Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 37

The book 'Murder, Mayhem & Money' will be FREE for Kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 1st April 2018

The book 'Murder, Mayhem & Money' will be FREE for Kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 1st April 2018




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.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Amazon.co.uk
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FREE book - 'The Cull' on Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Sunday 25th March 2018

Hi

Just to let you know that the book 'The Cull' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Wednesday 21st March to Sunday 25th March 2018.

With the world's oil supplies running out can the wealthy elites pull off a reduction in the world's population in one engineered mega disaster? Who can stop them? Who would even know to




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." 

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

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The book 'Insurrection' by Arun D Ellis - when a bunch of pensioners decide to take their country back from the global elites

A group of well-heeled, geriatric friends, all ex service men and women, are so incensed at the callous and sustained ruination of their country that they resolve to make a stand, to arm themselves and to fight, to rid the land of their greedy leaders, to attack the political elites in their haven, the Houses of Parliament, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice - will they go through with their murderous plans? A mad-eyed Preacher - is he all that he seems to be? What links them? Where will they all end up?

Extract below:

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

"Alb, you alright in there?"

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

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

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."
∞
During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you got any in your place?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."
Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

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

Happy reading, hope you have a good weekend.

Cheers

Arun


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FREE BOOK 'Aftermath' for Kindle download from Amazon Wednesday 28th February until Sunday 4th March 2018

FREE BOOK - 'Aftermath', part of the Corpalism series, is FREE for Kindle download from Amazon Wednesday 28th February until Sunday 4th March 2018




Extract below

Preface

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.”

The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “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, “Well, 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.”

∞

“Hello, fellow delegates, my name is Stephanie White and I’m standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Wandsworth. At 24 I’m one of the youngest delegates and I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

She smiled at the laughter.

“I’m also one of the least experienced so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m sticking to what I know! I was born and raised in Clapham Junction and where I live now 6 out of 10 young people are unemployed, and 4 out of the 6 are women. I work in a shoe shop and as a single Mum I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a job.”

Steph looked around the hall, “I won’t take up much of your time; I’m just here to highlight the issue of women’s rights.”

The women present cheered and clapped. The men looked immediately beleaguered.

“I know a lot of people think there’s no issue for women and I also know, from personal experience, that not all of these people are men” there was more laughter, this time from the men, “I know a lot of women who would rather not discuss women’s rights, who are quite alright thank you very much so it’s not them I am speaking for here, but for the majority of women who are NOT alright.”

She took a sip of water, her mouth uncomfortably dry, she’d been advised against the coffee earlier and now wished she’d taken the advice. “I know that a lot of people think that things are equal in the work environment but they’re not, because it is a fact that in many instances a woman doing the same job as a man will be paid considerably less even though it’s been illegal since 1970 to treat women less favourably than men in the pay stakes.”

She sipped again, “Women at work have to work harder than a man just to get noticed. A woman has to butch up and out macho the men to get noticed, in essence she will have to become a man. Believe me I know, the shoe business is a cut throat world!”

There was a burst of laughter; what she lacked in age, she made up for in cheek.

“Admit it ….we’ve all seen it… women these days, they’ve become men. They out drink men, they out shout men, they out party men, they do all of these things because being a woman is seen as being weak, they have to be tough and macho to be thought of as any good… but why? Why does a woman have to be more like a man to have her opinions, her views, her thoughts valued? What’s the deal here?”

She paused to let the question sink in, and in truth to steady her breathing; the size of this crowd was awesome. Marissa murmured, “Go for it, girl” and Stephanie grinned.

“The answer’s quite simple; women have not been accepted for who they are. They have had to change, to adapt, and to become manlier to compete with men. Is this really a free system where all people are treated as equal and rewarded for their efforts and ideas or is it a system where the biggest, loudest, most hectoring voice is heard and that voice is always the voice of a man or a macho woman? Are we allowing ourselves as women to be denied true equality in our own right as women?”

Her words gained her general nods of approval round the room, even some men, presumably distracted by reminiscences of acquiescent, womanly women, were nodding happily.

“Why can’t we behave like women and have the same chances and rights as men? We form half of the world’s population, do you realize that? We are half of the world’s population and we are treated as second class citizens, we cannot get the proper recognition at work, in the office, in the board room, in the cabinet anywhere.”

She glanced behind her and received a nod from Catherine; they’d talked beforehand and, when she’d finally opened up, Catherine had told her how long it had taken her to get a headship when her university contemporaries (male) had achieved it years earlier.
Marissa had quite readily said much the same thing when quizzed about her accountancy opportunities.

“To be honest, we women are our own worst enemies. When we gain the top spot we don’t offer a hand to another, rival woman – think of the Iron Lady – how many women in her cabinet? Let’s face it, we aren’t united, women don’t fight as one entity. We fight for our own cause, for our own family, our own interests. We’re not trained since babyhood like men to stand together, to fight for our rights as a group, as a marginalised section of society. Well, perhaps we should stop and think for a bit, stop and look at how the men have done it, stop and see what unity can do for us; we should unite as one and say no more of this. We should learn from the Dagenham women that united we are strong .”

She took heart from the applause that followed that comment, “But the problem is; there is always the woman willing to sleep her way to the top, to stitch up her competition, stab another woman in the back. This type of woman has no moral compass, no conscious sense of anything other than her own desire to get on."

She waved away the argument she knew would be coming, "Now I know there are similar types in the male world but frankly, that’s not our concern, our concern as women should be how we prepare for the fight, how we prepare for the cause, how we set out our stall and how we go about uniting in the coming struggle. We need to consider how we are treated and how we are looked upon. We should look at the lack of respect, the lack of courtesy, the lack of opportunity, the lack of reward that exists just because of our gender. It has nothing to do with our minds, with our imagination, with our abilities, with our intellectual capacity; it is all just because of our gender. Do you realise there is more concern today about racism than about the sexploitation of women?”

Steph waited for her words to settle with the audience before continuing, “Do you realise that? The media, the internet, twitter, everyone, including women, everyone is more concerned with how black footballers are treated on the pitch than with how all women are treated everywhere. Do you realise this? And do you know why? Because the footballers are men, that’s why. I love football, by the way … I just want to put that on the table, but I won’t take my son to a game because of the foul language and use of the ‘C’ word.”

She shook her head slightly at the gasp that went round the room, “you’re shocked, yet that word is used on the terraces every Saturday all round the country to insult males and as long as you don’t attach ‘black’ to it, you’re fine.”

She stared round the hall, deliberately seeking out the men, fixing them with a look, “How is it you can call a footballer, of any colour, the ‘C’ word, you can call him an ‘effing c***’ if you want to, but you can’t call him anything racial. Do you realise what that means? Do the women here realise what that means? It means that society and the law backs a man’s right to call another man a ‘c***’ and it’s OK, why? Why is it ok to use a slang term for the female sexual organ as a way of insulting a man? A deep insult at that! Anybody? Because in a man’s world women are seen as less than men, because women are seen by everyone, including women, as being less, as having less weighty opinions, less weighty views, women are just seen as fluff whose only purpose is for sex or to sexually gratify men. Other than that women can go to the back of the cave and wait until they are needed again to satisfy man’s sexual urges. Well that’s not the way it should be.”

There was some uncomfortable shuffling of feet and throat clearing, a smattering of clapping.

“I realise I must seem very radical.” Steph dropped her head for a moment and the room went very quiet, she counted five slowly then lifted her head, her eyes blazing, “Well if that’s what I need to be, then radical it is! I mentioned ‘sexploitation’ earlier and I used the term deliberately. One of the things we have to change is women’s role in the entertainments industry. Why is it that it isn’t good enough for a female singer just to be a good singer? Why does she have to be a sex symbol as well? Why isn’t it enough for a woman to have a good voice, to write powerful lyrics, why must she appear semi naked in her videos? Why must a female singer pose semi naked for hundreds of media shots? Why must a female singer sell her soul to the industry to sell her music?"

She stopped speaking abruptly, aware she was being controversial, that such a divisive message wasn’t to be readily accepted by this audience, by any audience.

She’d asked her boyfriend, Donny to come for moral support and knew he would be groaning somewhere.
She took a deep breath, shook her hair off her face and continued, “The implication is that if a woman doesn’t sell her body then her songs won’t sell. Rubbish…Music is an audio entertainment, there are no videos on the radio, there is no video playing when you put the CD in your player. A song is a song, a good song is a good song, regardless of whether or not the female singer is attractive, semi naked or fully-clothed, the whole industry has been abused and women have been abused by it.”

There was more applause now, she’d moved on to a safer subject it seemed, she continued “and it’s totally unacceptable to say that it’s just sex and that in today’s market sex sells, it’s not sex… it’s sexploitation, it’s abuse of women, it’s another example of where a woman’s contribution isn’t valued for what it is, another example of where it isn’t enough to be talented, it isn’t enough for a woman to have a good voice, it isn’t enough for a woman to be creative she has to be manipulated, controlled by men who only want her to be a sexual symbol.”

She paused again, “And then there’s acting, TV and films, why is it that in films and TV programmes today a woman always has to take her clothes off? Why is it that a female star has to be attractive and when she’s no longer considered so her roles start drying up? Why are there so few strong parts for women? Why is it that most women are chosen for their physical appearance rather than their acting ability?”

Someone shouted from the audience, and she rebutted with, “Don’t say Meryl Streep at me – she’s one woman out of hundreds of men, that’s why she wins all the female Oscars” laughter and applause greeted that snappy rejoinder, “Is it the same for men? Of course not, male actors can go on into their 90s but most female actors are finished when the first wrinkles and grey hairs start appearing. Then the movie making industry starts plying the halls for the next young piece of female meat to parade around on our screens, why? Why do we females accept this double standard? Why do we accept the notion that we’re nothing unless we’re young and attractive?”

Steph asked the question well aware that she was very young and attractive herself at this point, “I know that we are our own worst enemies in that it’s women singers and actors who are giving in to these demands, who accept it as part and parcel of the way things are. I realise that we won’t really win this war unless women in the industry unite and are prepared to stick together to stand against the sexploitation. I also understand that most women don’t start to think like that until their looks start to fade; then they’re willing to make a stand.”

She sighed loudly and was rewarded with amused laughter, “you know what I’m going to say before I say it, don’t you… by that time they don’t need you, they aren’t going to listen, they’ve found your replacement …another new young thing and the new sex goddess isn’t in the least bit interested in fighting for women’s rights, not if it will block her route to fame and glory and wealth… but that’s exactly what they must do, that’s exactly where it must start…we must unite; we must recognise we are half the world’s population, half the world’s work force, half of a partnership. We have power, we have influence and we can make things change. We must all stick together and we must demand equality of the mind, equality for who we are and what we are, then and only then will our thoughts matter, will our efforts count, then and only then can we as women be accepted for our minds and our personalities, then and only then can a woman really be equal for until that time occurs women will always be second class citizens who are just used and abused by the system and that will only encourage the average man in the street to see women as less than themselves."

"I’m Stephanie White, thank you for listening.”

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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The Independents

You say ‘evasion’, I say ‘avoidance’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More applause and cheering from the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More applause from the hall.

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

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

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

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

The hall erupted with applause and cheers.

Hope you enjoy the book and have a nice weekend

Cheers Arun


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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.” ...................

Hope you enjoy it

Arun


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Arun

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

New release 'Power Grab' by Arun D Ellis

Preface

Talk of the Gods



Isaac Goldstein never tired of the view.

As he was fond of saying to business partners, it meant more to him than his three children, although he would never let his wife know. The children in question were already aware and knew that, whilst they could have anything money could buy, they could not compete with his work, one of the perks of which was an uninterrupted view the New York skyline.

He heard the door swish closed and said, "Latest stats, John?" without turning.

John Cohen, late twenties, ambitious, as yet unmarried. That Isaac suspected him of being homosexual wasn't a huge problem; as long as he didn't make it obvious his sexual proclivities could be ignored. It was his not having a wife on his arm, and children on the way that was career limiting. For some reason John, normally switched on, had yet to get the message and produce someone suitable.

John spoke firmly, happy talking to Isaac's back, having grown used to the older man's obsession with the view. "Global debt is currently running at $81.9 trillion, the bond markets are running at $150 trillion." He cleared his throat, this was serious stuff, "National exposures are irreversible. All Governments are now running a deficit that could become fatal in a big enough crisis and with inflation now at 4.8% and projected to keep rising the bond markets are becoming exposed........"

"And the markets?"

"All stock markets are running higher than they've ever been, confidence is up and everybody is buying."

"Hedges?"

"Bloated, no real stats but estimated to be valued at over $5 trillion, a record high, everyone's reporting record profits. There's more money sloshing around in the system than ever thanks to quantitative easing. As long as the Fed keeps interest rates down the bubble can only keep expanding."

"Latest reports put property prices rising at 15% per month," said Isaac.

Another voice entered the conversation, "Where are we with projections for the ultimate currency collapses?"

Benjamin Bahr, Isaac's sponsor, jowly and irascible, no fan of John's at any time. John was angry that he'd not seen the man in the shadows, nursing the ever present daiquiri.

Bahr spoke again, "We need to know how precarious things are and we need to know in advance. It'll be no good if the markets begin to collapse before we're ready."

John was instantly defensive; he knew his job, knew what he was doing but this man always wanted more.

He kept his voice neutral, "I understand what you're saying, however we're not gonna know exactly what will tip things over, the system is so complex...."

"You said you could predict how and when things would fall over. We have other plans riding on this."

He tried again, "Yeah, I get that, and yeah, we've got a structure for collapse in place, all we need to do is start dumping stocks."

John flicked a glance at Isaac's back. No support from that quarter.

He continued, "We have reports to leak, casting doubt over the sustainability of the whole financial sector, we know several companies that are over exposed to debt and we have corresponding stories to release from other sources. Everything is in place and if the Fed starts raising interest rates, which I assume you'll control, it will tip over on its own. But you gotta understand, we've unleashed a myriad of unpredictable scenarios here, some trader somewhere could inadvertently trigger a natural collapse of the markets. It's got to that point where we have little or no control of what's occurring out there...."

Bahr was unimpressed. "What was your plan? How did you intend to collapse the markets in the first place?"

"Japan," said John, with quiet pride, "It's a mess, public sector borrowing's been unsustainable for the past twenty years, she's a bubble that should've burst long ago. Her national debt to GDP is about 270%, we put pressure on her interest rates then her bond markets will haemorrhage, the Nikkei will start to fall. It should turn into a rout pretty quickly. That will begin to apply pressure on China. Once you drag China in, and the US, the UK and Europe, then it should just be falling dominoes. There won't be much left after that."


Cheers

Arun

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New book by Arun D Ellis

New release 'Power Grab' by Arun D Ellis

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