Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 50

Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'

Prologue

The world is governed by very different personages
from what is imagined
by those who are not behind the scenes.
Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1844)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An electric buzz swept the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'

Greed, selfishness, no care for the weaker.
Sharp elbows and sharp knees, this was the way forward.
People saw the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Glenda Jackson on Margaret Thatcher's England.


The Preacher stared out into the packed auditorium. He didn't register the numbers or any feeling of success; he just felt the need to speak what was in his heart.

"Today I want to talk about power," he said, "what it is, what it means for you and me and who has it." He started to patrol the front of the stage, "The first thing is to know what power is, how it represents itself in our world," he stopped and looked out, "not so easy in the minefield of our so called modern democracy. We are told that we are free because we have freedom of choice," he raised his shoulders slightly, "but do we and what is freedom of choice? If you really had freedom of choice would you choose to spend the best years of your life trapped behind a desk or in a factory working for pennies whilst the rich sit back and live off your labour? Is that really what you would choose for yourself?"

He returned to his pacing, "The way I define power is by asking myself, am I living the life I want to live? Do I live my life fulfilling my potential for happiness?" He quickened his pace and answered his own question, "I have lived a full life, I have had great wealth and I have had the company of more beautiful women than it is possible to recall."

He knew he would be alienating some of those in his audience, the ones who had newly arrived to witness the phenomenon he was becoming, but he needed to say it all, "I have owned vast properties, yachts, planes, I have snorted with the stars, I have been at the top," he paused and the silence was absolute, "but if you had asked me was I happy I would have said no; despite all the paraphernalia that goes with vast wealth I was not fulfilled. I did all of those things because it was the thing you did to fit in. I did it to show I had succeeded, but all I actually succeeded in doing was driving an unbridgeable chasm between myself and my wife and alienating my children." He was clearly groping for a way to describe the contradiction, "Great wealth allows you to choose how you live; my shame is that I chose to live it in a decadent way."

He fell silent for few moments in grave contemplation of the errors made in his previous life. The strength in numbers of his loyal followers, who understood where he had come from, was sufficient to quell any murmurings from newcomers such that the auditorium fell silent with him. Then he spoke again, gravely, "A great many people do not have the luxury of choice. I want you to guesstimate how many people don't have the ability to choose their own life style, who don't have the gift of self determination. Call out your ideas."

When the last offering had died away the air still resonated with numbers and percentages plucked from their imaginations.

He waited for this to fade before he spoke again. "Those who possess real power number only in the thousands, not even 1%. These people control the two key resources to our lives." He paused a moment then said, "The first is very real; energy. The people who own and control the natural resources of this planet determine your future; they have the power to create recessions or to feed the world. But I have to ask you a simple question. Given that the energy resources on this planet are here for all of the earth's inhabitants, in that they didn't evolve over millions of years with someone's name on them, they are natural and they are there for you, me and every other person on this planet, why is it that only a few get to live off the wealth generated by the supply of energy?" He raised his hands questioningly, "How is that?"

"The second is money. As we all know, money was introduced to make complex transactions easier. However, now money exists to make more money and we are all slaves to the process. We are always being told that the economy is struggling or that it is booming or that there isn't enough money in the system or perhaps there's too much money, but what is money? Can I mine for it? Can I grow it? Can I pluck it from the skies? No, money is a fiction, it doesn't exist, it's a magic trick and we've all been taken in by it."

He wandered over to his faithful red box, leaned down and took a sip of water from the bottle concealed behind it, "How is it that a few bankers and investors can create a system whereby we trade a fictional resource, one without substance, one they control the supply of, one they have bribed our leaders into accepting as the only valid tender and one we must use, how is it that we sit here and allow them to tell us it is the only way for the world to continue? Bearing in mind that the minute we accept that lie is the minute we pass total power to the banker."

He stared into the audience, "Do you understand? Money isn't real, they made it up but they tell us that without it we have no place in this world, we are skivers and must be castigated yet money is the invisible chain that binds us to the treadmill that keeps the wealthy in place."

No one answered, but it was clear they were thinking this one through.

"So we have two key components representing true power; energy and money. The people who control these also control your lives." He strolled around the stage, still talking, "I want you to imagine a world where everyone has the energy supplies they need, where people have the food they need, where people have the medical care they need, where children have the education they need, where everyone works for the benefit of everyone else, where money has no place and you will perceive Utopia. Humanity's true dream. This world we inhabit now is a beastly business brought upon us by our own weakness and greed, further manipulated by the unscrupulous greedy psychopaths who want to rule."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, "Jesus drove the merchants out of the temple, showing us the true way. Money and the worship of money is a crime against humanity. It is the basest transgression that drives us to sell our services, our labour, our time, our minds and our bodies."

He paused, "Now comes the difficult part, I am going to offer an alternative view of two highly respected and politically sanctified individuals." He waited for a response, nothing yet, "Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph, the men who proposed and propounded our modern day capitalism. It was they who sold the concept of zero state involvement to our leaders; the corollary of that being the creation of a harsh individualist world where money is master and man its servant. Both are of Jewish ethnicity and it is my contention that if they had lived in Jesus' time he would've driven them out into the street."

He pointed out into the audience, "I draw your attention to the presentation made by Milton Friedman in 1972 in which he defines Jewish influence in the market free for all that is modern neo liberalism and neo capitalism, clearly stating that Jews can only survive and prosper in this environment. It is this exact environment he has worked to introduce to the most powerful of the world economies." He moved slowly around the stage, "This is contrary to what was hitherto the accepted view. Most countries had a culture of support for their own nationals, a culture of nation and society, these have always been the founding bedrocks of any successful society. Even Israel, because a great many social thinkers and revolutionaries come from the Jewish faith, all seeking and espousing social and economic equality. Friedman criticises Israel because he feels that the state of Israel has abandoned what he terms as the Jewish way, it's also why he condemns all Jews who support communism."

The Preacher paused, "This is to miss the point, Israel is a state under threat of attack and the Jews of Israel have discovered the necessity of fostering the belief in nation, of a society that looks after the weak, in order to strengthen and prolong the existence of the many. This is what nationhood does for people, this is what society does for nations but all of these things were rejected by Friedman and Joseph and ultimately our leaders of the day, Thatcher and Reagan. They adopted Friedman's neo liberal philosophy of free capitalism. A 'may the best, aka greediest, man win', survival of the ablest, a dog-eat-dog free for all, which has lead to the massive gulf that now exists between the obscenely wealthy 1% and the, increasingly impoverished, rest of society. Which has ultimately driven the West into economic ruin."

The hall was silent as those present ruminated on his words. He turned and left the stage. Barry might have called it quitting while he was ahead.

Extract from my book 'Corpalism'

7:25 p.m.

“All I’m saying,” said the Pirate, “is that the super heroes stick up for the establishment.”

“They do not.” said Mr. Spock.

“No, no,” said the Pirate, “hear me out, they all fight to preserve the status quo and thus defend and preserve the rights of the rich.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Spock.

“Okay,” said the Pirate, “what about Batman?”

“Well, he’s rich anyway,” said Mr. Spock, “so it’s hardly surprising.”

“All the villains, who’ve had what can only be described as a raw deal, are all victimised by this dude with loadsa cash who has the law in his back pocket and can spend as much as he wants on god knows what kind of weapons.” said the Pirate.

“OK, but look at the Penguin and the Joker,” said Mr. Spock, “They were pretty evil dudes, man.”

“Really?” questioned the Pirate, “I’d like to see how you turned out if your parents dumped you down a sewer just for being deformed and ugly… Batman’s parents loved him but were gunned down, he inherited a fortune and look at what kind of nut job he turned into.”

“Oh what?” said Spock, “Penguin and Joker are insane, they have to be put down or they’ll kill everyone just for laughs.”

“It still doesn’t change my point,” said the Pirate, “all super heroes stick up for the establishment, there’s never one that fights for the rights of the ordinary man.”

“What about the Hulk?” said Mr. Spock, “He’s always attacking the establishment?”

“Yeah, but not with purpose,” said the Pirate, “it’s always random and chaotic.”

“So?” said Mr. Spock, “It still disproves your point.”

“No, because the Hulk isn’t fighting for anyone or any particular cause and he’s portrayed as bad for what he does; the establishment is always portrayed as being on the side of right.”

“Yeah, but you always feel sorry for the Hulk though, don’t you,” said Mr. Spock.

“That’s not the same thing, that’s just sympathy for another poor sucker who got screwed by the establishment.”

“Okay, Spider Man,” said Mr. Spock, “He fights villains and he protects everyone.”

“Hey, you two” Charlie Chaplin interrupted with a bang of his glass, “any chance we can talk about something else?”

“But again,” said the Pirate, “he’s fighting crime and geezers who are stealing huge amounts of money from the banks or the state. He’s maintaining the status quo.”

“No he’s not,” said Mr. Spock, “he’s always defending the little guy.” Charlie Chaplin nodded vigorously, and nudged the Lone Ranger to do likewise.

“Only because the little guy gets in the way of the action,” said the Pirate, “the real plot is always about power, wealth and greed and that is way above the average person’s status so it has to be about protecting the rich again, about protecting those with all the wealth against those who are trying to take it.”

“That’s bollocks,” said Mr. Spock, “Okay what about Superman, he’s always sticking up for the man in the street.”

“Again,” said the Pirate, “that’s only because the little man gets in the way.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Spock, “this is all just silly twaddle.”

“No it’s not,” said the Pirate, “and I can prove it.”

“Okay prove it,” said Mr. Spock.

“Yeah, prove it” mimicked Charlie.

“Okay,” said the Pirate, “all of the super heroes, they
all have special powers, right?”

“Right.”

“Which lifts them above all others, am I right?”

“Yeah, that’s right, that being the point of super powers….”

“And enables them to fight crime?”

“Right.”

“Right” echoed Charlie, now seriously bored.

“But the only crime they fight is against the poor down and outs who are resorting to the only means they have available, namely violent crime, to get ahead in this warped and twisted world. Does Batman ever arrest a banker? Does Superman ever grab hold of a devious politician? Does Spiderman ever…..”

“Oh what?” said Charlie, “now, that’s just silly…hey, Tranny isn’t he bein’ silly…” He looked across at the Transvestite who was completely absorbed, trying to win back all the money he’d lost on the fruit machine “oh, don’t bother…”

“No, it’s not,” said the Pirate, “everyone knows that the real crime is white collar crime.”

“He’s right, you know” said Hiawatha.

“What?” said Mr. Spock, “I didn’t even know you were even listening?”

“I wasn’t,” said Hiawatha, “but it’s our round so the Lone Ranger is getting ‘em in.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Spock, “but you’re both wrong.”

“No, we’re not,” said Hiawatha, “it’s all just part of our social conditioning and it starts when we’re young.”

“Here we go,” said Charlie, “Karla Marx is off and running.”

“No,” said Hiawatha, “I’m not going to say anything else other than that the whole deal with super heroes, as the Pirate says, is to protect the rich, protect the powerful, maintain the state and to punish the poor villain who is just trying to get ahead.”

“Poor villain who’s just trying to get ahead?” wailed Mr. Spock, “are you completely mad, woman? We’re talking about some real sick fucks here.”

“Actually we’re talking about comic books,” said Hiawatha, “which isn’t quite the same thing…and don’t call me ‘woman’.”

“Huh,” sighed Mr. Spock, “well you’ve ruined that simple pleasure for me, haven’t you.”

“No,” said Hiawatha, “because the underlying truth remains the same, comic book heroes and the spin off films are all designed to get us to relate to the rich and the wealthy and to want to fight to maintain the status quo, to fight to keep the rich and the poor in their accustomed place.”

“No!” hissed Charlie, “that’s a big leap!”

“She’s right,” said the Pirate, “and as I was saying, these super heroes have super powers but do they ever use them to lead the people in a revolutionary war of freedom?”

“A what?” said Mr. Spock.

“A revolutionary war of freedom, he said” Hiawatha responded crisply, “and I agree…does Superman ever fly to Thailand and free the kids slaving in the sweat shops owned by the rich corporations? No, he doesn’t. Does Batman ever break into prison and free the wrongfully convicted and over sentenced black man whose rights were trampled on when he was incarcerated? No, he doesn’t. Does Spider man ever break into a house in suburbia and beat up the abusive and violent husband? No, he doesn’t.”

“Do the Fantastic Four ever fly out to third world countries and defend the rights of the poor civilians against greedy American corporations? No, they don’t,” said the Pirate, not to be outdone.

“They’re all just tools used by the state to maintain the status quo,” said Hiawatha.

“But they are entertaining, though,” said Charlie, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“The truth is, we’ve forgotten who the real heroes are,” said Hiawatha, “all we have now are fantasy heroes, rich celebs, movie stars who are just pretending to be heroes, pop stars and sports stars. What happened to real heroes like William Wilberforce or Lord Shaftesbury or Abe Lincoln or Washington or….?”

“Washington was a traitor,” said the Pirate, “and he led the revolution against us.”

“Against the King,” said Hiawatha.

“Oh yeah,” said the Pirate, “That’s okay then.”

“Oh, that’s ok then” mimicked Charlie, making a silly face, quite difficult to spot when dressed as a clown.

“And Oliver Cromwell, and …” said Hiawatha.

“My favourite,” said the Pirate, “Ollie Cromwell, cut off that bastard king’s head.”

“Oh yeah and what about Danton, Robespierre and Napoleon?” said Mr. Spock, “heroes or villains?”

“Ask the French,” said the Pirate.

“Yeah right,” said Mr. Spock, “you just use the argument you want.”

“Actually I think the French revolution was good for the people,” said Hiawatha, “Okay it got a little out of hand….”

“A little out of hand?” said Mr. Spock, “Napoleon tried to take over the world.”

“Well he wouldn’t’ve done if the monarchies hadn’t tried to crush the revolution and tell me, what was so different between the French revolution and the American Revolution and our own revolution?” demanded Hiawatha.

“Well…” began Mr. Spock.

“Wow, it’s a crush up there” said the Lone Ranger returning to the table, drinks in hand, “If any of you lot want crisps say so now before it gets really chocker…”

“Yeah,” said the Pirate, “salt’n’vinegar.”

“Pork scratchins please,” said Mr. Spock.

“Oh yeah, me too,” said the Pirate.

“Make up your bloody mind,” said the Lone Ranger.

“I’ll have salt and vinegar as well,” said Hiawatha.

“As well as who? I’m having pork scratchins.”

“Cheese and Onion,” said Charlie Chaplin.

“What about Tranny?” asked the Lone Ranger.

“He’s in his own world,” said the Pirate, nodding over at the fruit machine, “just get him salt’n’vinegar.”

“He likes plain,” said Hiawatha.

The Lone Ranger gave her a dark look.

“Well, I can’t help it,” she muttered, “I’m just sayin’.”

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Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'

This is no time for ease and comfort.
It is time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill



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As is traditional on the State Opening of Parliament an MP from the Commons presents himself to the Queen as hostage, on this occasion it was Prentice Prendergast, MP for Morecambe; a potential leadership rival for the PM. He had been surprised to be chosen; but Sir Philip had been adamant and no one cared enough to argue. Once he arrived at the Palace and was safely ensconced, a hostage against potential harm to the Monarch at the hands of Parliament, the Queen, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall left the Palace and made their way to Parliament.

Once there the Queen was draped in the Parliament Robe of State and the Imperial State Crown was placed carefully on the iron grey curls. Finally the Royal procession was able to start for the Lords; preceded by the Earl Marshal, the Leader of the House of Lords carrying the Cap of Maintenance on a white rod, another peer carrying the Great Sword of State and finally out in front marched the Lord Great Chamberlain with his white stick raised aloft.

The procession entered the Lords, the Queen sat upon the throne and said, "My Lords, pray be seated."

"Waste of time," muttered the Duke, seated at her side, "I'm too bally old for this."

"Be quiet, Philip," hissed the Queen through a clenched teeth grimace.

Camilla leaned over and whispered in Prince Charles' ear, "That should be you, you know." It was a well-rehearsed argument, pointless but she found it impossible to refrain.

"What can I do? Mummy just won't go," he responded, managing to speak without appearing so to do, something he'd practised since his Gordonstoun days, "she's going to sit there forever being bloody Queen. She loves it, look at her up there, lording it over everybody."

He wanted to slump, rest his head in his hands, groan out loud at the unfairness of it all; he remained upright and expressionless.

The Queen nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain and he signalled for Black Rod to summon the members of the Commons. Black Rod, escorted by the Door-keeper of the House of Lords and a Police Inspector, set off for the Commons; the inspector bearing the peculiar responsibility of ordering 'Hats off strangers' to whomsoever they met on the way regardless of the fact that no-one now wore a hat in Parliament.

Upon reaching the Commons the doors were slammed shut and Black Rod banged forcefully on the door three times, at which point the doors were opened, Black Rod and his escort then approached the dispatch box and addressed the House, "Mr Speaker, The Queen commands this Honourable House," as he spoke he bowed to both sides, "to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers."

Outside Parliament stood a long line of red coated Grenadier Guards, their impractical bearskin hats nestling deep on their brows, blurring their vision. Behind them were hundreds of avid spectators who had gathered for the return journey of the Queen's carriage.

Off to the North in Bridge Street a large coach was parked. It bore the insignia of the Women's Institute. Unusually, the windows of the coach were blacked out. Inside the coach, her thin face alight with excitement, stood Cynthia, hair newly coiffed, a fetching shade of mauve, resplendent in a beige Hardy Amies dress of indeterminate age and draped in her best jewellery, talking quietly but enthusiastically to Esmé. They made an incongruous pair with Esmé kitted out in khaki combats and Doc Martens she'd had in her cupboard for three decades. She was in her element, every nerve ending tingling and feeling exactly as she had all those years previously, when faced with a barbed wire fence at the RAF base at Greenham Common that had had to be breeched.

Fiona was looking at her askance; why a grown woman would want to be seen in public in such an awful get up was beyond her. She herself was immaculate in a dark green Barbour over a calf length camel skirt (kick pleat at the back for ease of movement) and a dark brown cashmere twin-set (pearls left at home in case of breakage). She was shod in (sensible for running although with her knee as it was she wasn't likely to be doing too much of that) Oxford brogues.

Dora had pushed herself to the front of the coach near the driver, an old friend of Pete's dragooned into duty, but enjoying being surrounded by women again. For all the world Dora resembled a coach party courier, huge and quivering in her custom made jacquard coat dress, bright red so she would stand out she'd told Vera. Vera, in a comfortable and serviceable ensemble of navy waterproof jacket, topping a jumper and trousers in subtle shades of grey and pink, had thought spitefully that she didn't need to wear red in order to stand out but hadn't said it out loud.

They'd given up their dream to attack McDonalds; had been forced into acquiescence by the combined eloquence of Alb, Tom and surprisingly Pete, who'd told Fiona privately that he wanted her to be where he could 'keep an eye' on her.

Now Dora was addressing the group, thirty women of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all brought in for the purpose, many of them Esmé's old cronies, all willing to die for the cause.

She spoke passionately, "Ladies, today we act for our grandchildren, today we act to return this nation to them, today we act to save their jobs and their standard of living, their hopes and dreams for the future." She paused, tired from the effort, face as red as her dress, then launched again, "Today we act as we should've acted before, to stop these greedy, self-serving people from selling off more of our national estate to foreign powers." She stopped again and looked across at Vera, Cynthia, Esmé and Fiona then, on her signal, they all chorused, "Today we strike a blow for freedom!"

The rest of the women cheered, raising their assorted weaponry and clutching at one another, smiling, eyes bright with fervour. Fiona shivered slightly; she was of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade but most of these women looked as though they'd have trouble telling one end of a gun from the other. On the long coach journey she'd tried to impart the rudiments but had given up; too much to learn, too little time. 'Point and shoot' she'd told them in the end.

Another shout rent the air, in response to some other nonsense from Dora; self appointed spokesperson and rabble rouser. Outside the coach a few passers-by exchanged perplexed expressions before going about their business.

"Dora?" called a mousy, frail-looking woman from the back. Although she'd had her moments in the past, been a minor activist against vivisection and the like, she had long since settled for a slow, painful ignominious decline into senility. When Esmé had given her the call she'd answered it as a life-saver, though it would likely culminate in her death.

There was so much commotion that Dora could barely hear, "Quiet!" she barked.

The mousy woman raised her arm again, "erm, I know the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have a free pass but what about Prince Charles and that dreadful woman?"

"Let me reiterate," said Cynthia, having worked her way into a position beside Dora; Little and Large, together at the end. She waited until she had their full attention, "The Queen and the Duke must be left unmolested, but Prince Charles and Camilla are fair game."

There was a general cheer, "But don't concentrate your efforts on them," stressed Fiona, her voice commanding in its lack of effort so to be, "remember, we're primarily here for the treacherous Politicians."

∞

Meanwhile, parked up just in front of Winston Churchill's statue was a van in the colours of Westminster City Council. Johnno had inveigled it from an old acquaintance who had stored it in a lock-up for them. After their strange Viagra fuelled night Wilf's team had gone early to the lock up and, using the paint Johnno's friend had supplied, had managed to disguise it sufficiently to pass first inspection.

The plan revolved around them being accepted as volunteer gardeners; in an effort to look the part they'd got hold of a few trays of young plants and Johnno, Pete, Bill and Ron were mooching about trying to place them. Up till now they had successfully resisted all requests from the Police to 'move on', a feat achieved primarily due to their age.

Dave and Sticky were sitting together on a bench some way off, sulking about the change of plan. It transpired this was the reason they had chosen to be on Wilf's team; they'd set their hearts on taking out a mosque and couldn't be reconciled. Also, they were both exhausted after the antics of the night before; Wilf had not mentioned the after-effects of Viagra before plying them with copious amounts of the drug.

Wilf, meantime, had made himself comfortable in a prone position in the back of the van. He had already scoped out the arc of fire and intended to pick off the MPs as they fled the assault. Alb and Gerry had worked mightily to dissuade him from this course but he wouldn't let it go, he felt he could get more of the buggers this way before being taken out himself.

He'd had a last-minute go at persuading Jonesey to join him in the van; as an ex-sniper he thought he'd have jumped at the chance, but no, more fool him, he'd committed to be with Alb.

"What do you think of planting the lobelias along the front here?" Pete asked, peering at the label hoping for enlightenment.

"What colour are they?" replied Ron, poking desultorily at the soil, trying to look knowledgeable and failing.

"I'm not sure," said Pete, "it doesn't say but they trail, apparently."

"Johnno," said Ron, "what colour are lobelias?"

"Blue," said Johnno, "but don't put them there, I was going to plant the....."

"What are you lot on about?" demanded Bill, "it doesn't matter where you plant the bloody things does it? No-one's going to care, are they?"

"Well, I care," stated Pete, truculently.

"Me too," said Ron, "if a jobs worth doing, it's...."

Goaded, Bill asked, "Do you want me to call Mad Dog over?"

Pete cleared his throat, "Err....urm...I suppose anywhere will do."

Johnno pulled a face and put down the tray he'd been carrying; he was having a problem breathing and he really needed a sit down and a cuppa.

∞

Meanwhile, Tom, and his son Dickie had parked Dickie's beat up Nissan Hardbody truck, also now bearing the Westminster City Council colours, at the bus stop just in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, situated behind Parliament Square. Dickie's mates had promised to join them later, arriving by myriad means to avoid detection. Dickie had let the air out of one of the tyres just in case the police should try to move them on and was engaged in an apparently fruitless attempt to undo the wheel nuts.

In the back of the open truck were three large vats of tar, already steaming, and several sacks of feathers; despite all Alb's urgings to the contrary, no one in the group had wanted to kill anyone and they still felt a massed tar and feathering was enough to get the message across.

On arrival Ken had clambered out of the van in a state of discomfort and dishevelment; after stretching and bemoaning his back's frailty for several minutes he had finally leaned in and helped Val to do the same. He felt a frisson of pride as she exited to stand beside him on the pavement; she was a good looking woman despite her age and he felt privileged that she'd chosen to be in his group when she could have gone with Alb.

Harry, having come up with Gray, Gill and Reg, was there to greet them, and he gave Val the once-over, Ken noted. They'd arrived by train then taxi; Reg had the money he had told them over and over, his voice querulous with age and irritation, and he was damned if he was travelling to his death in anything less than 1st class.

∞

Just round the corner from Parliament Square, on the patch of grass outside Westminster Abbey, three ex-RAF squadron leaders, friends of Vera's from her days in the WRAF, roped in to great effect at the last minute, had set out their twenty Spitfire replica models. The engines were running, the flaps were working and the Semtex was onboard. They just needed the off from Alb.

∞

Alb, Gerry and Mags were positioned round the corner with their team, Jonesey, Lenny, Frank, Nobby and Mort, on the edge of Parliament Square. Mags had insisted on being with them rather than on the WI coach. The only absentee from what Alb had always thought of as his Eden Hall gang was Sticky; inexplicably he'd chosen to go with Wilf and Johnno to take pot shots at people from inside a bloody van.
Alb looked along the line. All but one of them were dressed like the Long Riders from the Jesse James movie, in specially imported drovers coats. This had been Gerry's idea, him being a fan of westerns.

Beneath this all encompassing outer wear they wore fatigues with full battle webbing. Each had an AK47, an Uzi, a nine millimetre pistol and half a dozen grenades concealed amongst the folds of the floor-skimming coats.

All but one; Mort had ruined the look. Ok, Jonesey was in his slippers but he was a martyr to his corns and wanted to die comfortable. Ok, Gerry had been adamant about his flat cap, but Mort, having insisted on dressing himself, and despite having managed to get the webbing right using a long distant memory lodged somewhere in his brain, on leaving the apartment had mistaken his dressing gown, a green and red check woollen affair, for his long coat.

Although the outfits had been Gerry's idea it was Alb who had been incensed. He'd announced abruptly that Mort could no longer be part of the op but he'd been overruled in the end; it was too late for anyone to accompany him back to the Village, no-one knew what he might do on his own and they didn't want to take the chance. Besides, no-one wanted to impose the indignity of being left behind on anyone, especially on a suicide mission.

∞

At the same time as the members of the Commons began piling into the Lords eight wheelchair bound octogenarians started to wheel their way from Victoria Tower Gardens towards the Monarch's entrance. Each of these wheelchair volunteers was determined that their final breath be expended defending Britain from the greedy leaches leading the nation. Eyes fixed, jaws set the old men and women of the Octogenarian Suicide Squad, or the OSS as they liked to call themselves headed for their positions in the tree line just south of their target.

When they were all in place one of them sent a text to Alb who then sent a message to the ex-RAF boys, 'GO!'

My book Corpalism will be FREE for Kindle download from Amazon 15/6/16 to 19/6/16

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Corpalism-Arun...

Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Corpalism' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Wednesday 15th June to Sunday 19th June 2016. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Set in a dystopian future; all wealth is in the hands of the Corporations, the 1% whilst the 99% live in economic debt or poverty on sink estates in the North. Terry works for Relocations, his job is to relocate undesirables to these estates. Unfortunately for Terry he is late for work once too often and is himself relocated to a sink. But Terry is not all he seems. Why is he there and who does he really work for?

Meet Sir Phillip Blackmore, head of British Secret Intelligence, a Machiavellian character with plots more devious and unpleasant than even the Prime Minister is allowed to know about.

Delores Grey is a successful singer and the victim of a kidnapping; she has been missing for forty days and forty nights. Before she disappeared she was a flighty superstar who thought little of the world around her, on her return she is much changed, she now cares about things to the extent that she is willing to lecture her interviewers. Why has this change come upon her? Where has she been? Has she in fact been anywhere, could it be that it is all in the mind of Stephanie White and if so, who is Stephanie White?

It's Fancy Dress Night down the Dog n Duck. A group of young friends share a table for the night; Hiawatha, the Lone Ranger, Charlie Chaplin, Pirate, Mr Spock and a transvestite. They ramble through their usual debates and discussions. During the course of the evening their real identities are revealed as well as where they fit in the story.

The Independents are a new force in politics. Free of any lobby group, party bias, or corporate interest, they are determined to avert the looming catastrophe. They are on a headlong collision course with Sir Phillip Blackmore.

Naz and the other young Muslims are hatching a plot to bring home grown terror to an iconic building, one held dear to the hearts of many British people, including some of the would-be terrorists themselves. Will they be able to bring themselves to do it or will the plot be foiled by Blackmore's intelligence network?
Happy reading and hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun
Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Corpalism-Arun...

My book Daydream Believers will be FREE for Kindle download from Amazon 5/6/16 to 9/6/16

Hi -

Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...

Just to let you know that my book 'Daydream Believers' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Sunday 5th June to Thursday 9th June 2016. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

It's about a bunch of old people, ex service men and women all, they find they are no longer willing to sit back and allow the politically corrupt to ruin their country. 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.

The workmen argue and bluster and generally mess up, the three fat ladies take advantage of the digital age to seduce their unsuspecting prey.

The superstar footballer and his trophy wife reveal the self destructive nature of their life together and their pointless marriage.

A lucky couple win the lottery and find the pressures of new found wealth and family envy hard to handle.

A young East European finds herself prostituted until she meets her chivalric knight.

A mad eyed preacher tries to lecture the world back from the abyss.

The avenging 'Hand of God' meets out justice against criminal pimps from his community.

A homicidal diarist decides he's had enough and plans to kill members of the selfish 1%.

And then there's the return of Blackmore, the spy master general.
Happy reading and hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...

My book Daydream Believers will be FREE for Kindle download from Amazon 5/6/16 to 9/6/16

Hi -

Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...

Just to let you know that my book 'Daydream Believers' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Sunday 5th June to Thursday 9th June 2016. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

It's about a bunch of old people, ex service men and women all, find they are no longer willing to sit back and allow the politically corrupt to ruin their country. 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.

The workmen argue and bluster and generally mess up, the three fat ladies take advantage of the digital age to seduce their unsuspecting prey.

The superstar footballer and his trophy wife reveal the self destructive nature of their life together and their pointless marriage.

A lucky couple win the lottery and find the pressures of new found wealth and family envy hard to handle.

A young East European finds herself prostituted until she meets her chivalric knight.

A mad eyed preacher tries to lecture the world back from the abyss.

The avenging 'Hand of God' meets out justice against criminal pimps from his community.

A homicidal diarist decides he's had enough and plans to kill members of the selfish 1%.

And then there's the return of Blackmore, the spy master general.
Happy reading and hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...

Daydream Believers FREE on Amazon for Kindle download until 9th June 2016

Hi - Just to let you know that my book 'Daydream Believers' will be FREE on Amazon

.Co.Uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...
.Com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...

for Kindle/PC download from Sunday 5th June to Thursday 9th June 2016. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Happy reading an hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

TTIP

http://www.thejournal.ie/luke-flanaga...

Muslims in the USA want Sharia law and say they will not follow US laws.

https://youtu.be/uB6gps7dkUA