majorca and that was to visit our Olwyn, 'cause she lives out there, but I wouldn't've liked it if...."

"He said terrorists, Jonesey," said Mags, putting her hand on his shoulder in a steadying fashion, "so can we just leave it there?" She took his silence for affirmation and straightened, looking at Alb with a nod, "You're good to go, Alb."

"Thank you, Mags," said Alb, "now where was I?"

"Whacking tourists...I mean terrorists," said Gerry.

"I still say he said tourists," muttered Ron to Jonesey.

Alb looked near to apoplexy so Gerry intervened, "Ron, Jonesey, let's get back to the point."

"Why yes," agreed Val, her voice like syrup and all the more dangerous for that, "let's get back to the point, which as I see it is this... what on earth can we.." On the word 'we' she tried to spread her arms to encompass them all, but such was the crush that all she managed to do was push her arms straight out in front of her, hitting Ken in the face with her palm.

"Agh," yelped Ken reaching for his nose. "My nose, I think it's bleeding."

"Stop snivelling, for crying out loud," snapped Alb.

"Oh Ken, I'm so sorry" said Val, "d'you need first aid?"

"No, he doesn't," snorted Gerry, "for pity's sake, stop offering everyone first aid all the time."

"I don't," snapped Val, "I only offer it where needed, I'm a trained nurse, you know."

"Thought you was a masseuse," said Wilf, slowly, thinking perhaps he'd got it wrong that time she'd offered to ease his discomfort, but no, surely not.

"Well, I was just trying to help, I'm sure," stated Val.

"I think you've helped enough," muttered Ken, a line of blood trickling into his mouth.

Val frowned at him; not prepared for sarcasm from that quarter, "Kenneth...."

The one word was sufficient, "Oh, I'm sorry Val," he said quickly, "I didn't mean it like that."

'Under the thumb' thought Gerry, saying only, "Can we get back to where we were ...please?"
 
Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Chapter 15 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

15

You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.
C. S. Lewis

Dave and Harry made their way up the hill towards the bus stop, deep in conversation, still troubled by Alb’s outburst the other evening.

"I'm with them on the principle of it," said Harry, "but my grandson's engaged to a Polish lass, Bajka, sweet young thing, couldn't imagine doing anything to upset her or her friends."

"Sounds like a nice girl," said Dave, "Pretty, is she?"

"She always has time for me, more than my own kids, they never visit. She comes on her own or with young Harry, but he always seems distracted, like he wants to be on his way."

"I know what you mean," Dave had juddered to a halt, a slight incline meant either walk or talk, not both, "Mine are just the same."

"You know what I think? I think they’ve gone senile, what are they talking about, fight back?"

Dave snorted a laugh, "I can barely get out of bed these days."

"And it's not just that, some of these people are really nice, that's what I'm trying to say, what are they suggesting we do? I think some of these immigrants are a bit of fresh air."

"Like that Kachna down the pub," said Dave, an appreciative smile lifting his cheeks, leaning against a lamp post in readiness for a long natter.

Harry noted the position and groaned. Dave pretended not to hear, saying, “She's really friendly, not like some of the youngsters round here. Those kids in the newsagents couldn't be ruder if they tried. They never count the change back properly," he was studiously ignoring Harry’s obvious
impatience, they walked together often and it was always the same. "I was in there the other day and the little fat one was on her mobile the whole time she served me, I don't think she spoke to me once."

Harry nodded briskly, anxious to keep walking, a man of action despite his age. "You’ve got a point there. But the Poles, or whatever they are, are really polite, show the proper respect."

"I blame the parents," said Dave, ruminatively, "they've let their kids run amok. They should take responsibility for their children's behaviour."

"Martha and me," said Harry, "we always aimed to bring our girls up properly, to be polite and that." He didn't know why he’d mentioned Martha, he didn’t like talking about her, it made him angry, her running off with the milkman after 30 years of marriage still stuck in his craw even so many years later. "Mind you, they went off track a bit, got a bit selfish and they've grown away from me, since ....."

"At least you know you tried," said Dave, heaving himself away from the post as a prelude to plodding on up the hill, anything to get Harry off the subject of his ex-wife.

"Were we selfish like that, do you think?"

"Nah, always had too much respect," said Dave, making a face and shaking his head in negation, “Of course we had things we wanted to do but I always had a healthy respect for my elders, kids today, they don't care."

"You're right, like last week in town, remember? With those little vandals."

"You mean those little buggers outside KFC?" said Dave. "The ones who threw chicken bits at us."

"And sprayed me with Cola," added Harry.

"Makes you wonder if this country's worth preserving." Dave stopped again, out of puff.

Harry turned to look back the way they had come, narrowing his eyes he could make out the clock tower, "Sometimes I think that kids today just need to be sorted out. The army would make real men of these louts; give them some purpose to their lives."

Dave was nodding, thinking, a speculative look on his face, "Personally, I'd quite like to knock off some of the little oicks who live round here."

"Now that's a good idea," said Harry, "that I'd go for."

"Vigilante style," said Dave, warming to the theme.

"I could quite happily pick off a few of these little shits," said Harry nodding in the direction of a small group of kids hanging off a fence on the other side of the road.

"All right then, granddad?" shouted one of them.

"Got any money, granddad?" asked a girl in tight jeans and Dockers.

Harry raised his stick in general acknowledgement; it could have been a wave of greeting or rebuff.

"Come on," said one of the boys trotting across the road, "lend us some money, won't ya?"

"Don't have any money," said Harry, walking quite fast now.

"We've only got our pensions," mumbled Dave, trying not to look concerned as he struggled to keep pace.

"You come from that private place down the road, don't ya?" said the boy, "bet you've got loads’a money."

"Little buggers," muttered Harry under his breath.

"You alright Harry, Dave?" called Sticky from the top of the hill.

"You coming then?" called Tom, tall against the skyline, looking stronger at a distance than Harry knew him to be, “Get a move on, you’ll miss the bus.”

"Got to dash, kids," said Harry picking up the pace a bit more, outstripping Dave.

"Yeah, go on granddad," yelled one of the other kids, "see if you can set a new track record."

"It's all wrong," moaned Harry, reaching Tom and stopping to look back at Dave, panting to catch up, "to think of what we did to keep this country safe and this is how they repay us."

"You alright, Dave?" asked Tom and Sticky in unison.

"Yeah," said Dave, striving for nonchalance, not wanting to look like he'd needed anyone's
assistance, "just a bunch of kids."

"They were pestering us for money earlier when we came up here," said Tom.

"Well, they wouldn't dare bother us for money," stated Harry, "we'd give 'em what for if they did, wouldn't we, Dave." Dave nodded vigorously, almost losing his footing.

Tom, cast a baleful backward glance down the road, noting the speedy approach of the group of kids with some consternation. "Bet they're all on drugs."

"Yeah," said Sticky, "to think I lost half a lung so those little gits could hang around street corners terrorising old folk, it's all wrong."

"That's what we've been saying, isn't it, Dave," said Harry, whilst wondering, as he did every time Sticky said it, how it was possible to lose half a lung and still be alive.

Dave nodded. "We don't think the problem's the foreigners. We've let our own kids run wild."

"Good point, Dave," said Sticky, arm out to flag down the approaching bus.

"Hey you lot," yelled one of the kids, by now only a few feet away, "got any fags?"

They piled onto the bus; Harry stooping to give Dave a helping hand, Sticky making his way to the nearest seat and flopping into it.

Tom remained standing as the bus moved away, raising his fist at the slowly diminishing group of youngsters, annoyed at how fearful he’d felt.
 
Cheers

Arun








More from the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions