Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 69
February 22, 2016
Former Canada Defense Minister
The only thing I'd say is if they don't exist - why do we spend so much money looking for them?
https://youtu.be/Pg6VTzacb9I
https://youtu.be/Pg6VTzacb9I
February 20, 2016
Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'
Something in the Wind 6
It has been said that when human beings stop believing in God they believe in nothing.
The truth is much worse: they believe in anything.
Malcolm Muggeridge
Barry had upped the ante a bit with this one, moving the venue and taking a chance on filling it. Turned out to be no trouble at all; he could have gone for bigger. It was still word of mouth and a bit on Twitter; low key enough for Blackmore to believe he was still in control. For his own part he was a bit worried it was gaining its own momentum; might be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. The money was good though and he was enjoying being part of something real.
The Preacher was in full swing and the audience was giving him their complete attention.
"In the 1930s the German nation's children were seduced by the grand assertion that they were the new master race, the young Olympians who would inherit the world, when in reality they were destined to a life of despair as their futures spiralled out of control. Such was the pitiless evil of the Nazi empire."
He looked around the theatre, larger than usual but with barely an empty seat, "But that was the 1930s and that was the Nazis. This is now and we live in completely different times, we live in a completely different world."
He raised his hands, "I would like to speak of my children, young adults now, my two sons and my daughter. I love my children as I'm sure you do yours, if you have them. I don't see them often since my divorce but I do know what they have become, and I'm sure that some of you would recognise the characteristics."
He stopped talking, this was obviously painful for him and very personal. There was silence whilst they waited for him to collect himself. Not much fidgeting, Barry noted; a good sign.
Then he raised his head and his voice rang out, "Glued to the TV, obsessed with ludicrous soap storylines, the drama being played out more real to them than real-life. On Xbox, playing the latest violent action-packed game that makes reality seem pale and insignificant. On one of those social sites talking inane drivel to their friends. Texting feverishly. They don't read and can't spell. They have no idea about the UK beyond the confines of their own town, know nothing of our history unless it's US biased cinema in glorious Technicolor. They drive rather than walk, leave lights on, bath instead of shower, and in short, don't give a damn. Does this ring any bells?"
There were nods of agreement from the older members of the audience, "But they do know about mobile phone contracts, in fact they have several mobile phones, I've even inherited some myself, the ones they no longer want, I actually took on their contracts so that they could upgrade. They have to have the latest tablets, the most up to date PCs, TVs ...the list goes on."
He paused and checked the nodding heads, "The ad men have seduced our young people; they have mesmerized them with photo shopped images of super models and ridiculously over-paid sporting personalities. Promoted as false idols these prescription meds addicted film stars, and singers who condone violence to women and who prostitute their talent for fame. Seduced them with a flashy, selfish, skin-deep alternative reality of stardom, fame and celebrity; the antithesis of hard work, stoicism and compassion. All of these things have been designed to turn our children into consumer addicts; believing themselves to be inheritors of the world by right; the modern-day Hitler Youth."
Barry was fascinated. He had no clue how to report this back up the line; the preacher was unique, a one-off and it was hard to gauge his impact. The audience was also hard to read; murmurings and mutterings but to what end? All he could say for sure was that they were still listening and no-one had walked out.
The Preacher wandered around the stage, "We have failed our young because we did not stop the Corporations seducing them with their adverts. Worse yet, we encouraged it by buying them the next new thing, by getting them the biggest and the best that money could buy simply because we could. Or was it because we wanted to get them the things we never had as children?"
He paused and looked around at the nodding heads, "We gave them cold, heartless, meaningless things and deprived them of emotional engagement."
He took a quick sip of water, "We bought them a colour TV and piped SKY® into their rooms and left them with a plastic and glass companion that had no soul. We left them to feed off inane US imports with their false concepts of wealth and greed and lust and promiscuity and gender confusion. We left them to absorb all this by themselves without guidance and discussion and challenge. We deprived them of the core concepts of love, compassion and communication. I ask you, what have we created?"
They were silent as they waited for him to continue, Barry could sense their discomfort but it was obvious they would sit it out to the bitter end. He noted with mounting concern that the mobiles were out, filming the speech. Christ, he'd be on YouTube® next...that might draw too much attention from Blackmore.
"We have created a generation of indifferent, avaricious, selfish, dysfunctional, celebrity adulating, trivia junkies who believe that the most important thing in the world is to tweet their latest sociopathic self aggrandizing thought."
This got him applause from parts of the theatre, some people were standing up.
He continued, "They buy ridiculously cheap products knowing that someone was forced to make it in near slave conditions for a pittance and they don't care."
He was on a roll as he worked the stage, "Billions of people are suffering in poverty, hundreds of thousands are dying needlessly every day, and all our kids want to do is watch TV, text, spend, eat crap food, burn fossil fuels with no regard for the consequences and generally lay around all day doing nothing. I ask you, are such individuals really worthy of life?"
There were a few concerned looks, Barry thought he'd gone too far even for this crowd, most of whom had clearly heard him speak before, "Our children are the new Nazis for they know that over a third of the world suffers so they can live a life of self indulgence and they don't care, worse still they think it is their birth right. Our children bitch and moan at us, we have spoiled them and we have allowed the media men to turn them into moribund social and economic leaches whose sole purpose is to consume and create waste."
His voice tailed off as he paused in the centre of the stage. "And so it is, we have sold our children's souls and created a social nightmare, we have given birth to a greedy self interested society that must be destroyed before the rest of humanity can live."
He walked off so quickly from the stage that even Barry was taken by surprise.
February 19, 2016
Extract from my book 'Corpalism'
“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded.
He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”
He stared at her ; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.
“No.”
“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby
“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.
“Oh!” she said, “are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.
“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”
“But you said….”
“Never mind,” replied Terry.
“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.
“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”
“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”
“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”
“You fell?”
“I fell.”
“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.
“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”
“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police don’t you,” pressed Debby.
“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.
“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.
“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”
“Where did you fall?”
“In the shower.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”
“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”
“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.
“Yes,” said Terry.
“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.
“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”
“And 25 years social labour.”
“What!”
“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.
“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”
“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”
“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.
“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.
“But how do I live?” asked Terry.
“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”
“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.
“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”
“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”
“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”
“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”
“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”
“Interest?” he squeaked.
“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.
Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.
“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”
“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”
“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”
“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”
“Mr. Jones.”
“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”
“Mr. Jones.”
“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”
“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”
“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.
“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”
“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “how can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”
“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living you know. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”
“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”
“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”
“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.
“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.” Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”
She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously.
Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”
“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”
Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”
Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”
“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.
Debby pulled a fake grin. “This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” she said , standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”
Terry pulled a fake grin.
February 15, 2016
Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'
Something in the wind 5
“Palestine belongs to the Arabs in the same sense that
England belongs to the English or France to the French.
It is wrong and in-human to impose the Jews on the Arabs.”
Mahatma Gandhi
The Preacher looked out from the stage, there were more people, maybe 75, maybe a 100, he couldn't really tell. He knew Barry had been excited about the gate or whatever it was he called it. It meant little to him; simply that the message was being heard.
"I support no religion, I deny all faiths and reject all dogmas." He waited a few moments, "But I have been thinking of this war on terror and I cannot escape the conclusion that it is a real war, but not in the way that it has been sold to us." He turned and strode off to his right, "We have been sold the story of the evil Islamist attack, a satanical attack on America and western culture and we bought into the story because that's exactly what it is, a Hollywood story from beginning to end, a Spielberg extravaganza."
He ignored the rippled gasp that greeted his pronouncement and turned rapidly to his left, "Imagine the scene, evil, bearded, dark skinned Muslim tyrants, sitting around their camp fires, their demonic faces flickering in the firelight, plotting the downfall of the free world. Set against that you have the carefree, innocent, blond blue-eyed American family enjoying life in the California sun listening happily to the sounds of the latest 15 year old pop megastar."
He paced around the stage, "For years Hollywood has prepared us for the coming war on Islam, we've had a never ending diet of films based on Islamic terrorists attacking the heart of America. Then we have the real event; the horrific tragedy of 9/11. Which is followed a few years later by other attacks in Europe and here in the UK, culminating in the recent Wembley attack," he rubbed his chin as he walked, "but what if we re-examined that script? What if we looked more closely at the details? What if we were to peek behind the curtain? What if this were all just a conjuring trick?"
He stopped and stared out at the audience, he could see wide eyes and some opened mouths, "What if we ponder the way things were before 9/11 and examine the lives of those in the Middle East? What if we looked back at where things began, examined the facts more closely?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," shouted someone from the back. Barry was fidgeting; this was not going well.
The Preacher raised his hand in either negation or acknowledgment. "Who has heard of the Balfour Declaration?"
No-one responded.
"OK, context: in 1917 WWI was at its height, the French army had mutinied and was on the defensive, the first Russian revolution had erupted in March of that year, the Eastern front was closing down. If the dreaded Lenin took power the Bolsheviks would sue for peace and Germany would be free to transfer over one million troops from the Eastern front, to the Western front. The only allied army still able to fight was Britain's but, even at over a million men strong, it was tiny compared to that of the Reich."
Barry breathed again; they were off the contentious topic of 9/11 and a Spielberg extravaganza.
"Two things happened. First, Lenin and the Bolsheviks came to power and sued for peace. Secondly, the British Foreign Secretary Arthur Balfour sent a letter to the international banker Baron Rothschild agreeing to establish a home for the Jews in Palestine."
He paused and looked around him, waiting for it to sink in, not wanting to go further until he saw a few lights dawning. He raised his palms and hunched his shoulders, "It was a quid pro quo arrangement; in return for Palestine the global Jewish community would replenish bare coffers, use political influence to speed American troops across the Atlantic, throw its combined weight behind the allies to crush Germany."
A few people were shaking their heads, a few others showing various expressions of surprise.
"Think about it. What if the US Foreign Secretary signed a letter giving SE England to France for their support in the UN. How do you think we would take that? How would you feel if your country was given away to another community by another people living thousands of miles away? No! Let's be specific here, if you were a Muslim and a couple of Christians signed away your Holy Land to the Jews, how would you feel?"
The hall was silent.
"A few years earlier Palestine had belonged to the Ottoman Turks. It was a Muslim country. The Arabs helped Lawrence of Arabia defeat the Turks and what was their reward? The creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine? Really? At first it wasn't a huge problem, settlers came but not in great numbers, going into kibbutz and small settlements. It all changed after WWII and the holocaust when everyone seemed to accept Jewish people's right to come from all over the world and converge on Palestine, thus turning the indigenous population into an oppressed minority group." He paused, peering out, trying to penetrate the back rows. "The theft of Palestine and subsequent creation of Israel has lead directly through the decades to our current war on terror."
There were several murmurings of what Barry hoped were agreement.
"I'm not saying that I back the Muslims over the Jews and I'm not saying that the holocaust wasn't dreadful, I'm saying if someone gave my country away to a third party then I'd have to fight to get it back." He waited for his words to travel around the hall, "I'd fight them on the beaches, I'd fight them in the fields and I'd fight them in the hills and I'd never surrender."
Nods of encouragement now; smatterings of applause, scattered but not isolated, he'd succeeded with some of them where Barry would have thought that was impossible.
"We are told that here in the west we are the victims of Islamic Jihadists' terror, and it is true, there have been atrocities on our streets. But do we live in daily terror? Do we face death from the skies without warning?" He raised a finger to the ceiling, "Delivered like a thunderbolt by a drone activated from miles away or as a deadly spray of cannon rounds from an Apache helicopter?"
"What about 9/11?" shouted someone from the back of the hall. He was shushed immediately by people from various sections of the auditorium.
"We support Arab royalty, selling them weapons with which to control their people and in return they allowed us to steal the Arab people's national wealth, the only thing they have, their oil," responded the Preacher quickly, "Think how much money has been poured into the Middle East. Where did it all go? If you look at Iraq, Iran and Saudi Arabia the ordinary people live in poverty whilst the elites live in extreme opulence. Mercedes made of silver."
He bent over the front of the stage to address those who were scattered in the front row, "That's how it works, firstly we buy off the ruling classes with great wealth and then we help them suppress their revolutionaries, the men and women who would fight for the rights of the people. These people we call anarchists, terrorists, communists or religious fundamentalists."
He rose up and bounced across the stage, energised by the feedback, "Why is it that we allow obscenely rich Arab leaders to be portrayed as victims? Why do we allow ourselves to be persuaded that the people fighting for equal distribution of oil wealth are the villains? Simple, because if the people of the Arab countries get control of the oil they will want to charge more for it so they can improve the wellbeing of the nation and the oil magnates can't allow that."
"If it keeps the price of oil down then it's a good thing," called someone from the side.
"I'm not arguing against it. I'm simply saying we should admit to what we are doing. Be clear why we're out there and why we're killing thousands and thousands of innocent human beings."
"Bloody commie!" shouted a man in the front row.
"Perhaps we allow the powers that be to sell us the lie because we recognise that the Arabs are sat on top of the world's most crucial supplies. Is that why we don't question the horrors that have been unleashed on the millions of civilians? Is the truth rather that we are the ones waging war? Are we the evil under the sun? Are we the evil empire attacking the free peoples of the world? Are we the true villains in this Hollywood movie? Are we the real terrorists and have we allowed ourselves to be deceived simply because of our own greed?"
With that he spun through 180 degrees and left the stage.
February 13, 2016
Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'
Something in the wind 4
For what shall it prophet a man
if he gain the whole world
and suffer the loss of his soul
Jesus Christ
This time the tickets had sold without much effort; they were still too cheap for Barry's liking but that would come later, as word got around. There was a buzz around the auditorium, some of the audience had heard him speak before and they were ready for more.
The Preacher walked to the back of the stage, took a sip of water from the bottle on the table and then returned, launching an immediate attack on his transfixed audience, "I bet you all support the Wars on Terror, even though we are witnessing the mass murder of the Arab peoples."
There was the odd shake of the head here and there. Barry was immediately absorbed, he'd forgotten he was supposed to be critiquing; he was simply listening. His man was beginning to look the part; dishevelled though not dirty, wild-eyed but not mad, he’d lost weight and his clothes hung off him. If you’d been asked to draw an Old Testament prophet you might have drawn him; long hair, the same disregard of person, the same almost manic focus.
"Why is that?" he demanded, "Why do we support the war on terror even though we know it to be a fiction, a total fabrication. Is it because we can't do anything about it? Have you tried to protest against the illegal wars?" He was pointing at various individuals, "Do you realise that it is now treason to criticise Governments in time of war? That means they can do anything as long as we are at war and if anyone criticises them they can be imprisoned indefinitely, even executed if they are in the military." He waited for this to sink in, "How can it be treason to criticise the Government? The Government is NOT the country...the Government is elected by the people, it's just a political party representing specific interested parties."
There were a few nods and murmurs of assent. Barry was impressed; he knew the topics were unrehearsed and were all the more powerful for that.
"If we're fighting a war that's not in the interests of the people, then in whose interests are we fighting? For the world's corporations so they can get their hands on key oil reserves? For the share holders, the company directors, the nouveau riche so they can retain their status, their wealth, their positions of power over us? Are we in the Middle East to enable the spread of commercialism? Are we there so the new high priests, the economists can spread their holy sacrament of greed? To allow their clergy, the shoddy salesmen, to spread the belief that everyone is allowed to want whatever it is they want, regardless of how or where it is produced, regardless of how many people have suffered in misery to bring it to them? Is this the extent of our new religion? The desire to own more, the lust for whatever we can get our hands on? Is this what we have become now that we have lost God and Jesus?"
The diatribe was met by silence. Barry took careful note of the expressions of those around him, they weren't hostile, just confused.
"I want to ask you a question, all those of you who claim to believe in God yet spend your time shopping for goods made cheaply in the third world where children are abused as economic slaves, how do you reconcile your greed with the preaching of Jesus?" He waited but no-one volunteered an answer, "You reconcile it because you don't believe there is a God or that Jesus ever existed. I know that's what you do because I used to be like you. I no longer believed in Jesus and God, only the words of the advertising men penetrated my debauched state. I worked in the City, I earned lots of money, I used to spend obscene amounts on whatever took my fancy and I never cared about anyone else. But I still went to church and said my amens because that's how I'd been brought up. What I didn't realise was that I had replaced Jesus' doctrine with the creed of avarice, selfishness and indifference."
Barry was riveted, the pain in the Preacher's voice was clear to all; he held nothing back.
"But the thing is, even though I was able to laugh at others who still believed in God I didn't find my new found freedom liberating. It led to despair, to sullen darkness that overwhelmed me and possessed every corner of my soul until all I could do was think of getting the next cool gadget the minute it hit the shops, to be first in line for the latest iPhone or Playstation." He tilted his head slightly, "Then of course there were the parties, the women, the drink and drugs, the regular betrayal of my wife, of my family," he wandered along the front of the stage, "you probably don't realise it but the brokers in the City are all doped with drugs and free sex, the perks of the positions held, it is a real Sodom and Gomorrah."
He paused in the centre of the stage, "But then it occurred to me, I didn't believe in Jesus because I don't believe in magic, but, what is magic?" he stretched out his hands, "It's only magic because the events that occur before our eyes are inexplicable, but that doesn't make it magic, that just means I don't understand how it was done. In earlier times TV, PCs and mobiles would seem like magic. Ergo, any references to magic in the Bible were misunderstandings at best or at worst an insidious attempt by the Roman Catholic church to control and manipulate the masses by fear." He raised his palms, "Strangely that made sense to me; I didn't have to believe in silly miracles to justify the words of Jesus." He walked to his left, "But that still left God. What could I do with that? Well there doesn't have to be a God to justify the words of Jesus either, actually."
"But Jesus was the Son of God," called out someone.
"Well timed, thank you." He turned to his left, "I can see where you're coming from, Jesus said he was the Son of God, it's in the bible. But who wrote the bible?" He waited, then answered his own question, "The Romans, and they put in what they wanted and left out what they didn't like." He moved on a bit, "So who was it told the Romans that Jesus claimed to be the son of God? The Pharisees. Excuse my cynicism but how convenient. Jesus was preaching a load of stuff the Pharisees didn't like when suddenly he says something sacrilegious; 'I'm the son of God'."
He paused, raised his palms and shoulders, "But, what if he didn't actually say that, what if all he did was to go around saying that we should live together as one in peace and harmony? That would actually make Jesus the world's first hippy."
Some people laughed in spite of themselves, Barry grinned and started to make notes on how further to promote his boy's message; and of course to report back to Blackmore.
"That's when it dawned on me, I didn't have to believe in God to love my neighbour or help those in need. I didn't have to think that Jesus was the Son of God to take his words to heart. He had laudable ideas and the code he offered was well worth living by. I did not have to follow this or that religion to understand Jesus' teachings and I did not have to force my neighbour to believe in the same fashion as myself because it wasn't about religion or types of faith or dogma," he shouted out the last word, "because that creates division and that's exactly what every religion has brought to the world, and it's not what Jesus meant and he did not say he was the son of God, just that he was the son of man." He moved to the centre of the stage, "And that's what saved me, the sudden understanding that Jesus could've been just a man and it didn't devalue any of his teachings, any of his words, they are all of great significance and I didn't have to join any religion in order to believe in him."
His whole demeanour had changed with these last words as if he was feeling again the liberation that had brought him, "I was suddenly free of my corruptions, of my despair, of my self-loathing, of my soul destroying addictions; if there is no God and if Jesus could just be a man then I could follow his teachings and not live under the self imposed delusion of heaven and hell but in the open, in the enlightened belief of good and honesty and love and peace simply because it's right, simply because it's the right thing to do, the right way to be, the right way to behave and when I had reached that point I knew that evil was striding across England and I had to make my stand."
He clenched his fists and leant forwards, "We have been seduced by greed, lust and selfishness and we must work to shake off their deadly influence and help others to free themselves of the mind numbing addictions that have rendered them comatose."
With that he left the stage. There was a shocked silence, then a short burst of clapping. It petered out and a few started to talk amongst themselves, others made for the exits but some made their way forwards to see if they could ask questions. Barry was grinning, really smiling in a way he hadn't for years.
February 12, 2016
Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'
Superstar
He poured a cup of tea and took it with him into his haven; his games room. Upstairs he could hear Fiona and the girls, 3 year old twins, getting ready for their weekly shopping trip. He never went with them, hated the crush, hated shops, besides he had a big game tomorrow and he needed his rest; it was the crunch end of the season and he was carrying a few niggles that worried the Boss.
He grabbed the hand control to his Bang & Olufsen and Strauss' Blue Danube started up. He relaxed into his chair, scanning the walls, the showcased shirts of his favourite players. He stopped when he reached Pete Bowthorpe's shirt, legendary central defender for his beloved Newcastle United. He couldn't help it, every time he saw that shirt it tore at his soul, every time he heard the Geordie fans it tore at his heart, leaving him breathless. He drifted back to the early days when he actually enjoyed the game, when he played for the team he loved.
Sammy and Charlie ran in, screaming, vying to see who could get to him first and give him the biggest hug. Fiona's two dogs followed at their heels, yapping loudly.
"We're off then, Darren," yelled Fiona from the hall.
The dogs flew off towards the sound of her voice, this time the girls were at their heels. "You gonna come and wave us off at least?"
Five minutes later he was back contemplating the shirt, eyes half-closed, hearing the chanting crowds and remembering how it felt as he went to the stands after scoring, re-living the thrill and the love he felt for them and the love they gave him. Feeling the same old pull; always for him it would be the Magpies.
He looked down, one of the dogs was attacking his left ankle, this was the blue bowed one which was meant to be some kind of clue but he never bothered to listen so never knew which was which. He stood up, shook his leg and flicked it off.
He flopped down into his chair and stared up at the Geordie top. Tomorrow he was up against his old club, and it was him everyone would expect to score the winning goal. This time it would be crucial to both clubs, United could win the league yet again and Newcastle would be relegated. Simple as. If he scored the winning goal then he would be the one to send his old club down, a pain he knew he couldn't bear. How could he do that when all his life he had supported the Toon, when he had spent his youth in the stands with his dad and his cousins and then his mates, it was unthinkable that he was the one expected to sink the hopes and dreams of the town he loved.
He drifted back to the United v City game of the '73-'74 season when Denis Law thought he'd scored the goal that relegated United. As it happened United were already relegated but that didn't stop it passing into folk law that it was Law's goal that sank United. Was that his destiny? To be the man who destroyed the dreams of every Geordie? He conjured images of Law trudging from the pitch. 'Thing is it wasn't even as bad for Law 'cause he was a Jock and he only adopted United,' thought Darren, 'this is my club, my home town. Is this where greed and a desire for glory has finally brought me?'
The letterbox clattered and the pink and blue bowed tormentors scurried off, yapping wildly. He rubbed his forehead as their high pitched yelps penetrated deep into his brain. He checked his watch, he was due at the club for physio; the Boss would be there ready to pep him along, big him up and stress the importance of the game. "Bloody Bergson," he moaned, 'it's alright for you, you've pretty much always been United and you'd love to see the Magpies go down. Bastard."
An hour later he was stretched face down on the table whilst Mike, the club physio, rubbed his hamstrings. Mike had tried to start up a conversation but gave up after receiving only grunts in response. Bergson was in the corridor outside, talking to Terry Finch, one of his assistant trainers. He sounded excited, energised and as they broke off Darren closed his eyes. He hadn't realised just how much he didn't want to see his manager, the man who had tempted him away from St. James' with the prospects of glory, medals and, of course, money.
"Darren," said Bergson, bursting into the room, a big man, with a big head and a florid face and a voice he used like a weapon, "how you feeling? How's he looking for tomorrow, Mike?"
"He's good, Boss," said Mike, crouching down and wringing his hands Uriah Heep fashion; he was fearful of Bergson’s temper.
"How's that leg?" Bergson grabbed the limb in question, the one that had scored a total of 260 goals, 89 of them for United; an incredible 36 this season. Darren flinched at the contact. "Listen son, I want you to take it easy today, no training just physio, it's more important to rest than anything else. You get us an early goal tomorrow I'll get you off and shut up shop, no point risking further injury, there's still the final to come and we could end the season with the 'double'."
Darren tried to come up with a suitably positive response, though none was necessary, Bergson had moved on, pushing Mike aside, "Turn over a minute I need to see your face."
Darren rolled over, 'here we go,' he thought, 'the pep talk.'
"Listen, son, this is the very last game of the season, we're in prime position, but Chelsea are only 1 point behind us."
"But we've got better goal difference, Boss," Mike interjected enthusiastically, his head nodding up and down.
"Yeah, yeah," said Bergson, eyeing him coldly, then adding dismissively, "got work to do, Mike?"
"We're gonna win Boss," Mike said, missing the cue in his enthusiasm.
Bergson's look closed the supply of breath to Mike's throat, then thankfully the attention was back on Darren, "If we win...."
"When we win," whispered Mike, superstitiously touching two fingers to his head, his chest then left and right shoulders. He repeated the movement at speed until it became meaningless.
Bergson took a deep calming breath, if Mike wasn't such an accomplished masseuse and so well-loved by the dressing room he'd have him out on his ear faster than... he dipped his head and rubbed his forehead, "If we win," he continued through gritted teeth, "we win the league."
"Yeah!" shouted Mike throwing his fist in the air.
"Mike!" snapped Bergson, "if you don't mind."
"Sorry Boss, just kinda...well you know."
Bergson turned his back on him, focussing the blue eyed laser beam directly into Darren's troubled brown gaze, "Tomorrow's a really big day for this club, you do know that?"
Darren resisted the urge to blink, "Yes Boss."
"We could win the League again, and you know what that means to the club and the fans."
"To the club and the fans," repeated Mike, reverentially.
"And to me personally, Darren?"
"To the Boss," intoned Mike.
"I went out on a limb bringing you to this great club; you know that, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Although he'd heard it all before and it had lost some value in the repetition, it was still an unarguable fact, Bergson had fought a lot of people to get his transfer past the Board.
"They certainly didn't want to pay the salary, you remember that too, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Darren kept his face straight, stopped his lip curling in disgust at his own greed. Money, the root of all evil.
"So now's the time to show I was right and what a great investment it was."
"Right Boss," he managed a nod this time.
"So tomorrow I want you to go out there with only one intention, to make us champions again."
There was a small silence while Bergson held Darren's gaze, even Mike was in awe of the moment. There was an elephant in the room and they had been circling it but now it was time to shine the light.
"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."
It was out in the open. NEWCASTLE UNITED. In letters as large as life. Darren thought it must be obvious to anyone with eyes that he was dying inside.
"But you can do it, I know you can." Not obvious to Bergson then.
"Yes Boss, don't worry about me, Boss," said Darren, "I'm United through and through." There, he'd said it, United through and through, the Newcastle bit was in his head only; he'd got away with saying it.
"Good lad," said Bergson, "so remember, a win tomorrow and....."
"We will win, Boss," said Mike keenly.
"That's enough, Mike," said Bergson.
"We will win," muttered Mike, crossing himself again.
Bergson dipped his head, then lifted it in a roar, "A WIN TOMORROW," he paused, offering Mike the bait but he wisely held his tongue, "and we win the league. However, if we draw..."
"We won't draw, Boss," said Mike, "Darren's leg will get us the goal we need."
"MIKE!" Bergson calmed himself, "Mike. Could you get me some water, Mike?"
"Sure thing Boss," Mike dashed from the room.
"I've been a player, Darren, so I know where you're at right now. I know that it's not only your old club but the club you've supported since you were a lad."
"Boss." Least said, soonest mended, Darren remembered from somewhere.
"I know that a win for us sees them relegated and, believe me, I never like to see a club go down, especially a great club like Newcastle, but that's the name of the game, right?"
Darren nodded, "Boss," he said, thinking, 'but you hate Keith.'
Bergson replied as if the words had been spoken, "I know Keith Morgan and I have had our differences," a small word to cover a huge depth of loathing, "but you know I think he's a great guy and I admire him as a manager, right?"
"Right, Boss," said Darren, thinking, 'You hate Keith 'cause he found out you shagged his missus and he took your Maureen in exchange.'
"It's just not been their season, right."
"Right Boss," said Darren, desperate to say out loud, 'Yeah but you didn't help, knifing and niggling at him in the papers.'
"And they'll spring back from this."
"Boss." Yeah right.
"Besides which, you're a United player now."
"United through and through!" Darren was having real problems maintaining this. How Bergson couldn't hear the double meaning was beyond him.
"So, tomorrow I want you to go out there with nothing else on your mind but scoring that winning goal and making us champions again. Then we can move onto the cup final and do the 'Double' for the fans, for United, for Manchester United."
"Sure thing, Boss."
"Remember," said Bergson, his eyes turning icy, "all that really counts is us being champions again. Otherwise Chelsea will get it and that would fuck me right off."
"Me too Boss," said Darren. A measure of sincerity entered his voice, he was no fan of the Blues that's for sure.
"Here's your water, Boss," said Mike returning at the run, slopping liquid in his excitement.
"Cheers Mike," said Bergson putting the plastic cup down without taking a sip and nodding for Mike to follow him into the corridor, "Well?"
"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.
"How is he? How's the leg?"
"Oh, it's good, Boss."
"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"
"Sure thing, Boss."
"What about up here?" said Bergson, tapping a finger on his temple.
"I think he'll be alright Boss," said Mike.
"You're sure?" pressed Bergson, "Terry's not so sure." The assistant trainer wasn't Darren's biggest fan so to a certain extent his comments could be taken with a pinch of salt, but Bergson wanted to be sure.
"Who can tell what a guy's really thinking," said Mike, "but he seems ok to me."
Bergson looked through the glass at the top of the door, Darren had rolled onto his stomach and was resting his head on his arms. "Well, if he doesn't look interested we'll whip him off."
A voice from the top of the corridor hailed them, and Pat Seymour, Club Director, bore down, face wreathed in smiles, "We're all but there, man."
"Aye!" replied Bergson, grimly, "Just the one more hurdle."
"Hurdle? Newcastle? They're shite, they've been shite all season." He included Mike in the breadth of his smile, "We'll tear them apart especially with our Darren, he'll bury them and send the bastards back down where they belong. Serve that bastard Keith right for shacking up with your Maureen."
Bergson raised his finger to his mouth and shook his head. Mike pointed at the door of the physio room. Pat pulled a face and wrapping his arm around Bergson's shoulders, dragged him off to talk more of victory and glory.
Darren closed his eyes, 'What am I doing here?'
