Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 33

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

The Independents - What price democracy?


The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place. We’ve selected a few people to speak with you today from the hundreds of offers we had …for those of you disappointed this time, we have a list for our next meeting and gradually we hope to give everyone who wants to speak a platform.”

The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Now, please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”

The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.

“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “It’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…” There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”

There were more cheers and scatterings of delegates stood to applaud him; then more followed until the whole assembly was on its feet.

“No longer will we tolerate a corrupt, locked in party system; no longer will we tolerate their machinations, their duplicity, their constant deceptions, and their fake party divisions. We know they’re all the same, that they represent the same hidden wealthy few who own this country, we know they all rub shoulders with this clique of scoundrels and that they pander to their every whim. We will resist, we will stand against these corrupt servants of the rich and we will win.”

There were shouts of ‘win’ from the floor. Colin gestured that they should sit as he prepared to begin his speech proper. He waited a few moments until all were seated and the hall was quiet.

“I set out on this trail barely a year ago, not knowing where it would lead. Like many of you, I watched the
Occupy movement in its struggle to take back control from those who hold us in thrall. I admit it, I watched rather than joined them; I supported them in spirit.” He paused, “I tried to make a stand by myself. I tried to keep my business going; I was trading on fumes. I cut costs and used inferior materials, I streamlined processes until there was no slack, I had to lay off staff who’d been with me for years and make the ones I kept work a 3 day week.
We missed deadlines and our quality dropped – in the end I closed it down. Rather than be associated with what we were being forced to produce, rather than re-locate to China and do what my competitors had done – take advantage of slave labour in the East, rather than sacrifice my principles, I closed down the business I had started from scratch 10 years ago.”

He stopped talking, leaving a gap as if mourning a lost dream then he spoke again, quietly but with deep passion, “I was deeply unhappy and desperate to do something to make these rogues realise and stop what they were doing; it was something that seared into me until I could stand it no longer. I spent hours thinking about what I could do; without a revolution I couldn’t see anything changing. Then it hit me – I could ‘occupy’ the Political Space! I could stand on an ethical platform as an independent at the next general election.”

He looked slowly round the hall, making eye contact where he could. “I am a loyal Briton, my lineage reaches into all corners of these great islands of ours and I have always loved this country and all it has stood for. I love its people and our culture. I can no longer sit idly by whilst the greedy rich dismantle it, whilst they remove all investment from the UK and place that investment in areas of the world where they use slave labour, I will not tolerate it.”

There were shouts of support from the floor and again people were standing in their excitement.

“It is intolerable that the uncontrolled greed of the few should impact so heavily on the many. It is unacceptable that the political jackals should spin their concoction of lies to justify their plans to run down the state of Britain. It is deplorable that they should think themselves free to consign workers of the west to destitution whilst enslaving the workers of the 3rd world. It is unacceptable that they seek to return us to the same conditions as existed in the
Middle Ages, a time when the rich elite was served by destitute serfs. They must think we don’t have a thought in our heads.” There was a rapturous round of applause. Colin grinned and added, “They must think we’re STUPID!”

The applause continued, accompanied now by excitable foot stamping.

“They clearly believe that the years of watching junk TV, of listening to their constant lies about the economy, about economics, the GDP, the unions, the balance of payments, the national debt, the so called ‘scrounging poor’, the so called ‘benefit cheats’, the communists, the NHS, the welfare state, state run education, Muslims, world terrorism, our lack of productivity and competitiveness, has shrivelled our brains and blinded us to the real truth, the reality behind all this.” He paused, took a breath then thundered out, “We, the masses, are being sold out by rich greedy psychopaths.”

More clapping from the floor.

“There is a precedent for all this but they hope we’re too stupid to see it, that we have no knowledge of history, that we’re so wrapped up in ‘reality’ TV that we miss what is happening, miss the correlation with the past.”

He poured some water from the jug on the table before him, allowing a few moments for his words to sink in, “The Roman Empire which for centuries was the dominant power, had legions that controlled vast territories of the known world, and then we’re told, all of a sudden, Rome collapses.”

He paused, then raised his voice slightly, “I say to you, Rome didn’t collapse, Rome did not fall – the wealthy and powerful families of Rome took advantage of prevailing winds and reorganised.”

He glanced out across the hall, checking the attention of the audience, “They recognised that maintaining legions to hold territories was costly, and they had a new weapon in their arsenal - religion. Caesar became the Pope, the leading families entered religion, the Roman Empire transitioned into the Roman Catholic Church collecting more revenues than a thousand legions could gather. That’s what happened to the Roman Empire, that’s what happened to Rome.”

He banged the table abruptly, startling a few people in the front rows, “But what happened to the ordinary people of Rome, to the plebeians, the out of work soldiers? They were reduced to penury as the Rome they knew disappeared from the map. As they starved, these legions that had made Rome great, the wealthy Romans, the patricians, the upper classes became richer than ever and the Pope found he was able to control the whole world with a few monks and threats of excommunication, of burning in hell for all eternity.”

He paused and took a quick sip of water, he knew that making the link was vital and these concepts were new to most of his audience.

“And that is what is happening to us…though it’s not belief in God that’s the new export, the new method of raising gold for the new aristocracy, the new export is a new religion altogether, and is called ‘consumerism’ or the ‘market’. The rich have exported our jobs to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, where land costs are minimal, where there are autocratic leaders and armies willing to crush the workers who ask for more, where there are billions of potential economic slaves to serve them and gain them even greater wealth.”

Someone in the crowd called out ‘Apple’ and a couple of others picked it up.

He nodded, “A good example, thank you” he said quietly, then raising his voice continued, “There’re one million people employed in sweat shop factories in China producing Apple products…think about it, one million jobs that could’ve been situated in the West but for the fact of having to pay minimum wage and provide decent working conditions.”

He stopped and stared out at the crowded hall, his eyes burning, “Wealth, that’s what this is all about, it’s what it’s always been about, the creation of wealth for the very few, for the greedy psychopaths who want to own everything and drive the masses into the gutters so that they can lord it over them; in order to feel rich they have to have the poor.”

Colin studied his audience, “So what of the British worker? What of the US worker? What is intended for us? In the recent past we had service industry jobs, easily accessed credit and the creation of massive debt, all this was done to ensure a smooth transition from production and purchase from the West to the East. It was no accident; it’s part of a plan and exactly what they intended and so far they have been successful. They have managed to transfer most of production from the West to the East and during that time the Western worker had artificial service industry jobs to ensure that there was still a market for products being made in the East. However, we have reached an end of the first phase - the credit bubble in the West has burst, the western worker is no longer able to provide the buying power required to maintain supply and demand so the wealthy few and their economic and political servants are looking to provide easier credit to the worker in the East, where there is a potential new market for debt.”

He waited a moment, and then continued, “… I’ll say that again because it is an important concept… not a new market for products but a new market for DEBT… where there are billions of potential buyers all wanting to borrow from the western elite, ready and willing to pay interest to the western elite. They are doing today what the wealthy Roman families did to Rome all those centuries ago; they are abandoning the nation state and taking all of the money with them. They will oversee the breakup of the UK into small and dysfunctional territories unable to work in unison for the benefit of all. It is the same old story of divide and rule but we will not tolerate it!”

The hall erupted as the delegates all stood and cheered. “WE WILL NOT TOLERATE IT! We will change things, we have changed things already; never before has over 600 independent candidates applied to stand for Parliament, never before have the people stood as one and threatened to wrench control from the economic and political elites. This is OUR time and we’ll wrest power from their grasp and do it by peaceful democratic means.”

The noise was deafening and Colin waved them to stop, “But we do have some very big problems. We’re here, our supporters are here and our followers are here but as a movement we still only number in the tens of thousands and there’s a reason for that. Where is the media? Where are the reporters? Where is Sky news? Where are the BBC and ITV? Where are the red tops and the broadsheets? They’re not here and there’s a reason for that, they’re all owned by the rich elite and it’s not in their interests for us to be successful. They will impose the same suffocating news blackout they’ve used with the Occupy movement, and try and prevent us from reaching a mass audience, obstructing us in our attempts to spread the word, restricting our access to massed support and so thwarting us in our aims to gain power.”

He paused, “But we do have some friends, Russia Today [RT] is here, Al Jazeera is here so we will have an internet presence and those who follow these things will know what’s happening. We just have to encourage them all to tell someone, use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word and we must get out on the streets NOW to get our message across to the ordinary voter, to help them understand that as independents we can form a viable government and that we can solve this nation’s issues.”

His voice throbbed into the room “DO NOT UNDER ESTIMATE the size of the problem facing us. It would be easy to think that we will sweep all before us because we have right on our side but we are up against the evil of our times; Goebbels called it propaganda, they call it spin, it doesn’t matter what name it comes under it’s the same thing. They will attack us on all fronts; besmirch our names, belittle our efforts, deny our credibility, assail our good character, criticise our aims, pick holes in our structure.”

More cheers and applause; a few cries of ‘shame on them’. He acknowledged it all with a smile.

“They will say that we are a party the same as any other but we are not. We are as we must remain, INDEPENDENT of any lobby group, of any financial backing and of any political affiliation. We seek to govern by concord, to make constructive policy, to implement cohesive policy when in power, to lead this nation into a fairer and better world where all can benefit. We are independent of the powerful rich elites who will never be able to blackmail us or bind us with gifts. We are not a party with a programme designed to benefit one social group.
We have one purpose, and one purpose only and that is to do what is right.”

Cheers met his words, and there was a palpable feeling of excitement emanating from the floor.

He got his notes together, notes he’d not needed to refer to throughout his speech, “A note of caution” his voice dropped slightly, “although we are here and here is a great place to be, although we’re making progress, and we think and feel we’re unstoppable, we have not yet achieved our aims. We have not yet forced these rogues from office, we have not driven these thieves from their dens of vice, we have not crushed the beast that lusts after power and wealth, and we have not won yet.”

He moved to the front of the stage, “To finish, I would like to read you something that Oliver Cromwell said when he instituted the dissolution of the Long Parliament (1653).”

He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes and held it high, brandishing it for a moment, then began to read, the Old English sounding strange on his tongue, “It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonoured by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice; ye are a factious crew, and enemies to all good government; ye are a pack of mercenary wretches, and would like Esau sell your country for a mess of pottage, and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money.”

He took a breath, and then continued, “Is there a single virtue now remaining amongst you? Is there one vice you do not possess? Ye have no more religion than my horse; gold is your God; which of you have not barter'd your conscience for bribes? Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth?”

The audience was entranced, hanging on his every word, “Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil'd this sacred place, and turn'd the Lord's temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices? Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress'd, are yourselves gone! So! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors.”

He waited a second, and then said, “In the name of God, go!”

The audience was on its feet now, some had moved into the aisles and were moving forward to the front, the better to acclaim their messiah.

“As Cromwell did then, so we must do now to the villains in our Parliament and in order to win we must pound the streets, speak in open forums, in markets, in town centres, in village halls, we must knock on doors and let people know that we exist and persuade them that we are a viable option worthy of their vote. But know also, there will be one hell of a machine waging war on us in the coming year, a machine of immeasurable wealth and influence and power and privilege and prejudice aiming all of its guns ON US. And we must WIN, we must win because if we fail then this country is lost and the world will sink into years of dictatorship, a thousand-year Reich. It won’t be the German Nazis ruling it; it will be the Anglo Saxon Nazis ruling it here and in America.”

Colin stepped back and raised his hands. Instantly everyone in the auditorium stood and cheered and clapped and chanted his name. He turned without another word and made his way to his seat, passing the meeting organiser who approached the rostrum to introduce the next speaker, Catherine Jenkins.

Thanks for reading

Arun


Other books in the series

The book 'Daydream Believers' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below

Workmen - Three Fat Ladies

Helen opened the front door, and peered out. Thank the lord for the vandal who'd taken out the street light last night. It was quiet as well as dark and their driveway was off set slightly and hidden from view of the neighbours. She slipped back inside and hefted one end of the quilt covered burden under her arm, huffing out a long breath as she did so.

Debs put her back into it and lifted her end and together they struggled out to the car; not for the first time Debs wished she'd splashed out on something bigger than a Fiat Uno.

"Will it fit?" hissed Granny from the hallway.

"It'll have to, Mum," puffed Helen.

"I don't think it will," said Granny, helpfully.

"Then we'll have to make it fit," stated Debs.

"How?" wailed Helen, abruptly coming to a halt, "he's as stiff as a board."

"Just open the door," instructed Debs, backing up slightly.

"I can't hold him and open the door, he's too heavy."

"Granny," called Debs urgently, her voice low.

"Ssssh," hissed Helen, "the neighbours."

"Granny," whispered Debs, "get the door, will you."

"Hurry up, I can't hold him for much longer," moaned Helen.

Granny struggled down from the doorstep and wrestled the car door open.

"You put your end in, Mum," said Debs, "then I'll shove from the back."

Helen did as she was bid, leaning in to the car as far as she could go. Debs' sudden push only succeeded in ramming Wayne's head into the foot well in the back of the car. The quilt fell away, revealing his legs, still sticking out the door, "He won't go any further in," Helen said, her voice bubbling with near hysteria.

"Oh yes he will," said Debs, shoving again, putting her full weight behind it. They heard a crack as Wayne's spine snapped.

"Oh my god!" said Helen, horrified, nearly falling over in her haste to get away.

"Mum," hissed Debs, "he's dead, it doesn't matter."

"But we broke his back, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Mum! Not now, I need you to help me do this." Debs climbed into the car and started to heft
Wayne's top half out of the foot well, ignoring with difficulty the grating sounds of bone on bone. As she lifted his head his legs see-sawed
downwards. "Come on, Mum, focus, alright, we gotta push his legs in."

"I can't," wailed Helen, crumpling to the floor, hands to her mouth.

"Gran, can you grab hold?" Debs asked, turning to the old lady who was standing, mouth open at the back of the car.

She nodded and reached over to grab his legs. She was prevented from so doing by the conjoining of her huge breasts with her monumental stomach.

"Come on, Gran," said Debs.

"I'm trying dear," said Gran, gamely, parting her breasts to try and make the move doable, "but I just can't reach."

"Mum," hissed Debs, "Mum, get up. I need you."

Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath."Okay, okay," and she bent over, ignoring the legs and the dirty workman boots, and pulling on the quilt with shaking hands. Then she took another, stronger hold and together they heaved and shoved but Wayne would not budge.

"What about cutting him up?" offered Gran, reasonably.

"No way am I cutting him up," snapped Helen.

"Might have to if we can't get him in the car," said Debs, eyes sparkling at the prospect.

"Not happening," said Helen emphatically, "besides there'd be too much blood."

"He's dead so not much blood," said Debs, knowledgeably, "and no-one knows he came here."

"How do you know?" demanded Helen, "he might've told a friend. The police always find out."

"They never solve anything, Mum, it's not like CSI Miami or Miss Marple."

"I don't care," said Helen, "I'm still not cutting him up."

"What about the sunroof, dear," said Gran.

"Wow, great idea, Gran," said Debs, "why didn't I think of that? And we can lose this as well." She yanked at the quilt, pulling and tugging, ripping Wayne free of it.

"I'll get a chair," muttered Helen, unreasonably angry with both of them.

Five minutes later Debs was standing on the car, leaning into the open sunroof, the better to direct Wayne's head up and out of the car, the bonnet bending under her weight. Helen was inside, ready to lift his torso, her face was carefully averted and her eyes tightly closed. If she could have held her nose at the same time she probably would have done so. Gran was outside on the driveway; her role was to ensure Wayne's lower legs followed the rest of his body.

"Okay on three," said Debs, "three!" She tugged Wayne's shoulders but nothing happened. "Oh my back, what the hell are you two doing?"

"I thought you were going to count," said Helen, eyes still tight shut.

"You said you'd count, dear," said Gran, observing Debs with her rheumy eyes.

"That's the whole point," said Helen, almost at breaking point, "gives us a chance to get ready and then we all push together. Don't just say 'three'."

"One, two, three," said Debs, too quickly for Helen to respond, or for Gran to register.

"Give us a chance," hissed Helen, opening her eyes and glaring up at her daughter, "It's always like this with you, it always has to be done your way. It was the same when you were a baby, always bossing me and your Gran around. You wouldn't even wear the clothes I put you in. I'd dress you and you'd go and change, you were five for Christ' sake."

"God, mum," wailed Debs, "you're doing this, now?"

"Ssssh, Debbie," said Helen, crossly, "the neighbours."
Debs grabbed Wayne by his Mohican, paused and stared at it, "what did you think of his hair?"

"What?" said Helen. She was getting hot in the car and sharing such a confined space with a dead body was seriously messing with her head.

"The colour of his hair," said Debs, "I liked it."

"Oh, so did I, dear," said Gran, "and I liked the Huron thing he had going."

"Mohican," said Debs.

"Actually, I think you'll find it was a Huron," said Gran.

"In the film..." started Debs.

"Chingachgook had long hair and he was the last of the Mohicans," stated Gran with great and solemn authority, "the bad Indians were Hurons and they just had the spiky bit in the middle."

"Can we get on with it?" said Helen, shrilly, "I can't take much more of this!"

"It's a fucking Mohican," spat Debs, annoyed and confused.

"Deborah, do not speak to your grandmother like that," ordered Helen.

"Sorrreeeee," said Debs.

Gran smiled but said nothing.

"Now can we please just do this," said Helen.

"Alright mum!" moaned Debs, far too loudly for Helen's comfort and for Gran's sensibilities, "ONE!"

"Ssssh!" said Helen, "quietly."

"Two," hissed Debs, "three," and they all pulled and shoved simultaneously.

Wayne's feet slid in faster than Gran expected and she fell backwards, tripping over a bit of shrubbery and ending up against the wall, catching her head on a protruding nail. She was silent, a small trickle of blood running down her neck.

As Wayne rose up at speed through the sun roof Debs, precariously balanced as she was, on the bonnet, fell off the car and landed on Mr Tibbs, the neighbour's cat, who'd come across the road to check out the commotion.

Helen scrambled out of the car, first checking her mother for concussion or worse and then looking up to see Wayne staring down at her, pink hair glinting in the moonlight, "For Christ's sake," she hissed, "cover his head."

Debs struggled to her feet, cursing volubly then disappeared into the house. Granny groaned and Helen leaned over and patted her hand then she went indoors to get a cold flannel for the back of her mother's head. Gran was left looking down at poor Mr Tibbs.

"Oh God," said Helen, re- joining her mother, and sharing in the silent contemplation, "what will we tell the neighbours?"

Debs reappeared carrying a large lamp shade which she plonked on Wayne's head, the pink spikes of his Mohican protruding out of the top. She glanced down at Mr Tibbs. "Just bung him further into the road, they'll think he was run over."

"I can't do that," said Helen, "it would be wrong."

"Oh for fuck sake," hissed Debs, "give him here," and she snatched the lifeless Mr Tibbs by his tail, marched down their back garden and swinging him over her head launched him in the direction of the main road that ran past the rear of their house.

Mr Tibbs landed on the windscreen of a passing van. The driver; whose name was Alphonse, had been on the road for a solid twelve hours without a break and his eyelids were drooping. He almost leapt out of his skin when a flattened black cat, limbs stretched out, splatted onto his windscreen. He careened about the road, crashing firstly into a small Corsa, which went into a spin before stopping in the centre of the road. Then he bounced into a BMW, the driver of which compensated wildly, careening onto the grass verge whereupon it tipped onto its side and rolled down the gradient back into the road.

Alphonse himself carried on 50 yards down the road before his van finally flipped over; thirteen vehicles were unable to stop in time and smashed into the wreckage; the dual carriageway rendered impassable.

"Right," snapped Debs, returning to the car, "let's just get out of here, shall we?"

"Are you coming, mum?" asked Helen, looking down at her mother, who was still trying to stem the flow of blood from the back of her head.

"No, she's not," stated Debs, "no room."

Helen conceded the point and squeezed into the passenger seat. The Uno sighed as their joint weight bowed the front axel.

"Belt up and let's get this thing done," said Debs.
She revved the engine and edged the car, squeaking and groaning, down the drive.

Cheers

Arun

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

The Independents - Only a Psychopath


Maurice Clarke took his place at the rostrum and looked around the hall; he’d been introduced as an anthropologist, a professor no less. He’d got the look right; tweeds and horn-rimmed glasses but he looked about 30 so he’d obviously fast-tracked through the education system. He was bright probably, connected possibly. He’d declared his interest in a seat in Winchester so affluent perhaps.

“In this England of ours we once had serfdom where a lord owned his workers, his field hands and could order them to bear arms against his enemies. Once upon a time we profited from slavery, we profited from child labour, we destroyed people in work houses and when they were unable to work we threw them into the poor house. We progressed from serfdom to tied cottages and paltry wages for the workers, yet it was still a time when only the ‘stake holders’ in the country could vote, that being the wealthy land owning few. Great wealth and boundless opportunity was enjoyed by a few and debilitating poverty, rife with typhus, small pox and dysentery, endured by the many. Over time, over the centuries our ancestors fought for the rights of the workers, of the vast majority of British people, they fought for the rights of the 99% against the greed and selfishness and social crimes of the 1% who held all the power and wrote all the laws to defend their greed.”

Maurice paused for a moment, removing his horn-rims and twirling them by one arm, “We achieved certain things – abolition of slavery, the Mine’s Act, the Factory Act, universal suffrage, the NHS; a social network to protect those less able; affordable council housing, free education for the masses. These things were hard fought and some of them only recently achieved.” He laughed self-deprecatingly, “If it happened in the last 100 years I think it’s recent, sorry, perils of the job.”

He put his glasses back on and shuffled the papers on the table in front of him. “Our ancestors argued with these tyrants, they fought these sick psychopaths, for clearly these people were psychopaths. Who other than a psychopath would enslave and beat another human being? Who but a psychopath would force children up chimneys, force them down the mines, force them to undertake dangerous and life threatening jobs, jobs which could maim or kill them outright or leave them scarred, diseased for life? Who but a psychopath would force women and children into the poor houses of old, who other than a psychopath would walk past a destitute and impoverished child begging on the street? Only a psychopath would do these things.”

He opened his arms and lifted his shoulders “but surely, we need not worry ourselves with the past, with history for it is just that, it is history, and now we live in a far better time, don’t we?”

He paused again and looked around the hall, “Or do we? Do we live in a far better time? In a time of social equality? A time of shared social wealth? Of shared social responsibility? Of social consciousness? I say NO! We don’t. We live in a time of unrestrained greed, of unrestrained selfishness, of unrestrained barbarity; we live in a time of unrestrained theft. The psychopaths of old have returned and they are better equipped than before.”

He took off his glasses again, this time folding them and putting them in the top pocket of his jacket, patting them as he did so.

“They have the miracle of propaganda on their side, and for propaganda in this day and age we should read ‘spin’. We have been seduced by this word ‘spin’ as if it is somehow harmless, this habit of showing things in their ‘best’ light, we even allow them to call themselves ‘spin doctors’, thus allying this sly practice to a noble calling, when it is a form of deception no less pervasive than the propaganda used by the greatest exponent in the 20th Century, Joseph Goebbels. He lived by it, he breathed it and he controlled the German people with it. He managed to convince them that whatever Hitler and the Nazis party thought up and said, it was for the benefit of the Germans as a whole, for the benefit of Germany and ultimately for the benefit of mankind. By the time Goebbels had finished they thought Hitler was the new messiah. That’s what ‘spin’ does, it allows you to take an evil idea, an evil lie, and an evil act and re-model it into something pure and clean merely by changing the language you use to describe it.”

He took a deep breath, pausing to let his words sink in, “And what is the modern lie? What is the modern evil? What is the modern propaganda? I intend to concentrate on one act, just the one crime which is so huge, so beastly that it eclipses all others… the crime of exploitation, of the modern slave, of abuse of women, of children and of men, the crime being carried out by our leaders and the wealthy of this country merely for the purposes of personal, I emphasise, PERSONAL profit and gain. They are not doing these things for the nation, they are not doing them for the benefit of the masses, and they are not fighting some evil to save mankind, NO! They are lining their own pockets with gold at the expense of the rest of society, at the expense of the rest of humanity. And how are they doing this? What is the lie and how are they spinning it?”

He paused for a moment, “The spin is that this country is no longer competitive, no longer able to make products cost effectively, that we can’t compete with the low costs of China and India, that we’re greedy, we pay ourselves too much, want too much, that is the spin, that is also the lie, for tell me, how can this really be so? How can it be so? ...It’s not possible.”

The audience was quiet, paying rapt attention.
Maurice patted his pockets, seeking his glasses eventually finding and repositioning them. “Why? Because we produce things more cost effectively today than we ever could, it is cheaper comparatively for us to make things in the west than it used to be – mass production, the microchip, streamlined processes, skilled workers and custom built factories.”

Maurice paused for a moment, “Yet still they say we can’t compete with China and India. This, they say, is why everything is made in these countries, and we’re partly to blame because as consumers we all go shopping and buy the cheapest things… which are made in China and India.”

There was some awkward shuffling in the hall; many people aware of the labels in their own clothes and the shops from which they had been purchased. “But what they don’t tell you is how these products are being made so cheaply; they don’t tell you how the 3rd world is managing to undercut competitors so completely and how they have transitioned so meteorically to being a major exporter of goods the West wants to buy. They don’t tell you that the companies producing these products in China and India are western companies that used to have factories here in the west; that the wealthy individual who invests in emerging markets is investing all of his money in China and India instead of here in the UK; that the wealth from these investments goes directly into the pockets of the rich investors here in the west; that part of the taxable wealth created by manufacturing these products in the 3rd world goes directly into the hands of the tyrants running these countries.”

He stopped abruptly, breathing as if completing a race.

Then began again, “And most importantly, what they don’t tell you is that to ensure this wealth, to ensure prices are cut to the bone, the 3rd world worker is treated as little more than a slave, a serf. The rich are boycotting their own country to avoid paying the decent living wage, supporting the benefits our ancestors fought for, to avoid paying tax that in turn provides better living conditions, a fair share of the wealth. The rich and their lackey politicians have bypassed us in the west, bypassed their social responsibilities and found a new class of slave, a new class of serf, they now have their new child workers, and they now have their new set of peasants who work for a dollar a day. They have chosen to withdraw as much money as their political servants could get them and reinvest this money where human life is considered worthless, where the life of a child, the life of a woman and the life of a man are considered no more than a cheap resource to be spent, squandered, maimed and struck down by disease wherever these fiends decide to set up their hellish factories where workers’ rights are negligible, where workers safety is not taken into consideration, where workers lives are constantly put at risk and often snuffed out.”

He stared around the hall, “Where the poor, the masses, where humanity itself is deemed a tool to help the rich get richer and where the old and weak are left to rot in their hovels without help or hope; where the weak are considered excess to requirement because they cannot work. We had a fine example of such practices at the start of the 20th Century under the Nazis, with their concentration camps where they worked people to death. What is the difference between a Nazi and an investor in the 3rd world, nothing but time and distance …for their inhumane treatment of people is just the same.”

“The rich have their new slaves; they don’t have to consider safe working conditions, fair pay, don’t have to treat these 3rd world workers like human beings, they just invest and wait for the dividends to come rolling in. Western companies can close down their factories, sack their workforce and reopen in the 3rd world where they can gain more profit from the exploitation of the weak but this is not right.”

His voice reached the back of the room with ease. “This is a crime against humanity. The spin doctors are always at work and they portray it as pragmatic, business sense, economically indisputable. They paint a picture that no company has a choice other than to invest in the 3rd world and employ slaves. They portray the investment in emerging markets as the natural resting place of any savvy investor; they make it all sound so natural, so logical, so respectable. Surely, they imply, anyone would do it. Anyone who had money would invest in a company that sends women and children to work in the cotton gins with no masks; in conditions that destroys their lungs, cripples their backs, breaks their spirit and reduces them to a decrepit state before their time. According to the ‘spin doctors’ anyone given half the chance would treat other human beings as economic fodder, as economic waste, as economic effluent to be used as desired until every ounce of energy, every ounce of sweat, every possible effort has been extracted from them for the least possible financial outlay and the most possible profit.”

He was fairly gasping for breath, “Well let me tell you, this is not so; human beings are social creatures. I say again, this is not true; human beings live and work together in tribal groups. I know that this is a lie; tribal groups look after their elderly and their young. It is pure spin to cover the fact that the psychopaths are in charge, that we are being lead by psychopaths!” he yelled this last word, to the accompaniment of much cheering and applause. “Only a psychopath would ever think of doing these things, only a psychopath would dream of abusing other people in such a way, only a psychopath would treat people as less than human just for money. The shocking truth is, even though they now have most if not all of the money, they want still more, they want all of the money that you have left in your pockets, they want it all because they have no empathy with other people, with other creatures, they have no feeling for the world which they exploit, they have no love or sense of being or belonging for their souls are dead, dead to all things but greed and a desire to rule over others.”

“That’s their plan for the 3rd world, that’s their plan for their new servants, their new serfs, their new slaves. But what’s their plan for their old serfs, for their old slaves, what’s their plan for the now ‘excess to requirement’ and plainly redundant workers of the west? What’s their plan for the unwanted British worker?”

He gripped the desk as he stared around the hall, “It’s in play now…it started with the barriers to migration coming down; the influx of cheap labour from the EU. Managed properly this shouldn’t have been the problem it has become but they under-estimated badly the numbers that would arrive, or so we are told. They under-estimated the detrimental effect huge numbers would have on local communities if they were to arrive and settle all in one place, or so we are told. They under-estimated the massive strain this would put on local facilities such as schools and hospitals and community services, or so we are told.”

He noted nodding heads and murmurs of agreement, and hastened to add, “Sympathetically managed immigration can bring in vital new and fresh ideas, concepts and vision… but this has been anything but that. The devastating results are still being felt in certain parts of the country where the landscape has changed probably irrevocably, where the indigenous population has been over-whelmed and forced out. Wages have fallen for jobs usually undertaken by the poorest in our society because the migrant workers expectations are significantly lower even than the minimum wage. They don’t need us; they have their money; their dividends from their 3rd world investments. They’ve started their spin… they’ve already said we can’t compete, already created their world recession that forces them into acts of austerity; they have no choice. There’s no money, what else can they do?”

There was movement in the hall as some people who’d been sitting in the back walked forward to a few empty seats in the front rows.

“They’ve already set a cap on benefits so that the millions they intend to make unemployed will receive less, they’ve already destroyed the savings and earning capacity of the middle classes, they’ve already set in motion their plans for economic cleansing by reducing housing benefit, by cutting back on social housing, by raising rents and house prices."

Maurice paused for a drink.

"So the process of driving the redundant, unemployed workers from the South into the North has begun. Once in the North it is not hard to imagine what will happen next … they will be ghettoized, they will live in poverty, with no hope and in the absence of hope they will drink cheap, freely available alcohol, take mind-obliterating drugs, eat nutritionally empty fast food which will reduce their life expectancy and further stultify their brains, thus reducing their enthusiasm for protest and leave them sapped of energy, overweight, directionless. They will adorn sofas watching mindless TV drivel; insignificant peasants living out their meaningless and poverty stricken lives … that’s what they intend for the workers of the west, that’s what they intend for the workers of the UK …BUT WE WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN!”

The audience stood as one and cheered and applauded.

“We are the Independents and we will stop them. We cannot trust any of the politicians from any of the political parties for they have all sold themselves. They have sold their souls to the corporate and economic lie that they feed us, the lie of the free market which isn’t free. Let’s be honest, they know how to protect themselves, how to protect their investments, how to protect their money, that’s why they bailed out the banks. It wasn’t your money they were protecting, it wasn’t my money they were protecting; it was their money and their political pay masters’ money. That’s who benefitted from the bank bailout, that’s who gained from the bank rescue packages.”

Maurice raised his hands from the rostrum, “But they have not fooled us, they have not fooled the free thinking individual, they have not achieved their goals as yet, they have not won yet, they have not beaten us yet and we are not for beating. We are not going to let them win, we are not going to let them beat us, we are going to rally, to rise up, to march on the streets, to spread the word. We are going to let the British worker know that it is not too late, that we are competitive and that we can make a better world not only for us but for our coworkers everywhere around the world. We are going to stop the political tyrants, these economic psychopaths in their tracks and we are going to wrest power from their grasp and together, we are going to change the WORLD!”


Thanks for reading


Arun

From the book 'Murder, Mayhem & Money'

Superstar

He that is of the opinion money will do everything
may well be suspected of doing everything for money.

Benjamin Franklin

He poured a cup of tea and took it with him into his haven; his games room. Upstairs he could hear Fiona and the girls, 3 year old twins, getting ready for their weekly shopping trip. He never went with them, hated the crush, hated shops, besides he had a big game tomorrow and he needed his rest; it was the crunch end of the season and he was carrying a few niggles that worried the Boss.

He grabbed the hand control to his Bang & Olufsen and Strauss' Blue Danube started up. He relaxed into his chair, scanning the walls, the showcased shirts of his favourite players. He stopped when he reached Pete Bowthorpe's shirt, legendary central defender for his beloved Newcastle United. He couldn't help it, every time he saw that shirt it tore at his soul, every time he heard the Geordie fans it tore at his heart, leaving him breathless. He drifted back to the early days when he actually enjoyed the game, when he played for the team he loved.

Sammy and Charlie ran in, screaming, vying to see who could get to him first and give him the biggest hug. Fiona's two dogs followed at their heels, yapping loudly.

"We're off then, Darren," yelled Fiona from the hall.

The dogs flew off towards the sound of her voice, this time the girls were at their heels. "You gonna come and wave us off at least?"

Five minutes later he was back contemplating the shirt, eyes half-closed, hearing the chanting crowds and remembering how it felt as he went to the stands after scoring, re-living the thrill and the love he felt for them and the love they gave him. Feeling the same old pull; always for him it would be the Magpies.

He looked down, one of the dogs was attacking his left ankle, this was the blue bowed one which was meant to be some kind of clue but he never bothered to listen so never knew which was which.
He stood up, shook his leg and flicked it off.

He flopped down into his chair and stared up at the Geordie top.

Tomorrow he was up against his old club, and it was him everyone would expect to score the winning goal. This time it would be crucial to both clubs, United could win the league yet again and Newcastle would be relegated. Simple as. If he scored the winning goal then he would be the one to send his old club down, a pain he knew he couldn't bear. How could he do that when all his life he had supported the Toon, when he had spent his youth in the stands with his dad and his cousins and then his mates, it was unthinkable that he was the one expected to sink the hopes and dreams of the town he loved.

He drifted back to the United v City game of the '73-'74 season when Denis Law thought he'd scored the goal that relegated United. As it happened United were already relegated but that didn't stop it passing into folk law that it was Law's goal that sank United. Was that his destiny? To be the man who destroyed the dreams of every Geordie?

He conjured images of Law trudging from the pitch. 'Thing is it wasn't even as bad for Law 'cause he was a Jock and he only adopted United,' thought Darren, 'this is my club, my home town. Is this where greed and a desire for glory has finally brought me?'

The letterbox clattered and the pink and blue bowed tormentors scurried off, yapping wildly. He rubbed his forehead as their high pitched yelps penetrated deep into his brain. He checked his watch, he was due at the club for physio; the Boss would be there ready to pep him along, big him up and stress the importance of the game. "Bloody Bergson," he moaned, 'it's alright for you, you've pretty much always been United and you'd love to see the Magpies go down. Bastard."

An hour later he was stretched face down on the table whilst Mike, the club physio, rubbed his hamstrings. Mike had tried to start up a conversation but gave up after receiving only grunts in response.
Bergson was in the corridor outside, talking to Terry Finch, one of his assistant trainers. He sounded excited, energised and as they broke off Darren closed his eyes. He hadn't realised just how much he didn't want to see his manager, the man who had tempted him away from St. James' with the prospects of glory, medals and, of course, money.

"Darren," said Bergson, bursting into the room, a big man, with a big head and a florid face and a voice he used like a weapon, "how you feeling? How's he looking for tomorrow, Mike?"

"He's good, Boss," said Mike, crouching down and wringing his hands Uriah Heep fashion; he was fearful of Bergson’s temper.

"How's that leg?" Bergson grabbed the limb in question, the one that had scored a total of 260 goals, 89 of them for United; an incredible 36 this season.

Darren flinched at the contact.

"Listen son, I want you to take it easy today, no training just physio, it's more important to rest than anything else. You get us an early goal tomorrow I'll get you off and shut up shop, no point risking further injury, there's still the final to come and we could end the season with the 'double'."

Darren tried to come up with a suitably positive response, though none was necessary, Bergson had moved on, pushing Mike aside, "Turn over a minute I need to see your face."

Darren rolled over, 'here we go,' he thought, 'the pep talk.'

"Listen, son, this is the very last game of the season, we're in prime position, but Chelsea are only 1 point behind us."

"But we've got better goal difference, Boss," Mike interjected enthusiastically, his head nodding up and down.

"Yeah, yeah," said Bergson, eyeing him coldly, then adding dismissively, "got work to do, Mike?"

"We're gonna win Boss," Mike said, missing the cue in his enthusiasm.

Bergson's look closed the supply of breath to Mike's throat, then thankfully the attention was back on Darren, "If we win...."

"When we win," whispered Mike, superstitiously touching two fingers to his head, his chest then left and right shoulders. He repeated the movement at speed until it became meaningless.

Bergson took a deep calming breath, if Mike wasn't such an accomplished masseuse and so well-loved by the dressing room he'd have him out on his ear faster than.., he dipped his head and rubbed his forehead, "If we win," he said, teeth gritted, "we win the league."

"Yeah!" shouted Mike throwing his fist in the air.

"Mike!" snapped Bergson, "If you don't mind."

"Sorry Boss, just kinda...well you know."

Bergson turned his back on him, focussing the blue eyed laser beam directly into Darren's troubled brown gaze, "Tomorrow's a really big day for this club."

Darren resisted the urge to blink, "Yes Boss."

"We could win the League again, and you know what that means to the club and the fans."

"To the club and the fans," repeated Mike, reverentially.

"And to me personally, Darren?"

"To the Boss," intoned Mike.

"I went out on a limb bringing you to this great club; you know that, don't you Darren?"

"Yes Boss." Although he'd heard it all before and it had lost some value in the repetition, it was still an unarguable fact, Bergson had fought a lot of people to get his transfer past the Board.

"They certainly didn't want to pay the salary, you remember that too, don't you Darren?"

"Yes Boss." Darren kept his face straight, stopped his lip curling in disgust at his own greed. Money, the root of all evil.

"So now's the time to show I was right and what a great investment it was."

"Right Boss," he managed a nod this time.

"So tomorrow I want you to go out there with only one intention, to make us champions again."

There was a small silence while Bergson held Darren's gaze, even Mike was in awe of the moment.
There was an elephant in the room and they had been circling it but now it was time to shine the light.

"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."
It was out in the open. NEWCASTLE UNITED. In letters as large as life. Darren thought it must be obvious to anyone with eyes that he was dying inside.

"But you can do it, I know you can." Not obvious to Bergson then.

"Yes Boss, don't worry about me, Boss," said Darren, "I'm United through and through." There, he'd said it, United through and through, the Newcastle bit was in his head only; he'd got away with saying it.

"Good lad," said Bergson, "so remember, a win tomorrow and....."

"We will win, Boss," said Mike keenly.

"That's enough, Mike," said Bergson.

"We will win," muttered Mike, crossing himself again.
Bergson dipped his head, then lifted it in a roar, "A WIN TOMORROW," he paused, offering Mike the bait but he wisely held his tongue, "and we win the league. However, if we draw..."

"We won't draw, Boss," said Mike, "Darren's leg will get us the goal we need."

"MIKE!" Bergson calmed himself, "Mike. Could you get me some water, Mike?"

"Sure thing Boss," Mike dashed from the room.

"I've been a player, Darren, so I know where you're at right now. I know that it's not only your old club but the club you've supported since you were a lad."

"Boss." Least said, soonest mended, Darren remembered from somewhere.

"I know that a win for us sees them relegated and, believe me, I never like to see a club go down, especially a great club like Newcastle, but that's the name of the game, right?"

Darren nodded, "Boss," he said, thinking, 'but you hate Keith.'

Bergson replied as if the words had been spoken, "I know Keith Morgan and I have had our differences," a small word to cover a huge depth of loathing, "but you know I think he's a great guy and I admire him as a manager, right?"

"Right, Boss," said Darren, thinking, 'You hate Keith 'cause he found out you shagged his missus and he took your Maureen in exchange.'

"It's just not been their season, right."

"Right Boss," said Darren, desperate to say out loud, 'Yeah but you didn't help, knifing and niggling at him in the papers.'

"And they'll spring back from this."

"Boss." Yeah right.

"Besides which, you're a United player now."

"United through and through!" Darren was having real problems maintaining this. How Bergson couldn't hear the double meaning was beyond him.

"So, tomorrow I want you to go out there with nothing else on your mind but scoring that winning goal and making us champions again. Then we can move onto the cup final and do the 'Double' for the fans, for United, for Manchester United."

"Sure thing, Boss."

"Remember," said Bergson, his eyes turning icy, "all that really counts is us being champions again. Otherwise Chelsea will get it and that would fuck me right off."

"Me too Boss," said Darren. A measure of sincerity entered his voice, he was no fan of the Blues that's for sure.

"Here's your water, Boss," said Mike returning at the run, slopping liquid in his excitement.

"Cheers Mike," said Bergson putting the plastic cup down without taking a sip and nodding for Mike to follow him into the corridor, "Well?"

"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.

"How is he? How's the leg?"

"Oh, it's good, Boss."

"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, Boss."

"What about up here?" said Bergson, tapping a finger on his temple.

"I think he'll be alright Boss," said Mike.

"You're sure?" pressed Bergson, "Terry's not so sure." The assistant trainer wasn't Darren's biggest fan so to a certain extent his comments could be taken with a pinch of salt, but Bergson wanted to be sure.

"Who can tell what a guy's really thinking," said Mike, "but he seems ok to me."

Bergson looked through the glass at the top of the door, Darren had rolled onto his stomach and was resting his head on his arms. "Well, if he doesn't look interested we'll whip him off."

A voice from the top of the corridor hailed them, and Pat Seymour, Club Director, bore down, face wreathed in smiles, "We're all but there, man."

"Aye!" replied Bergson, grimly, "Just the one more hurdle."

"Hurdle? Newcastle? They're shite, they've been shite all season." He included Mike in the breadth of his smile, "We'll tear them apart especially with our Darren, he'll bury them and send the bastards back down where they belong. Serve that bastard Keith right for shacking up with your Maureen."

Bergson raised his finger to his mouth and shook his head. Mike pointed at the door of the physio room. Pat pulled a face and wrapping his arm around Bergson's shoulders, dragged him off to talk more of victory and glory.

Darren closed his eyes, 'What am I doing here?'

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

'The Cull' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below:
Prologue

For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

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

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power,

"Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

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

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

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

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

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


Cheers

Arun









[[bookcover:Rust|38892334]

The new release 'Wise Eyed Open' by Arun D Ellis

Preface

November 1973

"David, tell me what went wrong."

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly," said Elazar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Impossible," said Dayan.

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

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

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

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

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

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

The book "Aftermath' will be FREE from Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Sunday 3rd June 2018

Extract below

Dr Feelgood

“How is she today?”

“Much the same, Doctor,” answered Patrick, “she’s still coming out with this crazy stuff.”

“Mmm,” he said, walking into the main living space.

“Morning Doctor” said Delores.

“Good morning, Delores…and how are we today?”

“Well I’m in fine form,” said Delores, “but I can’t speak for everyone.”

Dr. Feelgood smiled, tightly. David closed his eyes.

“Have you been taking your medicine, Delores?”

“Yes, I have.” answered Delores.

“No, she hasn’t.” corrected Patrick.

“Patrick!” snapped Delores, “don’t you lie now, tell the Dr. the truth.”

“That is the truth, Delores,” said Patrick, with noticeably less conviction.

“Delores?” questioned the Doctor.

“Well okay, so I missed a few doses but to be honest Doc, I really don’t see the point.”

“And why’s that, Delores?”

“Because there’s nothing wrong with me” said Delores.

“Well, that’s a matter for others to decide, I think, Delores.”

“Look Doc, as far as I’m concerned, this is all some kind of crazy dream.”

“Which is why she’s been saying all those strange things on TV,” said Patrick.

“They aren’t ‘strange things’ Patrick, they make perfect sense.”

“Ah, they might make perfect sense to you, Delores,” said Dr. Feelgood, “but I’m afraid they’re a little off the wall to the rest of us.”

“Really? ...off the wall, you say?”

Recognising the tone, Patrick groaned.

“Yes, off the wall, Delores.” She had so little insight into her own condition, it was pitiful.

“Well okay,” said Delores, “let’s try a new one on you then, shall we?”

“Er, Delores …,” started Patrick, “that might not be a good idea?”

“No, Patrick,” interrupted Dr. Feelgood, “it might be good therapy; it will certainly help me ascertain where we are with Delores’ treatment.”

Delores raised her eyebrows, “Ascertain where we are with my treatment? Well, let me ascertain where we are with your insanity, Doctor.”

“Delores….” Patrick fumbled and chewed his bottom lip, “Please don’t say anymore ‘til David’s here.”
“Oh, do shut up,” snapped Delores, “what’s David going to do? Stop me? Is that what you think, Patrick?”

“Er, no Delores,” stammered Patrick, “I just think David should know what’s being said.”

“Well, you can tell him later…well Doc, what shall we cover?”

“I don’t know, Delores. What do you want to cover?” said Dr. Feelgood.

“Take a seat,” she instructed, pointing to an armchair. She thought for a bit then said happily, “Ah, now I have it.”

“You do? Well, don’t give it to me then.” Neither one laughed; not Patrick who shuffled uncomfortably nor Delores who simply stared until the doctor looked away.

“Do you like my home, Doctor?”

“Yes, Delores, it’s very beautiful,” said Dr. Feelgood.

“I have several others, you know,” said Delores.

“I’m sure you do,” said Dr. Feelgood, “you’ve been very successful, Delores.”

“Haven’t I just,” agreed Delores, “tell me Doctor, do you own your own home?”

Patrick looked horrified at the question.

“Well, yes, Delores,” answered Dr. Feelgood.

“What’s it like?” asked Delores.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where is it? What style is it? How many
rooms? How much land?”

“Oh well,” said Dr. Feelgood, “it’s a modern build, mock Georgian.”

“With pillared porch?” asked Delores.

“Yes actually,” answered Dr. Feelgood, “two pillars.”

“How many rooms?”

He looked surprised at her insistence, then recited, “Three receptions plus a study, a large kitchen/breakfast room, five bedrooms, three with en-suites, one ‘his and hers’ and one family bathroom and a wet room… oh and a conservatory.” This was all said rather smugly, to Patrick he sounded annoyingly like an estate agent.

“Very nice,” said Delores, “sounds like it cost a pretty penny or two.”

“Indeed it did, but you know, being a professional, well, it helps.”

“I’ll bet it does, and is there much land?”

“Oh not much really,” he said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “an acre or so; I’m not there enough to do a lot of land justice.”

“Mmm, gardener then…” she narrowed her eyes, “so tell me, how much did it cost?”

“Well,” stammered Dr. Feelgood, “erm….”

“Delores,” said Patrick, “I don’t think the Doctor wants to part with that kind of information.”

“Ok …where is it?” asked Delores.

“Er, West Sussex.”

“On the coast or inland?” asked Delores.

“Inland.” said Dr. Feelgood.

“Interesting…” her eyes probed his and he felt bubbles of sweat pop out on his brow, “then I’d say it probably set you back a cool 1.5, 1.8 million?”

“Delores,” squealed Patrick.

“Ignore him,” said Delores, “let’s call it a million, there or thereabouts?”

A short battle occurred between the desire to show-off and the Englishman’s innate secrecy about money. “Er, thereabouts.”

“And I’m guessing most of it is mortgaged,” said Delores.

“Delores, no…” squealed Patrick.

“If you can’t be quiet, Patrick, I suggest you go into the kitchen and make us all a cup of tea,” she turned to the doctor, the perfect hostess, “how do you take your tea, Doctor?”

“I’d rather have a coffee if I could…need the caffeine…” this last was said in a mumble.

“Coffee for the Doctor, tea for me, go on Patrick, get on with it.” He nodded and hurried from the room. “Right, let’s just examine the reality of your little bit of ownership, shall we?”

Dr. Feelgood folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, “Well, I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say, Delores.”

“Good because you’re going to hear it anyway,” she laughed, rather theatrically he thought, “you charge enough, and it’s on my time so you might as well hear what I have to say.”

He fidgeted irritably, he didn’t like people commenting on his fee, if that was what he charged then that was what he charged and if they didn’t like it then they could jolly well go elsewhere instead of making a song and dance about it, and talking of song and dance, he didn’t tell Delores how much to charge for tickets to her shows, did he.

“You think you own that house of yours and the little bit of land… what was it, 2 acres? …but you’re wrong Doctor, you don’t own it and you never will.”

“Well that’s just where you’re wrong Delores….”

“Sorry Doc, but if you just listen first, then you can comment. It’s my pound remember,” said
Delores, “so I get to call the shots.” He smiled; his teeth together, gritted, trying for benign but achieving a grimace. “You don’t own that house, Doctor, the bank does…if you miss a payment or a number of payments what happens to the house? The bank takes it back, it kicks you out into the street and then it sells your house at rock bottom price and you are liable to any shortfall, is that right?”

“Well yes, of course the bank can claim the house if I don’t pay the mortgage but….”

“But what Doctor? …you’re secure in your profession? But what would happen if the bank suddenly had debts it couldn’t pay?” He stared at her. “It could force you to sell your house to cover its bad debt, couldn’t it?”

“I don’t think so, or if it could, it wouldn’t”

“In the small print of your mortgage it says that the bank can demand that you pay the full sum of your loan at anytime if so required by them … they can foreclose on the loan.”

“Yes, Delores, but that’s only a legal term to protect the bank.”

“Oh yes? And what legal terms are there in the small print to protect you? I mean, if you can’t afford the mortgage for whatever reason, unless you’ve taken out massively expensive income protection insurance, you’re stuffed. There is nothing in the mortgage small print that obliges the bank to sell the house at market value, thus protecting your investment. Don’t bother arguing, because we both know it’s the truth. If the house needs to be sold it’s sold at rock bottom price and the bank gets its money back first and any leftover (she laughs nastily at this point) is yours. In reality there most likely won’t be enough to repay the full loan of the mortgage so you are still liable for it. You owe them the difference. There is nothing in the documentation about the thousands or maybe even hundreds of thousands that you’ve invested in the property, your equity… it’s all just about the bank’s money.”

“They are putting up the loan,” said Dr. Feelgood, “which, to be fair, is most of the money.”

“But is that fair, Doctor? I mean, you work hard to buy the house, you’re the ‘owner-occupier’…you put all of your money, effort, savings into the property but if some financial or economic disaster should befall you or your family then that house that you thought was ‘your home’, that house you thought you ‘owned’, that little bit of England you put all your hopes and dreams and efforts into suddenly belongs to the bank? No Doctor, not suddenly… it always belonged to the bank and you were just maintaining it for them, improving it for them so its market value would rise and they would get more money out of it.”

“Now that’s not true,” said Dr, Feelgood, “because any increase in value is mine when I sell the house.”

“Ah ha, but you won’t ever realise the cash, will you? No, you’ll succumb to pressure, from your wife, from the chaps down at the club, from colleagues and you’ll sell it in order to buy another, yet more expensive house with a bigger mortgage. You won’t realise the cash but the banks will feel the benefit. Okay, in this instance it might not be the same bank but for them it’s all swings and roundabouts, isn’t it.”

“I’m not sure I …?”

The good doctor was struggling to keep his head above water, it was not just the strength of argument that was the problem but the fact that it was Delores putting it forward.

“Whichever bank lends the money to the new buyer of your house is the true benefactor of the increase in the value of your property. Let’s say, the house was priced at £1.9m when you bought it a few years ago, say you’ve improved it a bit and the market has risen a bit, and it now sells at £2.3m. Unless the buyer has a very large deposit to put down the bank will be in the position of granting a larger mortgage, which equates to more debt, more interest on that debt, higher monthly payments and, all in all, more money for the banks.”

“What?”

“And this goes right across the board to all property, which you never actually own, don’t you see, Doctor? You and others like you are helping the banks to drive up the price of houses so that they can lend ever more money to people like you so that they earn more interest. It’s just a method of driving debt upwards, creating inflation in debt as opposed to inflation in products.”

He was looking seriously confused by now. So far neither of them had noticed Patrick’s failure to return from the kitchen.

“And to top it off,” said Delores, “not only are you paying this huge debt to the banks but the banks also really own your house, you don’t.”

“Well,” stammered Dr. Feelgood, “I think I own my house.”

“That’s the beauty of the con, you think you do but you don’t, you just rent it via a mortgage from the banks and let’s face it, Doc …you could actually rent something far bigger than the house you’re ‘buying’ (she did the annoying two fingers of each hand inverted commas thing) for less monthly outlay. Truth be told, the whole ‘own your own home’ (again with the fingers) thing was just a massive swindle by the Conservatives to try and make more money out of the working classes.”

“No, no…, no…” His head was shaking furiously.

“Yes, yes, yes, and you know who owns the banks, Doc? Why, the really big shareholders, of course and by that I don’t mean the pension schemes, I mean the obscenely rich, the lords and ladies, the aristocracy, the wealthy entrepreneurs.”

He raised his finger as if he wanted to speak but he didn’t have an argument mustered so Delores continued.

“Actually I think the word ‘entrepreneur’ is a fiddle, as well, don’t you? I mean it’s bandied around like it’s a good thing but exactly what is an ‘entrepreneur’? It’s a person who has an idea and a bit of money, tricks other people into working for a fixed salary, and markets a product at way above its true value, effectively stealing from the purchasers, so that he can have a vast profit that makes him a millionaire. How can that be right? He didn’t do all the work, did he? No, the employees did that, so surely they deserve a bigger share in the profits for their efforts. Also why rip off the customer? Why not charge just enough to cover the costs and allow you to make more? Why so greedy?”

“Well, Delores,” he said, finding his feet and a patronising tone, “I think that’s economics and I think that’s best explained by people who actually understand how the system works.”

“Economists don’t know how the system works, you silly man,” said Delores, right back at you, Doc, “They just know how to make something really simple appear really complicated.”

Dr. Feelgood’s face was all skepticism but no words came to his lips.

The Delores tank rolled on inexorably, “You get a mortgage to buy a house, a larger mortgage than the previous owner because the price of the house has been artificially increased by the market, which is controlled by the banks. Then you live in the house for a few years paying a lot more in mortgage payments than you would if you were renting a similar property. But hey, you ‘own’ it and can ‘do things to it’…things that cost even more money, by the way… so you maintain its upkeep, improve it with say a new kitchen or bathroom; the more salubrious the neighbourhood the more expensive the kitchen would need to be – a Küche & Cucina, say; impressing your cleaner is very important after all and at the end you sell it to someone else for more than you paid for it so they’ll need an even bigger mortgage. And all the while everyone is paying all this money to the banks and the banks give the money to their shareholders, the biggest of whom are the incredibly rich. This, when you boil it all down, means that you’re taking a large sum out of your wages and passing it across to some rich person to live large, whilst you and others like you struggle to make their monthly payments. Basically you’ve been screwed, Doc, but somehow they’ve convinced you that you own a bit of England, when the truth is you don’t really own anything, you’re just renting it at a higher cost and they can take it back from you any time they want. It’s all just a card trick, Doc. All just ‘smoke and mirrors’ and that’s what’s getting to me.”

Dr. Feelgood stared open mouthed.

“I can’t help it Doc, but for some reason I can see it all clearly, like it’s laid out before me.”

“I…I…” stammered Dr. Feelgood.

“Drinks are served,” said Patrick entering the room.

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be David,” said Patrick, “I took the liberty of phoning him from the kitchen, you don’t mind, do you Delores?”

“I think I’m going to take my leave now anyway,” said Dr. Feelgood.

“Okay Doc.” said Delores, “but you think about what I’ve said.”

“I certainly will do that, Delores.”

“The thing is although I know things have always been like this and I’ve always accepted them it’s just that they’ve never seemed so outrageous to me before, does that make sense?”

“Well, of course,” said Dr. Feelgood.

“I’m not stupid either,” said Delores, “I know it has something to do with these damned 40 day and 40 nights but I can’t for the life of me see what, apart from the possibility of course that I’m in a hospital bed in a coma like from the series…”

“Life on Mars,” murmured Dr. Feelgood.

“Exactly,” said Delores, “but then you wouldn’t be real, would you, Doc which means you’d resist any such suggestion.”

Dr. Feelgood grimaced.

“Hello everyone,” said David entering the room.

“Good bye,” said Dr. Feelgood taking his leave.

“Oh,” said David, “was it something I said?”

“No,” said Delores, “I think that honour belongs to me.”

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers Arun

The book "Aftermath' will be FREE from Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Sunday 3rd June 2018

Extract below

The David Pullman Show

“Well, Delores, how are the record sales going?”

“Why do you ask, David?” said Delores sharply, she’d never liked him or his show.

“Oh, come on, Delores, we all know this whole ‘40 days and 40 nights’ thing and all the sudden political comments are just part of some huge publicity machine you’ve got working for you, though for the life of me I’m not sure how they’re meant to help you, I mean denigrating men, the church, talent shows, the markets and…..”

“I merely described how things appear to me.” interrupted Delores,

“Well, that must be a really crazy mixed up mind you’ve got there, Delores,” said David, “drug induced, no doubt.”

“Actually David, that might be slanderous, defamation of character at least,” said Delores, seriously “I’ve never taken drugs, in fact; I don’t even drink or smoke.”

“Right,” said David knowingly.

“I mean it, David,” said Delores, “I don’t do drugs, alcohol or cigarettes.”

“Any reason for that?” asked David, “though I find it strange that you lump those things together...”

“Oh David, don’t be silly, everybody knows that alcohol and cigarettes are just as addictive as drugs.”

“They might be addictive but they’re not illegal substances,” said David,

“Well, perhaps they should be, David, but that said, just because I don’t drink or smoke or do drugs doesn’t mean I’m against any of them.”

“Really,” said David, “not against drugs? Not anti one of the most insidious evils filtering into and destroying society today?”

“I don’t think it’s filtering in,” said Delores, “and seriously, do you?”

“Well, how else does it get to the street?” demanded David.

“It’s sanctioned, of course,” said Delores.

“Sanctioned?” said David, “by whom?”

“By the Government.”

“Er, that’s crazy talk, Delores. Everyone knows that
there’s an ongoing drugs war being waged with huge amounts of money being expended….”

“Don’t be silly, David,” said Delores, “we’re not stupid.”

“Come on, Delores,” said David, “what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, I’m stating it clearly. If the Government wanted to stamp out drug distribution on our streets then it could be done very easily, they just don’t want to, that’s all.”

“I disagree, Delores. Firstly, I think prohibition proved you can’t stop things getting to the streets and secondly, why on earth would the Government want drugs on our streets bearing in mind the amount of drug related crime that’s engulfing our society today?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous, David,” said Delores.

“What does that mean? Delores, you can’t just make rash and ill thought out statements like that without having some argument to back them up.”

“But I can back them up, David,” said Delores, “but we both know you won’t allow me the time or space to do that.”

“Of course I will,” said David, “if you have a valid argument that is, obviously I won’t just sit here if you put up some of your weird, flakey ideas.”

“Now, see how prejudiced you are, you just described me as weird and flakey.”

“No, I didn’t,” corrected David, “I said your ideas were weird and flakey; probably due to all of those drugs you claim not to have taken.”

“I don’t do mind affecting substances,” said Delores, “including alcohol.”

“You don’t drink,” questioned David, “or you have not drunk alcohol ever?”

“I didn’t say that, naturally I’ve drunk alcohol, I just don’t drink it much nowadays.”

“Much?” pressed David, “much isn’t ‘don’t drink’, Delores, so how much d’you drink?”

“Well, naturally I’ll have a drink at Christmas and parties or social gatherings,”

“So you do drink then?” said David.

“But I’ll usually only have the one,” added Delores.

“Hmmm,” said David leaning back in his chair, “where were we? What was I going to ask
you?”

“Why I, and a great many others I might add, think that the Government sanctions the drug trade,” said Delores smiling equably.

“Oh, that’s right,” said David, “well, please continue.”

“It’s really quite simple, Governments have the power and the resources to stop or crush anything they want, so if they don’t, it generally means they are reaping some form of reward from the process.”

“Come on, Delores, that’s a weak argument, a cheap argument, in fact. ‘They could if they wanted to but because they haven’t succeeded they must want them on the streets’… that’s just crazy thinking.”

“I don’t agree, David.”

“Delores, the Government spends millions on drug enforcement policies and they have committed huge resources to winning this war.”

“Really?” questioned Delores, “because when Governments commit huge resources to winning a war we’re usually talking in the region of billions, not millions and let’s be clear here, we’re talking only a few million.”

“What does that mean, Delores?” demanded David.

“It means if the Government was really committed to a war on drugs then it would spend war sized money but it isn’t. So you have to ask ‘why not’ and I think the answer is fairly obvious, don’t you? Or at least it is to me and a vast number of other people out there, including your audiences, David.”

“Oh yeah, so what is this obvious answer?”

“Divide and rule, David,” said Delores.

“Divide and rule. You’ve been using that phrase a lot in your interviews.” Delores nodded, unperturbed, “but that’s ridiculous, the Government represents the will of the people, is voted for by the people. The people elected this Government, we live in a democracy. So all this clap trap that you’ve been coming out with is mindless rubbish, hippy rubbish” he hissed, “dare I say even ‘junkie’ rubbish?”

“Clearly you may dare, since you just did it. However I feel bound to remind you of the laws on slander or actually, libel since we’re ‘ON AIR’.” She admonished him with an upraised, wagging finger, “and I do have to say, David …just because you’ve had an excitable outburst, it doesn’t make what I’ve been saying any less accurate.”

David turned to his audience and raised his hands in despair. They were strangely quiet and he turned away quickly.

“If you’re willing to listen, David,” said Delores, “I will explain.”

“By all means, Delores,” said David, rubbing his brow.

“Well, I think it has been fairly clear to the powers that be….”

“Powers that be?” questioned David, “Who are we talking about here, Delores?”

“Let her talk,” shouted a male voice in the audience.

“I am letting her talk,” a defensive snap back, “No heckling please, let Delores have her say.”

“I don’t think he was heckling me, David,” said Delores, with a small smile, “so as I was saying, the powers that be identified early in the 20th century that the world was going to change rapidly, and that empires would be no longer required.”

“I thought that people in the dominions of Empire gained their liberty helping to fight the Axis powers,” said David, pompously, “and some of the empires had to be reclaimed with violence.”

“The imperial powers still managed to gain control of the rebellions before they left, leaving compliant governments in place. It’s all very complicated, David, but all we really need to recognise is that the empires existed only to facilitate trade but once trade could be achieved without military protection then the empires were doomed.”

“And this has what to do with the war on drugs exactly?”

“Well, along with the running down of the empires and the growing investments in so called emerging markets, governments in the west had to find ways of splintering the masses… otherwise there would’ve been several revolutions by now.”

David sat back in his chair and threw his hands up, “Oh that’s rubbish; you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Delores. I’m sorry, I’m not being cruel but let’s face it you’re just a singer, aren’t you and not a very good one at that.” There were a few loud boos and calls of ‘shame’, David shifted a little in his chair, “I’m sorry,” he said addressing the audience, “but I have to say it how I see it and quite honestly, this is bunkum.”

“David, do you believe that drugs on our streets fracture society?”

“Yes I do,” said David, “obviously I do. I believe I referred to drugs as one of the most insidious evils filtering into and destroying society today.”

“Yes, quite… and do you believe also that it’s method of distribution and attached costs lead to a massive amount of crime on our streets?” pressed Delores.

“Of course.” said David.

“Then bearing in mind the amount of money the Government has at its disposal…”

“The Government has to ration out its money; it can’t just commit vast sums to fighting drug crime no matter how simple it might seem to you, Delores.”

“Yet it spends billions on nuclear weapons we’re never going to fire, and not only that, but we’ll have to spend millions more on disposing of those weapons when they get old…so don’t say the money doesn’t exist, David.”

“So what are you saying?” pressed David, “that we should get rid of our nuclear arsenal and leave the UK open to nuclear attack?”

“Attack from whom, David?”

“Attack from the Russians or Middle Eastern terrorist groups like al-Qaeda.”

Delores laughed, composedly, “You are an idiot, David. Do you know how many missiles we have? Something like 30? I don’t know, exactly but come on; Russia has hundreds and is an absolutely huge country, massive by comparison to the UK. Do you really think that our few missiles are going to give the Russians pause?”

“They’re part of the NATO nuclear deterrent,” said David.

“David, America is the NATO nuclear deterrent and has enough nuclear weapons to destroy the entire world a hundred times over. Believe me, we have nothing to fear from Russia and even if we did our nuclear response is so pathetic it would merely lead to the complete obliteration of us as a nation state whilst causing minimal damage to a very tiny part of Russia.”

“Well, there’s always the terrorist….” began David.

“Ah yes, these elusive terrorists that modern politicians like to dangle before us. OK, for argument’s sake, let’s say a terrorist group did detonate a nuclear bomb in a major city, and let’s be clear here, they would have to walk it into the country because only America and Russia have the ability to strike from a distance, on whom would you launch a defensive strike?”

There was a muttered response from the audience. “Did she say ‘walk it in’?”

David spoke firmly, “Whatever country they came from.”

“Oh I see,” said Delores, nodding “a small group of religious fanatics detonate a nuclear device in a major city and your response would be to ‘nuke’ the country you think these people came from.” She looked at him, shaking her head, playing to the audience, “That makes sense David, go and kill several million innocent civilians, good idea, that’ll sort things out and stop any nuclear proliferation. And it doesn’t work at all against the home-grown terrorist.”

This gained her a smattering of applause and David rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “That’s all very interesting Delores, but I’m aware we’re running out of time, so…what’s this to do with the war on drugs?”

“Well, to be honest,” she murmured, “I think we’re arguing the wrong point but I will answer your question… if the Government committed enough money they would win … but I think there is a more reasonable and cheaper way to go.”

“Oh yes?” asked David, “and what’s that?”

“Legalise drugs.”

“Legalise drugs?” spluttered David, “but just now you were willing to sacrifice our nuclear deterrent to fight the war on drugs.”

“No, that’s not what I said,” corrected Delores, “You were the one who raised the issue of the war on drugs; I merely observed that if the Government was really committed to winning it then it would spend the commensurate amount of money.”

“So now you are pro allowing our kids access to limitless supplies of cannabis and crack cocaine …” said David.

There were several angry murmurs from the audience.

“No, David, that’s not what I’m saying, not at all. Although society’s main problem with drugs is the related crime; not the fact that there are addicts but that these addicts resort to crime to feed their habit. The exorbitant cost of drugs is linked to the scarcity of supply and the criminality that surrounds its production and distribution.”

She leaned forward, still hoping to reach him, “This alternative idea, and it’s not just me saying it, there are other more knowledgeable proponents of this idea, is that if drugs were commercially distributed thorough legalised outlets with fixed pricing and adequate social support structures drugs related crime would go down and quite a few drug addicts might even wean themselves off the product.”

“Drug dens?” said David, “you want drug dens?”

“No,” said Delores, “You’re being dramatic, I just think that it makes more sense to control the flow of drugs, make them cheaper and provide more social supports.”

“Well, we’ll have to leave it there” said David, “we’re out of time. I’d like to thank my studio guest, the always controversial Del… ”

“It’s certainly cheaper and more effective than a weak willed war on drugs,” Delores had the last word.

Hope you have a good week

Cheers

Arun

Other books in the series

The book 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' will be FREE for kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 27th May 2018

Extract below

2 Bruvvers



“Right, look, all I’m saying is, it ain’t right, it’s been a fuckin’ mess ever since they let all the blacks in, it started then and it’s just got fuckin’ worse.”

He flicked the ball to the teenage boy opposite, a toe to toe movement, obviously much practiced.

“You can’t say that, Kev…we’ve every right to be ‘ere, we’re fuckin’ English now ain’t we, I’m fuckin’ English, right.” He emphasized the last word with a swift turn and kick of the ball into the makeshift goal behind him.

“’alf English, Jay. You were born ‘ere okay but you ain’t really English, are ya? It’s where your loyalties lie that counts.” He retrieved the ball and proceeded to perform knee to toe tricks, effectively taking the ball out of play.

“Course I fuckin’ am,” said Jay, “I was fuckin’ born ‘ere and I’m fuckin’ English alright?”

“Oh yeah?” said Kev, “well, what does bein’ fuckin’ English mean to you then, Jay? Eh? I mean what’s fuckin’ English?” His breath was coming in short bursts, the effort of talking and showing off at the same time was having an effect.

Jay nudged him and the ball dropped to the ground, he quickly passed it to a chubby white youth, mid-twenties, standing a bit away from them. “I’m not fuckin’ tellin’ you,” he said, facing his aggressor, “I’m not even ‘avin’ this conversation, I was born ‘ere, got an English passport and I’m fuckin’ English, right?”

“Leave it out you two,” said the chubby one, inexpertly moving the ball about, “for fuck’s sake, Kev, ‘e’s your bloody bruvver ‘in ‘e? Why you two always ‘ave this same old argument?”

“It ain’t the same old argument, Bri” said Kev, “an’ we ain’t arguing, I’m just sayin’ that the country has been over run and we’ve lost our national identity an’ it all started when they let the coloureds in.”

“We ain’t fuckin’ coloured,” snapped his brother, still right in his face, “we’re fuckin’ black and don’t you forget it.”

“Well, you ain’t fuckin’ black, are ya?” said Kev, “You’re fuckin’ light brown.”

“It don’t matter what fuckin’ colour I am, I’m fuckin’ English, aren’t I.”

“Okay,” said Kev, “you were born ‘ere but you ain’t English.”

“I fuckin’ am.” He retrieved the ball from Brian and commenced dribbling along the grass.

“Alright,” said Kev, talking to his disappearing back, “wot ‘appened in 1066 then? Who won the battle of Waterloo? Who won Trafalgar?”

“I don’t give a fuck about all that shit,” said Jay, shouting over his shoulder, “that’s just bollocks old ‘istory, it ain’t nuffin’ ta do wiv me besides what about all the slaves, eh? The slave ships an’ slave traders an’ all that shit? What do you know about that ‘istory, eh?”

“Yeah, well the slave bit was a bit crap,” said Kev, “but 1066, Waterloo an’ Trafalgar, that’s our ‘istory, they’re about Great Britain an’ the bloody Empire.”

“A bit crap,” said Jay, ignoring Kev’s reference to Britain’s greater glory and returning from his travels with the ball, “the slave trade, fuckin’ in’uman, is what it was.” He flicked it to his brother; a peace offering.

“Well yeah,” said Kev, taking control of the ball “but we did away wiv that, didn’t we.”

“Nobody in my family ever ‘ad slaves,” said Brian, watching Kev’s footwork with admiration, “our ancestors were as good as slaves themselves.”

“That ain’t the fuckin’ same,” said Jay.

“Yeah, it is,” said Kev, as he turned, shot and missed the goal, “wot about the poor ‘ouse an’ the work ‘ouse an’ all the deportations of the poor for stealin’ a loaf of bread. We ‘ad it bad as well as blacks, you know. It’s the toffs who did all that, you shouldn’t blame us just ‘cause we’re English.”

Jay and Kev stared daggers at each other for a few moments; another well-rehearsed move. Brian took the opportunity to retrieve the ball and try some fancy footwork of his own.

“So answer the bloody question, then Jay,” said Kev, “wot do you know about English ‘istory ‘cause it’s part of our national identity.”

“Like slavery’s part of our national identity,” said Jay, sticking his head into his brother’s face, foreheads now almost touching.

“You only know about slavery, WWII and American ‘istory, you don’t even like English food.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do, I love English food, fry ups, Sunday roast and bangers an’ mash an….”

“And a good bloody curry on a Friday night,” said Brian staring into space, the ball idle at his feet.

“That ain’t English food,” said Kev and Jay in unison.

“But you like it, though,” said Brian. “And a kebab…”

“Yeah well, it’s not what I’m sayin’, is it. Yeah, I love curries and shit an’ I don’t have an issue wiv coloureds,” Jay moved to speak, “or blacks…” Kev amended hastily.

“Bleedin’ right” Jay muttered.

“…on their own, that is,” Kev indicated to Brian to kick the ball over, “my problem is when they all turn up in an area and the whole bloody place loses its culture.”

“But that’s not us blacks, is it…that’s the Mossies, you’re on about…”

“I read somewhere they don’t just turn up, the government puts ‘em where they want ‘em to go.” Brian murmured, not expecting nor getting a response. “The Mossies in Luton just got off at the airport and never went anywhere else.”

“Anyway, you ain’t got no culture, Kev” said Jay, apprehending the ball in mid flight.

“Nah, ‘ese got a culture,” said Brian, “‘ese just not cultured himself.” He laughed at his own joke.

Kev sighed. “Wot I mean is like wot’s ‘appened in Whitechapel, that’s almost a fuckin’ bazaar down there, there ain’t no white people in sight.”

“Yeah, well I ‘ate that an’ all,” said Jay, bent double, rolling the ball along his shoulders.

“Na, you ‘ate it ‘cause they’re all Muslims,” said Kev, “an’ your lot ‘ate the Muslims.”

“They ‘ain’t my lot,” said Jay, upright again, heading the ball and catching it “an’ I don’t ‘ate Muslims. Ash is a Mossie an’ I don’t ‘ate ‘im, do I?”

“Nah, well Ash is alright,” said Kev, “’ese one of us, ain’t ‘e.”

“‘ow’s he one of us?” asked Brian, “‘e’s a bloody Muslim, ‘ow’s ‘e one of us?”

“’cause ‘e’s adopted the culture,” said Kev.

“Well, ‘e’s adopted the culture,” said Brian, turning to watch Jay as he raced away dribbling at electrifying speed, “not to mention the fact that ‘ese your bloody bruvver, so what you on about?”

“Look,” said Kev, “bein’ English is about who we are as a race, you go to parts of this country now an’ it’s full of foreigners an’ I don’t just mean a few. They’ve taken over whole communities an’ I fink they meant to an’ what’s more, I fink the Government meant ‘em to, as well.”

“I said that, just now,” said Brian, “I said they send ‘em where they want ‘em to go.”

“They let all these foreigners in to provide cheap labour, they done it to force workers’ wages down so that the rich bastards could get more money.”

“My mum says all the cleaning jobs are going to them East Europeans they’re letting in, all the cleaners at the London ‘ospital are Poles or somfink.”

“An’ all the jobs pay such shit money you can’t raise a family on it…”

“Now that’s fuckin’ right,” said Jay returning, ball at feet, out of breath but still up for it. “Shit pay for us blacks.”

“But if the blacks weren’t ‘ere to do ‘em, they’d ‘ave to pay us whites a decent wage, wouldn’t they,” said his brother, point made.

“Yeah, but we are ‘ere,” said Jay defensively.

“That’s not what I’m sayin’; I’m sayin’ they’ve deliberately created this divide in our society, so they could force wages down.”

Brian was nodding, “I was watching the ‘istory channel an’ you ‘ear the old folks talkin’ an’ that, where the ‘ell did that go? Where did that English culture go? But it’s gone ain’t it an’ that’s not down to black people; American T.V’s done that.”

“America don’t ‘ave a culture,” said Jay.

“Yeah it does,” said Brian.

“Nah, he’s right,” said Kev, “it’s got ‘undreds of cultures.”

“Eh?” said Brian. “E’s right or I’m right?”

“I’m right,” said Jay, moving to stand alongside his brother, ball unnoticed between their feet, “You go anywhere in America an’ it’s all different. You’ve got all your diff’rent races in areas and they each own their own bit.”

“Which is what they’re doin ‘ere,” said Kev, “They’re destroyin’ our way of life.”

“What does that mean?” demanded Jay, creating distance and taking the ball, “are you ‘avin’ another go at me or summat?”

“No, I’m just sayin, they’ve destroyed the English way of life an’ they’ve done it deliberately.”

“You’re talkin’ about gen’ral immigration then?” said Brian.

“Yeah,” said Kev.

“Like down at Bognor,” said Brian.

“Bognor?” said Jay, “where the fuck’s Bognor?”

“Bognor Regis,” said Brian, “You know, on the Sussex coast? Bugger Bognor?”

“What?” said Jay.

“Some King said ‘Bugger Bognor’.”

Kev stared blankly. “Why?”

“Who said Bugger Bognor?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” said Brian, wishing he’d not started the conversation, “’e just said it, at least that’s what they told me down in Bognor, they seemed quite proud of it for some reason.”

“What about it anyway?” said Jay.

“It’s full of East Europeans now, ain’t it?”

“’ow do you know?” asked Jay, losing interest and making off with the ball again.

“Lived there for a bit, didn’t I,” said Brian, his voice raised at Jay’s back.

“When?” asked Kev, convinced that Brian, who he’d known since primary school, had done no such thing.

“Summer before last …you remember; I did that pickin’ an’ stuff down Souf.”

“Oh yeah,” said Kev, “shit, I forgot about that.”

“You nearly came as well, didn’t ya?” said Brian.

“Yeah, we did, you remember, Jay,” said Kev, shouting over at his brother “that summer, we was all gonna go pick tomatoes or summat.”

“Eh?” said Jay, rolling the ball underfoot as he walked back.

“Yeah,” said Kev, “then you got off wiv that bird an’ that put the mockers on it.”

“What bird?” He flicked the ball from toe to knee and collected it with his chest, finally shoving it under his arm for safe–keeping.

“I dunno,” said Kev, “Melissa or summat.”

“Melissa?” said Jay, his forehead wrinkling, “Melissa? Oh yeah I remember, Melinda, shit yeah, she was a bitch, we should a gone wiv Brian, could’ve saved me a ‘mare.”

“The locals call it little Poland.” said Brian.

“Call what ‘little Poland’?”

“See,” said Kev, “that’s just what I’m gettin’ at, they’ve moved a bunch of foreigners in, all into the same place and destroyed the local community, it ain’t right.”

“Call what ‘little Poland?’” Jay repeated, irritation creeping in.

“Bognor…. I agree wiv ya, Kev,” said Brian, “lots of people I talked to ‘ad lived there for years, and their families ‘ad too … an’ now they’ve fucked the place up, ain’t they.”

“Not the same” Jay’s face contorted, “Not at all…J’maica was part of the fuckin’ Empire so we ‘ad a right to come over ‘ere, didn’t we, an’ we fought for you lot in the bloody war.”

“Well, your dad’s dad did,” said Kev, “you didn’t, and you was born ‘ere anyway.”

“Which is what I said,” said Jay, “I’m fuckin’ English, ain’t I? But me and my mates get stopped and searched every fuckin’ day by the pigs, an’ we ain’t done nothin’ wrong. What do you know about it? An there are more black people in prison than should be ‘cause the pigs is racist.”

“Nah, they’re just ignorant bastards,” said Brian, mollifying.

“An’ they’re fuckin’ racist,” said Jay.

“Okay, they’re racist,” said Kev, “but that’s not wot I’m sayin’ is it? I’m sayin’ you ain’t interested in bein’ English, in English culture or English ‘istory or anyfink English as in the traditional sense, all you want to do is create your own black fing in our country.”

“But it is ‘is country,” said Brian, “’e’s English like you, an’ ‘e’s your bloody bruvver, as well.”

“I know that, don’I,” said Kev, “an’ don’t get me wrong Jay, I love ya man, you’re me little bruvver, all I’m sayin’ is the country is losin’ its identity an’ I fink that’s a bloody bad fing.”

“Well it’s the 21st century, mate,” said Brian, “maybe it’s natural to change, you know, maybe it’s all for the good an’ that.”

“Yeah, but,” said Kev, “nobody knows, do they? I mean wiv so many different cultures ‘ere it’s turning into a right bloody mess.”

“What does that mean?” asked Jay.

“Well, it’s like a fuckin’ war zone, innit,” said Kev.

“What is?” asked Brian.

“Look,” said Kev, “I’m just sayin’ the people in charge are breaking up the country, they’re splittin’ people up, they’re wipin’ out English culture an’ they’re doin’ it for a reason.”

“Oh yeah,” said Jay, “an’ what reason’s that, then?”

“Divide and rule,” said Brian, cupping his hands and lighting up, “that’s what the rich bastards always do, that’s what they did in the Empire an’ that’s what they’re doin’ ’ere.”

“See,” said Kev, “divide an’ rule.”

“So?” said Jay, moving away from the smoke.

“Well I’m just sayin’,” said Kev, “divide an’ rule.”

“So what?” demanded Jay.

“See, now that’s my point…you don’t give a fuck, do ya? You don’t care about English culture because you ain’t English; you ain’t losin’ nuffink, are ya?”

“Oh I get it,” said Brian, exhaling elaborately, “you mean that ‘cause ‘e ain’t accepted English culture ‘e don’t care that they’re destroyin’ Englishness.”

“Exactly,” said Kev, craning away. “Keep that to yourself, Bri – you know I give it up…”

“Yeah, an’ I never started so don’t blow it on me…” Jay stood abruptly and the ball dropped on the ground. “I’m English, you’ve missed the point, it’s changed now, it’s multicultural.”

“See, that’s my point!” Kev crowed, “You never even knew that word a while ago….they made it up! What does it even mean? Who asked to be multicultural? Who asked us? I mean, who asked us? Nobody, that’s who.”

“Well, it’s done now, mate,” said Brian, “there ain’t a lot that can be done about it now, is there.”

“Well, we can stop ‘em lettin’ any more foreigners in for starters,” said Kev.

“Yeah, I’d back you on that one,” said Jay, “the place is crawlin’ wiv Mossies.”

“See. I said you lot ‘ate ‘em,” said Kev, shaking his head, “I’m not just saying Muslims, I mean everyone, the East Europeans as well, in fact, all Europeans.”

“Well, that’s what we are now, ain’t it,” said Brian, posing, cigarette trailing nonchalantly, “We’re all European.”

“I ain’t no fuckin’ European,” said Kev.

“Me neever,” said Jay.

“That’s right,” said Kev, “’cause you’re African.”

“Caribbean,” corrected Jay, “I’m from fuckin’ Jamaica, I ain’t one of them Africans, they smell.”

“You can’t say that, man.” Brian was shocked, “They’re black, same as you.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kev, “I thought all blacks was from Africa, ain’t that right, Brian?”

“Yeah, they were, originally,” said Brian.

“So you’re African then,” said Kev.

“I ain’t fuckin’ African, I’m fuckin’ Jamaican,” said Jay, “an’ one day I’m goin’ back there.”

“A minute ago you said you was English,” said Kev. “Make up your mind.”

“I am,” said Jay, “I’m Jamaican English.”

“Fuck Jamaican English, bollocks is that? Besides, it just proves my point, you don’t care they’re destroyin’ English culture, you don’t even really care about bein’ English ‘cause you just wanna go to Jamaica.” He shammed a Jamaican accent, designed to seriously annoy Jay.

“Too fuckin’ right I do,” said Jay, seriously annoyed on cue.

“Oh well, that’ll fuck you up, then Kev, won’t it,” said Brian, dogging his cigarette.

“Whaddya mean?” growled Kev.

“What you gonna do when your baby bruvver goes back to Jamaica?” His sham accent was even worse than Kev’s. “’ere I know a joke about that – my wife’s left me… Jamaica? No, she went off ‘er own bat! D’you get it? Jamaica, d’yer make ‘er?” He fell about laughing.

“’e ain’t goin’ to Jamaica,” said Kev, not amused.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ am,” said Jay, standing hands on hips, his face pushed forward.

“Oh yeah?” said Kev, “you told mum this yet then, ‘ave ya?”

“No I fuckin’ ‘aven’t an’ you better not say nuffin’,” said Jay.

“Yeah?” said Kev, “well I’m fuckin’ tellin’.”

“No way, man,” said Jay.

“Why not? What you gonna do about it?” said Kev, giving him a little shove.

“I’ll smash your bloody brains in,” said Jay, shoving back.

“That’ll be the fuckin’ day,” said Kev.

They commenced wrestling.

Brian stood to one side, his usual position.

Have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

The book 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' will be FREE for kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 27th May 2018

Extract below

The Independents - What price democracy?

The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place. We’ve selected a few people to speak with you today from the hundreds of offers we had …for those of you disappointed this time, we have a list for our next meeting and gradually we hope to give everyone who wants to speak a platform.”

The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Now, please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”

The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.

“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “It’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…” There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”

There were more cheers and scatterings of delegates stood to applaud him; then more followed until the whole assembly was on its feet.

“No longer will we tolerate a corrupt, locked in party system; no longer will we tolerate their machinations, their duplicity, their constant deceptions, and their fake party divisions. We know they’re all the same, that they represent the same hidden wealthy few who own this country, we know they all rub shoulders with this clique of scoundrels and that they pander to their every whim. We will resist, we will stand against these corrupt servants of the rich and we will win.”

There were shouts of ‘win’ from the floor. Colin gestured that they should sit as he prepared to begin his speech proper. He waited a few moments until all were seated and the hall was quiet.

“I set out on this trail barely a year ago, not knowing where it would lead. Like many of you, I watched the Occupy movement in its struggle to take back control from those who hold us in thrall. I admit it, I watched rather than joined them; I supported them in spirit.” He paused, “I tried to make a stand by myself. I tried to keep my business going; I was trading on fumes. I cut costs and used inferior materials, I streamlined processes until there was no slack, I had to lay off staff who’d been with me for years and make the ones I kept work a 3 day week. We missed deadlines and our quality dropped – in the end I closed it down. Rather than be associated with what we were being forced to produce, rather than re-locate to China and do what my competitors had done – take advantage of slave labour in the East, rather than sacrifice my principles, I closed down the business I had started from scratch 10 years ago.”

He stopped talking, leaving a gap as if mourning a lost dream then he spoke again, quietly but with deep passion, “I was deeply unhappy and desperate to do something to make these rogues realise and stop what they were doing; it was something that seared into me until I could stand it no longer. I spent hours thinking about what I could do; without a revolution I couldn’t see anything changing. Then it hit me – I could ‘occupy’ the Political Space! I could stand on an ethical platform as an independent at the next general election.”

He looked slowly round the hall, making eye contact where he could. “I am a loyal Briton, my lineage reaches into all corners of these great islands of ours and I have always loved this country and all it has stood for. I love its people and our culture. I can no longer sit idly by whilst the greedy rich dismantle it, whilst they remove all investment from the UK and place that investment in areas of the world where they use slave labour, I will not tolerate it.”

There were shouts of support from the floor and again people were standing in their excitement.

“It is intolerable that the uncontrolled greed of the few should impact so heavily on the many. It is unacceptable that the political jackals should spin their concoction of lies to justify their plans to run down the state of Britain. It is deplorable that they should think themselves free to consign workers of the west to destitution whilst enslaving the workers of the 3rd world. It is unacceptable that they seek to return us to the same conditions as existed in the Middle Ages, a time when the rich elite was served by destitute serfs. They must think we don’t have a thought in our heads.” There was a rapturous round of applause. Colin grinned and added, “They must think we’re STUPID!”

The applause continued, accompanied now by excitable foot stamping.

“They clearly believe that the years of watching junk TV, of listening to their constant lies about the economy, about economics, the GDP, the unions, the balance of payments, the national debt, the so called ‘scrounging poor’, the so called ‘benefit cheats’, the communists, the NHS, the welfare state, state run education, Muslims, world terrorism, our lack of productivity and competitiveness, has shrivelled our brains and blinded us to the real truth, the reality behind all this.” He paused, took a breath then thundered out, “We, the masses, are being sold out by rich greedy psychopaths.”

More clapping from the floor.

“There is a precedent for all this but they hope we’re too stupid to see it, that we have no knowledge of history, that we’re so wrapped up in ‘reality’ TV that we miss what is happening, miss the correlation with the past.”

He poured some water from the jug on the table before him, allowing a few moments for his words to sink in, “The Roman Empire which for centuries was the dominant power, had legions that controlled vast territories of the known world, and then we’re told, all of a sudden, Rome collapses.”

He paused, then raised his voice slightly, “I say to you, Rome didn’t collapse, Rome did not fall – the wealthy and powerful families of Rome took advantage of prevailing winds and reorganised.”

He glanced out across the hall, checking the attention of the audience, “They recognised that maintaining legions to hold territories was costly, and they had a new weapon in their arsenal - religion. Caesar became the Pope, the leading families entered religion, the Roman Empire transitioned into the Roman Catholic Church collecting more revenues than a thousand legions could gather. That’s what happened to the Roman Empire, that’s what happened to Rome.”

He banged the table abruptly, startling a few people in the front rows, “But what happened to the ordinary people of Rome, to the plebeians, the out of work soldiers? They were reduced to penury as the Rome they knew disappeared from the map. As they starved, these legions that had made Rome great, the wealthy Romans, the patricians, the upper classes became richer than ever and the Pope found he was able to control the whole world with a few monks and threats of excommunication, of burning in hell for all eternity.”

He paused and took a quick sip of water, he knew that making the link was vital and these concepts were new to most of his audience.

“And that is what is happening to us…though it’s not belief in God that’s the new export, the new method of raising gold for the new aristocracy, the new export is a new religion altogether, and is called ‘consumerism’ or the ‘market’. The rich have exported our jobs to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, where land costs are minimal, where there are autocratic leaders and armies willing to crush the workers who ask for more, where there are billions of potential economic slaves to serve them and gain them even greater wealth.”
Someone in the crowd called out ‘Apple’ and a couple of others picked it up.

He nodded, “A good example, thank you” he said quietly, then raising his voice continued, “There’re one million people employed in sweat shop factories in China producing Apple products…think about it, one million jobs that could’ve been situated in the West but for the fact of having to pay minimum wage and provide decent working conditions.”

He stopped and stared out at the crowded hall, his eyes burning, “Wealth, that’s what this is all about, it’s what it’s always been about, the creation of wealth for the very few, for the greedy psychopaths who want to own everything and drive the masses into the gutters so that they can lord it over them; in order to feel rich they have to have the poor.”

Colin studied his audience, “So what of the British worker? What of the US worker? What is intended for us? In the recent past we had service industry jobs, easily accessed credit and the creation of massive debt, all this was done to ensure a smooth transition from production and purchase from the West to the East. It was no accident; it’s part of a plan and exactly what they intended and so far they have been successful. They have managed to transfer most of production from the West to the East and during that time the Western worker had artificial service industry jobs to ensure that there was still a market for products being made in the East. However, we have reached an end of the first phase - the credit bubble in the West has burst, the western worker is no longer able to provide the buying power required to maintain supply and demand so the wealthy few and their economic and political servants are looking to provide easier credit to the worker in the East, where there is a potential new market for debt.” ...................

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun