Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 70
February 11, 2016
Extract from my book 'Corpalism'
Dr. Feelgood
“How is she today?”
“Much the same, Doctor,” answered Patrick, “she’s still coming out with this crazy stuff.”
“Mmm,” he said, walking into the main living space.
“Morning Doctor” said Delores.
“Good morning, Delores…and how are we today?”
“Well I’m in fine form,” said Delores, “but I can’t speak for everyone.”
Dr. Feelgood smiled, tightly. David closed his eyes.
“Have you been taking your medicine, Delores?”
“Yes, I have.” answered Delores.
“No, she hasn’t.” corrected Patrick.
“Patrick!” snapped Delores, “don’t you lie now, tell the Dr. the truth.”
“That is the truth, Delores,” said Patrick, with noticeably less conviction.
“Delores?” questioned the Doctor.
“Well okay, so I missed a few doses but to be honest Doc, I really don’t see the point.”
“And why’s that, Delores?”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with me” said Delores.
“Well, that’s a matter for others to decide, I think, Delores.”
“Look Doc, as far as I’m concerned, this is all some kind of crazy dream.”
“Which is why she’s been saying all those strange things on TV,” said Patrick.
“They aren’t ‘strange things’ Patrick, they make perfect sense.”
“Ah, they might make perfect sense to you, Delores,” said Dr. Feelgood, “but I’m afraid they’re a little off the wall to the rest of us.”
“Really? ...off the wall, you say?” Recognising the tone, Patrick groaned.
“Yes, off the wall, Delores.” She had so little insight into her own condition, it was pitiful.
“Well okay,” said Delores, “let’s try a new one on you then, shall we?”
“Er, Delores …,” started Patrick, “that might not be a good idea?”
“No, Patrick,” interrupted Dr. Feelgood, “it might be good therapy; it will certainly help me ascertain where we are with Delores’ treatment.”
Delores raised her eyebrows, “Ascertain where we are with my treatment? Well, let me ascertain where we are with your insanity, Doctor.”
“Delores….” Patrick fumbled and chewed his bottom lip, “Please don’t say anymore ‘til David’s here.”
“Oh, do shut up,” snapped Delores, “what’s David going to do? Stop me? Is that what you think, Patrick?”
“Er, no Delores,” stammered Patrick, “I just think David should know what’s being said.”
“Well, you can tell him later…well Doc, what shall we cover?”
“I don’t know, Delores. What do you want to cover?” said Dr. Feelgood.
“Take a seat,” she instructed, pointing to an armchair. She thought for a bit then said happily, “Ah, now I have it.”
“You do? Well, don’t give it to me then.” Neither one laughed; not Patrick who shuffled uncomfortably nor Delores who simply stared until the doctor looked away.
“Do you like my home, Doctor?”
“Yes, Delores, it’s very beautiful,” said Dr. Feelgood.
“I have several others, you know,” said Delores.
“I’m sure you do,” said Dr. Feelgood, “you’ve been very successful, Delores.”
“Haven’t I just,” agreed Delores, “tell me Doctor, do you own your own home?”
Patrick looked horrified at the question.
“Well, yes, Delores,” answered Dr. Feelgood.
“What’s it like?” asked Delores.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where is it? What style is it? How many
rooms? How much land?”
“Oh well,” said Dr. Feelgood, “it’s a modern build, mock Georgian.”
“With pillared porch?” asked Delores.
“Yes actually,” answered Dr. Feelgood, “two pillars.”
“How many rooms?”
He looked surprised at her insistence, then recited, “Three receptions plus a study, a large kitchen/breakfast room, five bedrooms, three with en-suites, one ‘his and hers’ and one family bathroom and a wet room… oh and a conservatory.”
This was all said rather smugly, to Patrick he sounded annoyingly like an estate agent.
“Very nice,” said Delores, “sounds like it cost a pretty penny or two.”
“Indeed it did, but you know, being a professional, well, it helps.”
“I’ll bet it does, and is there much land?”
“Oh not much really,” he said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “an acre or so; I’m not there enough to do a lot of land justice.”
“Mmm, gardener then…” she narrowed her eyes, “so tell me, how much did it cost?”
“Well,” stammered Dr. Feelgood, “erm….”
“Delores,” said Patrick, “I don’t think the Doctor wants to part with that kind of information.”
“Ok …where is it?” asked Delores.
“Er, West Sussex.”
“On the coast or inland?” asked Delores.
“Inland.” said Dr. Feelgood.
“Interesting…” her eyes probed his and he felt
bubbles of sweat pop out on his brow, “then I’d say it probably set you back a cool 1.5, 1.8 million?”
“Delores,” squealed Patrick.
“Ignore him,” said Delores, “let’s call it a million, there or thereabouts?”
A short battle occurred between the desire to show-off and the Englishman’s innate secrecy about money. “Er, thereabouts.”
“And I’m guessing most of it is mortgaged,” said Delores.
“Delores, no…” squealed Patrick.
“If you can’t be quiet, Patrick, I suggest you go into the kitchen and make us all a cup of tea,” she turned to the doctor, the perfect hostess, “how do you take your tea, Doctor?”
“I’d rather have a coffee if I could…need the caffeine…” this last was said in a mumble.
“Coffee for the Doctor, tea for me, go on Patrick, get on with it.” He nodded and hurried from the room. “Right, let’s just examine the reality of your little bit of ownership, shall we?”
Dr. Feelgood folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, “Well, I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say, Delores.”
“Good because you’re going to hear it anyway,” she laughed, rather theatrically he thought, “you charge enough, and it’s on my time so you might as well hear what I have to say.”
He fidgeted irritably, he didn’t like people commenting on his fee, if that was what he charged then that was what he charged and if they didn’t like it then they could jolly well go elsewhere instead of making a song and dance about it, and talking of song and dance, he didn’t tell Delores how much to charge for tickets to her shows, did he.
“You think you own that house of yours and the little bit of land… what was it, 2 acres? …but you’re wrong Doctor, you don’t own it and you never will.”
“Well that’s just where you’re wrong Delores….”
“Sorry Doc, but if you just listen first, then you can comment. It’s my pound remember,” said Delores, “so I get to call the shots.” He smiled; his teeth together, gritted, trying for benign but achieving a grimace. “You don’t own that house, Doctor, the bank does…if you miss a payment or a number of payments what happens to the house? The bank takes it back, it kicks you out into the street and then it sells your house at rock bottom price and you are liable to any shortfall, is that right?”
“Well yes, of course the bank can claim the house if I don’t pay the mortgage but….”
“But what Doctor? …you’re secure in your profession? But what would happen if the bank suddenly had debts it couldn’t pay?” He stared at her. “It could force you to sell your house to cover its bad debt, couldn’t it?”
“I don’t think so, or if it could, it wouldn’t”
“In the small print of your mortgage it says that the bank can demand that you pay the full sum of your loan at anytime if so required by them … they can foreclose on the loan.”
“Yes, Delores, but that’s only a legal term to protect the bank.”
“Oh yes? And what legal terms are there in the small print to protect you? I mean, if you can’t afford the mortgage for whatever reason, unless you’ve taken out massively expensive income protection insurance, you’re stuffed. There is nothing in the mortgage small print that obliges the bank to sell the house at market value, thus protecting your investment. Don’t bother arguing, because we both know it’s the truth. If the house needs to be sold it’s sold at rock bottom price and the bank gets its money back first and any leftover (she laughs nastily at this point) is yours. In reality there most likely won’t be enough to repay the full loan of the mortgage so you are still liable for it. You owe them the difference. There is nothing in the documentation about the thousands or maybe even hundreds of thousands that you’ve invested in the property, your equity… it’s all just about the bank’s money.”
“They are putting up the loan,” said Dr. Feelgood, “which, to be fair, is most of the money.”
“But is that fair, Doctor? I mean, you work hard to buy the house, you’re the ‘owner-occupier’…you put all of your money, effort, savings into the property but if some financial or economic disaster should befall you or your family then that house that you thought was ‘your home’, that house you thought you ‘owned’, that little bit of England you put all your hopes and dreams and efforts into suddenly belongs to the bank? No Doctor, not suddenly… it always belonged to the bank and you were just maintaining it for them, improving it for them so its market value would rise and they would get more money out of it.”
“Now that’s not true,” said Dr, Feelgood, “because any increase in value is mine when I sell the house.”
“Ah ha, but you won’t ever realise the cash, will you? No, you’ll succumb to pressure, from your wife, from the chaps down at the club, from colleagues and you’ll sell it in order to buy another, yet more expensive house with a bigger mortgage. You won’t realise the cash but the banks will feel the benefit. Okay, in this instance it might not be the same bank but for them it’s all swings and roundabouts, isn’t it.”
“I’m not sure I …?” the good doctor was struggling to keep his head above water, it was not just the strength of argument that was the problem but the fact that it was Delores putting it forward.
“Whichever bank lends the money to the new buyer of your house is the true benefactor of the increase in the value of your property. Let’s say, the house was priced at £1.9m when you bought it a few years ago, say you’ve improved it a bit and the market has risen a bit, and it now sells at £2.3m. Unless the buyer has a very large deposit to put down the bank will be in the position of granting a larger mortgage, which equates to more debt, more interest on that debt, higher monthly payments and, all in all, more money for the banks.”
“What?”
“And this goes right across the board to all property, which you never actually own, don’t you see, Doctor? You and others like you are helping the banks to drive up the price of houses so that they can lend ever more money to people like you so that they earn more interest. It’s just a method of driving debt upwards, creating inflation in debt as opposed to inflation in products.”
He was looking seriously confused by now. So far neither of them had noticed Patrick’s failure to return from the kitchen.
“And to top it off,” said Delores, “not only are you paying this huge debt to the banks but the banks also really own your house, you don’t.”
“Well,” stammered Dr. Feelgood, “I think I own my house.”
“That’s the beauty of the con, you think you do but you don’t, you just rent it via a mortgage from the banks and let’s face it, Doc …you could actually rent something far bigger than the house you’re ‘buying’ (she did the annoying two fingers of each hand inverted commas thing) for less monthly outlay. Truth be told, the whole ‘own your own home’ (again with the fingers) thing was just a massive swindle by the Conservatives to try and make more money out of the working classes.”
“No, no…, no…” His head was shaking furiously.
“Yes, yes, yes, and you know who owns the banks, Doc? Why, the really big shareholders, of course and by that I don’t mean the pension schemes, I mean the obscenely rich, the lords and ladies, the aristocracy, the wealthy entrepreneurs.”
He raised his finger as if he wanted to speak but he didn’t have an argument mustered so Delores continued. “Actually I think the word ‘entrepreneur’ is a fiddle, as well, don’t you? I mean it’s bandied around like it’s a good thing but exactly what is an ‘entrepreneur’? It’s a person who has an idea and a bit of money, tricks other people into working for a fixed salary, and markets a product at way above its true value, effectively stealing from the purchasers, so that he can have a vast profit that makes him a millionaire. How can that be right? He didn’t do all the work, did he? No, the employees did that, so surely they deserve a bigger share in the profits for their efforts. Also why rip off the customer? Why not charge just enough to cover the costs and allow you to make more? Why so greedy?”
“Well, Delores,” he said, finding his feet and a patronising tone, “I think that’s economics and I think that’s best explained by people who actually understand how the system works.”
“Economists don’t know how the system works, you silly man,” said Delores, right back at you, Doc, “They just know how to make something really simple appear really complicated.”
Dr. Feelgood’s face was all skepticism but no words came to his lips.
The Delores tank rolled on inexorably, “You get a mortgage to buy a house, a larger mortgage than the previous owner because the price of the house has been artificially increased by the market, which is controlled by the banks. Then you live in the house for a few years paying a lot more in mortgage payments than you would if you were renting a similar property. But hey, you ‘own’ it and can ‘do things to it’…things that cost even more money, by the way… so you maintain its upkeep, improve it with say a new kitchen or bathroom; the more salubrious the neighbourhood the more expensive the kitchen would need to be – a Küche & Cucina, say; impressing your cleaner is very important after all and at the end you sell it to someone else for more than you paid for it so they’ll need an even bigger mortgage. And all the while everyone is paying all this money to the banks and the banks give the money to their shareholders, the biggest of whom are the incredibly rich. This, when you boil it all down, means that you’re taking a large sum out of your wages and passing it across to some rich person to live large, whilst you and others like you struggle to make their monthly payments. Basically you’ve been screwed, Doc, but somehow they’ve convinced you that you own a bit of England, when the truth is you don’t really own anything, you’re just renting it at a higher cost and they can take it back from you any time they want. It’s all just a card trick, Doc. All just ‘smoke and mirrors’ and that’s what’s getting to me.”
Dr. Feelgood stared open mouthed.
“I can’t help it Doc, but for some reason I can see it all clearly, like it’s laid out before me.”
“I…I…” stammered Dr. Feelgood.
“Drinks are served,” said Patrick entering the room.
The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be David,” said Patrick, “I took the liberty of phoning him from the kitchen, you don’t mind, do you Delores?”
“I think I’m going to take my leave now anyway,” said Dr. Feelgood.
“Okay Doc.” said Delores, “but you think about what I’ve said.”
“I certainly will do that, Delores.”
“The thing is although I know things have always been like this and I’ve always accepted them it’s just that they’ve never seemed so outrageous to me before, does that make sense?”
“Well, of course,” said Dr. Feelgood.
“I’m not stupid either,” said Delores, “I know it has something to do with these damned 40 day and 40 nights but I can’t for the life of me see what, apart from the possibility of course that I’m in a hospital bed in a coma like from the series…”
“Life on Mars,” murmured Dr. Feelgood.
“Exactly,” said Delores, “but then you wouldn’t be real, would you, Doc which means you’d resist any such suggestion.”
Dr. Feelgood grimaced.
“Hello everyone,” said David entering the room.
“Good bye,” said Dr. Feelgood taking his leave.
“Oh,” said David, “was it something I said?”
“No,” said Delores, “I think that honour belongs to me.”
Extract from my book 'Corpalism'
The Holiday
Martin slid the metallic green Ford Escort into one of the parking bays; he’d had a free choice and had decided on the one directly outside the building.
“It isn’t very big, is it,” said his companion, a statement rather than a question.
“Well, maybe it’s deep rather than wide, deceptive, you know.”
“Are you sure it’s a proper hotel? It looks more like a B&B to me.”
“It’s a hotel, Laura,” stated Martin, “it’s definitely a hotel.”
“How do you know?” pressed Laura.
“Because I looked up hotels; it’s a 4 star one as well.” He mentally crossed his fingers; he’d been put onto this place by a bloke at work.
“Really?” said Laura, “then the service must be really good because that just looks like a B&B to me.”
“Alright, I get it” he sighed, reaching for her hand, “look, let’s just unload the car and go in and have a look, shall we? I’m sure it’s bigger than it looks from outside.”
Laura exited the car, swinging her legs out, knees together as she’d read somewhere was the right way to do it. Given the brevity of her skirt and the fullness of her hips it was good advice. She watched as Martin grabbed their suitcases from the boot of the car and together they made their way to reception. On entering even Martin had to admit the term ‘reception’ might be a bit grand to describe a very small counter surface in an equally small hallway.
“There’s no way this is a hotel,” said Laura, “I’m not staying here.”
“Look, just give it a chance ok, I’m sure it’ll all be fine, it’s definitely a hotel, it’s got to be.”
“It hasn’t got to be anything,” said Laura, “it is what it is, a bloody B&B, Martin.”
Martin closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, ‘not another row please’ ringing the bell for attention.
“Hello,” the short greasy looking man appeared as if from nowhere.
“Gawd,” said Martin, trying to laugh off his shock, “Where did you spring from? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
The man sniggered and produced the guest book, “Do you have a booking?”
“Yes,” said Martin, firmly “name of Dowd, Martin Dowd and Laura Turnbull.”
The man gave Laura a knowing look which both she and Martin chose to ignore, this being the 21st Century and all, although Laura’s lips did tighten.
“The car park looked quite empty,” said Laura, “do you have any other guests at the moment?”
“Oh yes,” said the man, smoothly, “we have guests, several guests, and so if you’ll just sign here, I’ll get your key for you.” He disappeared into the next room.
“I don’t like it here, Martin,” hissed Laura, “and I don’t him one little bit.”
“For Christ’s sake, Laura, I’ve driven 5 hours to get here, give it a chance at least, won’t you.”
“It’s horrible,” she continued, “it’s grubby and I’m sure it’s just a B&B.”
The man returned, easing in front of them, “If you’ll just follow me,” he said with a sly smile. He led them up stairs to the first door on the landing, “this is your room sir, madam,” he said unlocking the door and passing Martin the key, “if you unpack and make yourselves comfortable I will show you around.”
“Right,” said Martin.
The man went back downstairs and Martin and Laura entered the tiny room.
“This is terrible, Martin, this isn’t a proper room, it’s a box room. I’m telling you this isn’t a bloody hotel… and it smells damp.”
“Just give it a try, will you?”
She stood with hands on hips and stared at him.
“Please, Laura, just give it a chance will you and I promise if it’s really crappy we’ll leave ASAP, okay?”
Laura bit her lip, “Okay, if you promise.”
“I promise, baby…look there’s no way I’d take you to a tip knowingly is there? Come on sweetheart, let’s just try and make the best of things.” He gestured round, nearly knocking over a lamp in the reckless expansiveness of the motion, “you never know, it could be really cool here.”
Laura softened her position, smiling up at him and they cuddled as best they could in the tiny gap between the bed and the wardrobe.
“I know what,” said Martin, sensing her mood change and striking quickly, “let’s just dump our stuff under the bed, strip off and go straight down and check the place out, shall we?”
“What?” said Laura, “and not unpack?”
“Why unpack?” said Martin, raising his eyebrows up and down and muttering French noises “this is a nudist resort, we won’t need any clothes here, will we.”
Laura smiled nervously, “okay, but just remember I’m not at all sure about any of this, I’ve never been to a nudist place before.”
“Don’t worry,” said Martin, truth be told, neither had he, but bravado is all, “it’s gonna be fine.”
They made their way downstairs to reception where the man was waiting. His eyes widened when he looked at Laura and she could’ve sworn she saw him dribble.
“Hi,” said Martin, aiming for ‘I do this every day’ nonchalance, “you said something about showing us round?”
“Yes, yes,” said the man, his mouth working in a particularly unedifying way, “er…erm, if you’d like to just follow me.”
They travelled a few feet along the narrow corridor, “This is the communal room,” he waved his arm in an arc to indicate a room, all of 12’ by 12’, crammed with furniture. Apart from the six armchairs and two settees, the room was completely empty.
“Right,” said Martin. “What do you think?” he addressed Laura. She stared at him in a ‘get me out of here’ kind of way.
“And if you’ll just let me squeeze by,” said the man, and putting word to deed, he brushed past Laura’s breasts making, what may or may not have been avoidable, definite contact, “this is the dining area.”
He pointed into the room across the hallway; another small room, this one about 10’ by 10’, similarly full of furniture, this time small tables and dining chairs, and again, entirely bereft of people. Martin peered round the door and smiled nervously.
“What’s it like, Martin?” asked Laura irritably from the hallway.
“It’s alright,” said Martin, “you’ll like it.”
“And if you’ll follow me,” said the man, speaking to Laura’s breasts, “I’ll show you the summer house.”
They walked four paces further down the hallway, took a sharp left and entered a tiny wooden lean to, also empty.
Laura fixed Martin with her best ‘you are dead when we get out of here’ stare.
“Now, if you’ll follow me outside,” said the man, “I’ll show you where the rest of the guests usually congregate.”
Martin felt a moment of sudden relief, ‘of course, they’re all outside, that’s why there’s no-one inside, they’re all outside catching some rays.’ He caught Laura’s eye and shivered, clearly her thoughts were not the same as his.
They exited the building, crossed a tiny patio and stood on a small lawned area behind the garden shed, which for some reason was in the middle of the garden. “This is where most people like to meet up.” said the man. The area was deserted.
“Er…erm,” said Martin, “so where are they?”
“I’m sorry?” said the man, tilting his head to one side, surveying Laura from an angle.
“The other guests,” said Martin, “where are they?”
“Oh,” said the man, “they’re all in town shopping at the moment, you know, souvenirs and all that sort of thing.”
“Souvenirs,” said Laura irritably.
“Why yes, madam,” said the man, “it’s the last day for some of our guests and I think I overheard them saying they wanted to take something home to remind them of their wonderful stay.”
“Really?” said Laura disbelievingly.
“Would you like some refreshments?” he asked, his eyes fixed glassily on Laura.
She made to cover herself with her hands, cursing her ample curves. “Martin,” she hissed.
Martin slipped in front of her, trying not to be too obvious and uncool. She prodded him sharply, “er… are you staring at my girlfriend?” he asked.
“No sir,” said the man defensively, “I was just erm, would you like a cup of something?”
“Tea,” stated Martin.
“Of course, sir,” said the man, “and madam?”
Laura nodded, “Same.”
“Two teas it is, then,” said the man, “where would you like them?”
“In the dining area,” said Martin.
The man left them alone.
“We are not staying here, Martin,” said Laura.
“Look, just give it a chance, will you?”
“No,” said Laura.
“Look, what if we wait inside until the other guests
return and see what they have to say about it,” said
Martin, “I mean, if they’re really in town getting souvenirs then they must’ve liked it.”
“How could you even imagine that they liked it?” demanded Laura, “this is a dive, and he’s a bloody pervert, Martin.”
“Give it go, will you…for me? ...let’s just wait and see what the other guests have to say?”
Laura stared at him, she was ready to hit him but somehow controlled her temper, for one thing she’d look ridiculous fighting in the nude and in truth she was at his mercy because she hadn’t passed her driving test, it was his car and they were miles from the station, at least that’s what he’d told her. Five minutes later they were sitting at the table nearest the window of the dining room. The view of the road was not very prepossessing but Laura discovered if you looked upwards you could see a patch of blue sky and watch the birds flying around. She did this, ignoring Martin’s efforts at conversation and gradually started to relax. The man arrived with the tea and once again ogled her breasts. Immediately annoyed she asked, “Are there no waitresses here?”
“It’s her day off,” said the man.
“Just the one waitress then?” asked Laura.
“Yes madam.”
“That’s a bit strange isn’t it,” said Laura, “for a hotel, I mean.”
‘Not the bloody B&B thing again,’ thought Martin.
“Well we’re just a small hotel really, madam,” said the man, “for a special clientele as you can imagine.”
Laura smiled thinly and Martin smirked inside, ‘Gotcha,’ he thought. When the man had left the room he said, “See, it’s small because it’s for a small group of people like us, nudists.”
“I still don’t like it, Martin, he’s creepy, this place is creepy, and the furniture’s creepy…”
“The furniture’s creepy?” repeated Martin.
“Yes, Martin,” said Laura, “and don’t take the piss.”
“I’m not; it’s just that I can’t see how furniture can be creepy.”
“Well, fuck you, Martin,” said Laura. Just then they heard the front door open and women’s voices. “Right now we’ll see.”
A few minutes’ later two elderly women, one as wide as she was tall, the other skinny and angular, both laden with numerous shopping bags, entered the room. They were both fully clothed (thank the lord) short coats, floral dresses and large sun hats. They were deeply engrossed in conversation and didn’t notice Martin and Laura. They removed their hats and coats and settled down to talk. The man came over to their table, they ordered two cream teas and he left.
“God,” hissed Martin, “what are they doing here? Why would they come to a nudist’s colony?”
“Martin,” snapped Laura, “they’re dressed.”
“Well of course they are,” said Martin leaning over, “they’ve been in town shopping, haven’t they. It’s not a nudist town is it? Anyway aren’t you relieved that they are dressed, I mean, can you imagine?”
Laura frowned, pinched her lips, crossed her arms and stared out the window.
Martin poured the tea.
Laura leaned over to him, “Well, aren’t you going to ask them?”
“Ask them what?” said Martin.
“What they think of this shit tip,” snapped Laura.
“No, I’m not,” said Martin, “look at them, why would I ask them? They have to be 90 if they’re a day.”
Laura looked over at the two women who had now stopped talking and were both staring at Martin and Laura. Laura smiled her nicest smile. Martin nodded and smiled too. The women continued to stare open mouthed, and then they stood, collected their hats, coats and bags and left the room just as the man returned with their tea and scones. He followed them into the hallway where there was some commotion.
“What do you think that was all about?” asked Martin.
Laura stared at him, “Martin,” she snapped “are you going to ask someone or what?”
“Well, I’m not going to ask them.”
“Why not?” demanded Laura.
“Because I’m not,” stated Martin.
“Well you’d better bloody well ask someone,” hissed Laura, “and you’d better ask them soon or else I’m leaving.”
“I will,” said Martin, “as soon as someone turns up.”
As he spoke a young boy strolled into the room; Martin tagged him as about sixteen mostly from the rampant acne. He was fully dressed; he stopped dead in his tracks, stared at Laura, eyes widening and then left the room. Moments later he returned with two other teenage boys, also fully dressed. They sat at the table next to the couple and stared at Laura.
“Do you mind, boys?” said Martin.
One of the boys coughed a bit and turned away, continuing to sneak quick peeks but the others maintained a steady stare.
“Martin,” hissed Laura, “I’m getting really fed up here, you’d better do something fast or I’m going to explode, okay?”
“Alright,” said Martin, “Hey kids, where’re your folks?”
“Er…er..,” stammered the nearest boy.
“Um…umm,” started the fattest boy.
“My mum’s in the other room,” said the acne-ridden boy.
“Martin,” pressed Laura.
“Okay, okay, I’ll ask her,” Martin said, disappearing.
The three boys took his leaving as an invitation to ogle Laura openly. She did her best to cover herself with a napkin, parts of the table cloth, her arms and hands and legs and whatever else she could think of.
Moments later Martin returned, “Quick, we’re leaving, come on, and you lot can fuck off.”
“What is it, Martin?” asked Laura as they ran upstairs, dressed, grabbed their bags and raced downstairs again.
The man appeared at the reception desk and Martin went right up to his face, “This isn’t a hotel is it,” he said aggressively, “this isn’t even a bloody B&B; this is your mum’s house. Those old ladies, one’s your mum and the other’s her friend. The woman in the next room’s your sister and those kids are your sister’s son and his mates… well?” The man stared at him, open mouthed. “And it isn’t a nudist colony is it? Is it?”
“Now dear,” said one of the old ladies, the short, wide one, waddling down the hallway, “there’s no need to get so excited, is there?”
“Excited,” snapped Martin, “excited, this is meant to be a hotel, a nudist hotel at that.”
“Well it is kind of a hotel,” said the old lady, “My Norman always wanted to run a hotel so I said he could turn the house into one, I just didn’t know he wanted to run a nudist hotel.”
Martina and Laura stared open mouthed.
“But now we know, we don’t mind at all, do we, Daphne?” she continued, calling to her friend who was in the dining room, “we’re all more than willing to join in to make everyone feel comfortable.” Just then Daphne appeared from the dining area, completely naked, looking somewhat like a giant leek, with shiny white skin stretched thinly over sharp bones.
Martin paled visibly and dry retched. Laura left by the front door as fast as she could.
“Oh look, dear,” said the man’s mum, “Look, here’s June.”
The man’s sister, all too clearly weighing something in the region of 20 stone, appeared naked from the communal room.
“Oh fuck,” mumbled Martin.
“Come through to the communal room with us, dear,” said the man’s mum, grabbing Martin by the hand and dragging him off.
Daphne grabbed his other hand and together they propelled him along. June came towards him hands outstretched and commenced undoing his shirt buttons. Martin found himself trapped between the naked forms of Daphne and June whilst the proprietor’s mum stripped off. He gulped down a little bit of vomit.
Laura waited at Martin’s car. The front door remained resolutely closed; no way was she going back in there. She kicked the rim of the nearside wheel, turned and stormed off, shouting, “Right, you’re so dumped, you prick,” as she went.
February 10, 2016
Extract from my book Corpalism
The Independents -
You say ‘evasion’, I say ‘avoidance’
“Hello fellow Independents, my name’s Marissa Phillips, I’m a Tax Accountant” she smiled at the anticipated mock groans from the audience, “and I’ll be standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets.” She was easy on the eye, no doubt about that, one of those tall, effortlessly willowy women, ‘arm candy’ but she seemed to have a head on her shoulders so possibly worth the time taken to hear her out; this was demonstrated in the friendly applause from the floor. “I’m going to talk to you about the massive deception being wrought upon us; the myth that there is no money to support public services, to support the NHS, to fund proper state education, to provide social care for the less well off, that we are a 3rd rate nation unable to compete in the world.”
“It’s not that hard to expose the deception, although you wouldn’t believe it hearing the constant double talk, the economic mumbo jumbo coming from all parties.” she laughed lightly, “listening to them you’d think money, taxation, economics and government expenditure were the most complicated things in the world. Well they’re not; they make it sound complicated in the hopes they’ll convince us to leave them to get on with what they’re doing, without bothering to question anything. The shocking thing is that it works. Now, why is that?”
She paused and looked around the hall, waiting for a few moments to let the question sink in, “It works because we are predisposed to accept that it’s complicated, we believe in the concept that our leaders are special, that they are exceptional, that what they are struggling with is beyond our humble abilities to resolve. But we deceive ourselves,” she stopped, appearing to reflect, “or are we being deceived? I think they plant the seed and we allow it to grow. I think that they want us to believe that only they, the political class, can resolve the nation’s ills but in truth, it is they who make the problems in the first place. It is they who have set this country on its current course and they’ve done it for a reason… so, what is the reason?”
She pivoted 900 on skyscraper heels, and indicated their mentor, “Colin has said it’s all about money, it’s all about theft, it’s all about how the wealthy classes can extract as much money as possible from the system for themselves whilst leaving the rest of us and the country in a state of penury, it’s about creating a class of super rich by stealing from the state, by robbing the people of what’s rightfully theirs.”
“On the other hand, there are those who say that they are merely taking what is rightfully theirs, what they’ve earned by their own efforts” she scanned the room, ensuring she had their attention, “and I’ve met, worked with and worked for many of those in my time.”
She paused for a sip of water before continuing, “I’m a Tax Accountant as I said in my introduction and I’ve helped some of the richest people in the country use all the loopholes I could find to avoid paying tax.”
There was a collective gasp, she’d expected a reaction but this was a bit more tangible than a few people, it felt like the whole room had grown cold. She glanced over at Colin who nodded, Catherine smiled at her encouragingly and Maurice, the next one up, winked. She turned back to the audience, buoyed and feisty.
“Note, I said ‘avoid’ which is legal, not evade which is not. However…” she raised her hands to quell the rising tide of irritation emanating from the front rows, “however, tax avoidance on the scale to which these people have become accustomed is immoral, anti-social and repugnant and I quit my job six months ago for that very reason.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath then she continued “I know from 1st hand dealings that these people have no scruples, no loyalty and no conscience. They have quadrupled their wealth by investing in emerging markets and enslaving 3rd world workers whilst starving the UK of investment. They have off shored their bank accounts, registered companies abroad so that they don’t have to pay UK taxes and the political class has let them do this because it, more than any other section in society is willing to sell itself to the highest bidder…”
The applause returned; a light smattering at first then more focused; she was winning them round.
“But I get ahead of myself…Let’s consider the context here, let’s discuss the deception and the premise that comes with it: that the UK government can no longer support the services we have become used to, that government doesn’t have the funds anymore. Well the obvious question is... How can that be so? How can it be so?” she repeated, her hands outstretched, incredulity in every line of her body, “How can this country have less money now than it did just after the Second World War when we were virtually bankrupt? Yet at that time we could afford to establish the NHS which we are told today is too big to support.”
There were growls of support, and murmurs of ‘hands off our NHS’.
“The answer is simple, though you won’t find a single politician who will admit it, you won’t find one solitary MP who will tell the truth about the finances of the state and the reason is this; if they did then there would be a revolution.”
She turned to the panel and saw smiles of encouragement along the line, “It would be obvious to each and every one of us that the rich are sucking all the money out of our country before they desert us to live in their Caribbean paradises and we would REVOLT against it.”
The audience seemed shocked at the sudden vocal change on the word ‘revolt’, she’d seemed quite languid up until that point. Clearly she was more robust than she looked.
She took another sip of water, “Let’s consider how the process actually works or, should I say, is meant to work. Fact: Government has no money, any government has absolutely no money, for the simple reason that governments don’t make anything and they don’t sell anything. Ergo, everything they set in motion is a cost to the nation and it has to be paid for by the nation.” She paused and looked round the hall, “That’s where taxation comes in, that’s what taxation is all about, that’s why they take our money in the first place and why they take it in direct taxation, at source. The simple truth is that the government can only spend what it raises by way of taxation.” She paused again, “and it is a system that works or at least it worked in the past. However, in the last few decades those revenues have shrunk, the government has raised fewer funds via taxation.”
“Now, here…” she said, narrowing her eyes, trying to get her timing right, “here is where it all gets a bit murky or at least where they try to make it opaque so you won’t ask, why?....Why, at a time when there is more money than ever before floating around in the UK, when the number of UK billionaires stands at 73, and the country is richer than it’s ever been in its history, when there so many people in the country of working age, when there are more taxes foisted on us than ever before, why is it that the government says it doesn’t have the funding to carry on paying for things like the NHS?”
She stopped talking for a moment, obviously struggling, she drank from her glass and refilled it, then coughed, her emotional attachment to the argument becoming clear to all, “Why can’t we afford the social care bill? Why must we charge our children for the higher education that we had for free? We managed to afford it whilst we were still paying off the national debt for the Second World War, when there were fewer people in this country eligible to pay tax, when there were fewer taxes; no VAT for instance, less duty on petrol, cigarettes, alcohol. Why is it, that at a time when there was less money in the system as a whole, the government had more to spend than it does now, when there is more money in the system as a whole? Why? …Why?”
Marissa paused to look around the hall and waited for her words to settle into every corner, find a place in each mind. People started cheering and calling out “Why?”
She allowed the noise to peak before she started to wave for silence, “the answer’s simple, the answer’s obvious, logical, a child could tell you the answer yet we constantly allow the politicians to deceive us, to delude us, to lie to us, to paint a false picture for us. We let them tell us that we as a people are too greedy, that we have priced ourselves out of a job, that we expect too much of the NHS, that the NHS itself has become too expensive, that we pay too many people Social Benefits, that there are more old people weighing the state down with pensions, that we are a nation of scroungers living in million pound houses paid for by benefits, that we can’t compete with rising economic power houses like China and India but they LIE!”
More applause and cheering from the hall.
“They LIE, I tell you!” she thundered, her slight frame trembling, “They lie; and when you realise the truth you will be shocked at of the depth of duplicity involved, the magnitude of the sheer greed involved, the despotism it represents, the evil psychopathic nature it hides, the blatant manipulation that has been occurring, the involvement of the politicians, our politicians who are meant to represent the will, the wishes, the needs of the people, at the realisation that believing in the integrity of the political class is totally naive for they are by nature deceitful, scheming, egotistical, self serving tyrants.”
The audience was with her now; the applause self-sustaining, ripples dying away as new clapping started so that the effect was a constant sigh of sound.
She waved for quiet, “Back in the 50s there were rich people but they weren’t obscenely rich and there were poor people but they weren’t destitute. Everything was more equal; everyone paid tax and everyone paid their fare share, result, the government had more than enough money to spend. There was little personal debt, people took pride in owning what they had and many people lived in council houses or privately rented accommodation. That’s how it works when the money is evenly distributed, that’s how societies grow, and that’s how cultures develop. I’m not saying it was perfect but it appeared fair; and this continued and took us into the 60s.”
She glanced round the hall, noting the nods of agreement for her assessment of the situation in those times, “However by the early 70s the ordinary person was being encouraged to ‘buy’ their own home. The enthusiasm with which this was taken up was due partly to the lack of affordable rented accommodation, and partly to the promise of ownership. There was promulgation in 95% mortgages, a relaxation of checking mechanisms on actual earnings; the multipliers were relaxed to enable previously ineligible couples to borrow heavily.”
She took a breath and continued briskly, “By the late 70s we were starting to feel the pinch; old inefficient factories, competition from Japan and Germany who’d had massive post-war US investment in new ‘fit for purpose’ build. We’d had hospitals for so long those buildings needed replacement; the UK infrastructure needed reinvestment, revitalising, a little TLC. What we got in the 80s was a wicked evil person who said it was all the workers doing; it was they who were to blame for the lack of investment and the threats of foreign competition. She told everyone that there was no such thing as society; that it was everyone for him or herself; that the prize belonged to those best able to ‘get on their bikes’ and grasp it. This individualist premise was supported by a political determination to unpick the seams of society, to unravel the threads that hold people together, to break the bonds of unity that encourage generosity of spirit and altruism. Once that selfish argument took hold the weak became a sniveling millstone, the poor a grasping nuisance, the old an unloved burden. Added to that, the selloff of council houses had a two-fold effect reducing social housing stock and increasing home ownership amongst people to whom that level of debt had been hitherto unthinkable. Home became an investment rather than somewhere to put down roots and bring up a family; a ‘buy and sell’ commodity and we became nomadic in an attempt to attain wealth, more money-oriented and less family focused.”
She allowed a few moments for that to sink in, then continued, “Accompanying this permission to abandon societal ethics came de-regulation and authorisation to off shore manufacturing to countries unfettered by social conscience, where people were treated as slaves, where wages were insignificant, where rents were negligible, where a bribe could give the greatest financial returns to the most unscrupulous who were willing to profit from the suffering of others.”
She paused and scanned the hall, “So what are the lies that are the instruments of this deception? One such lie is that we priced ourselves out of the manufacturing market so that employers had no choice but to go abroad. NOT TRUE – there is always a choice - the choice to be made was between excessive profit and employment of your countryman, and PROFIT won out.”
Her face was stern, “Another lie they fobbed us off with for years was that the resultant millions, rendered unemployed when manufacturing was taken from this country, could be absorbed into a service based industry; that we could pay each other for doing service jobs for each other…self-evidently not true if you look at the numbers of long-term unemployed.”
She made a negating gesture with her hand, chopping it through the air, her tone scornful, “It was never the case that a service industry could support a nation, it has never been the case, it could never be the case and there is no working model which could ever prove the case, it’s a LIE! And they knew it to be a lie when they spun it.”
“And they told the lie to buy them time; time to build the infrastructure of their new economic empires in the 3rd world, to allow them to ensure they would have the mechanisms in place to guarantee them high returns on their investments when the economic structures started to collapse in the west, here in the UK. Over the years they have created a massive pool of unemployed, so much so that the benefits bill is astronomic, they reduced wages to the extent that a middle class family struggles to get by with two earners and has massive debt, where a middle class family in the 50s only required one wage earner and had no debt; this is what they have achieved.”
She paused, “And these unscrupulous rich, the evil 1%, are so greedy that they don’t want to pay tax on their incomes, they don’t want to contribute to the British nation so they off shore their bank accounts or they register as domiciled abroad in countries where the tax laws are more lenient and they can bribe officials. They do all this so they can keep all the money to themselves; so that they can have five mansions, with swimming pools, tennis courts and hundreds of acres of land, apartments in Paris and New York, villas in the Antibes. So that they can have million pound yachts, private jets, so they can own a fleet of the most expensive cars, they do all of this so that they can have lots of everything, more than any individual could ever use or ever need or ever really want and they do it so that they can have not just millions but billions.”
She took a deep breath, then continued her voice shaking, “They don’t care about world hunger, they don’t care that workers in their factories are suffering, they don’t care that a child dies every 3 seconds of a preventable disease, they don’t care about the unemployed, they don’t care about health care and education for the masses, they don’t care about social benefits for those less able …they care about themselves because as a self opinionated politician once said, ‘there is no such thing as society’.”
More applause from the hall.
“And the net result of their greed for the UK? less people working, less companies manufacturing, less exports even though the companies producing products in the 3rd world are British owned or British funded, with the greedy psychopathic 1% hoarding all of the money … there is less taxable money in the system.”
She took a moment to gain her breath, accepting the applause with a smile. Colin approached the table, whispered something in her ear, causing her to smile more broadly. He sat down again.
“I need to wrap this up,” she said, with a quick look of apology at the Panel, “I’ve overrun a bit …. So to finish, because most of the money is now in the hands of the greedy 1% and they have worked it so that they either don’t pay tax or they pay a negligible amount of tax, the government has less money. That’s why the government can’t afford the NHS, that’s why the government can’t afford the social benefits bill, that’s why libraries are closing, that’s why students have to pay for their own education, that’s why our troops, our sons and daughters are starved of equipment that could save their lives in the field, that’s why we have such a huge national debt, that’s why we have austerity.”
She took a last look round the hall, “And make no mistake, we are NOT in this together… politicians in the main are all independently wealthy, they rub shoulders with the rich and the super rich. Our politicians have had a taste of vast wealth and power and they want more; and because they want more they have sold out the 99% for their 30 pieces of silver, they have sold their souls for greed, but we will not let them get away with it!”
The hall erupted with applause and cheers.
February 9, 2016
Sample from my book 'Daydream Believers'
episode 1
Workmen
Barry slumped onto the verge, regretting the decision even as his buttocks hit the turf. He'd struggle to get up from this position and his gang was just up the road and ready to take the piss. He could hear the comments in his head, fat bastard, beached whale and other such insults just waiting to find an outlet. Still, he was here now and he might as well get on with it.
He pulled out his note pad and punched the number into his phone. It was only 30 seconds before it connected but he was through to the usual auto service; if you want blah, blah press 1 or if you want such and such press 2. It took him 4 minutes to get through to the service he wanted, then there was a queue and he had to wait a further 5 minutes before a female voice came on the line.
"Hello, my name is Jane. How may I help you today?"
"Ah Jane," he said, for a moment forgetting why he'd called, "My name's Barry Halliwell, I'm ringing because I got a parking ticket the oth....." He was aware he'd put on his telephone voice, articulating carefully in the hope that a show of good breeding would get a better result.
"We can't take payments over the phone," said Jane, helpfully, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."
"Ah, no, that's not what I was after, erm.....I sent a letter with a copy of the ticket that I purchased on the relevant date." He spoke fast hearing her draw breath for her next dismissal, "the letter explained that I had displayed the ticket, but when I shut my car door the ticket must have blown off the dash into the car well and was missed by your warden. So I did in fact buy a ticket and, therefore, shouldn't have to pay a fine."
"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, brightly.
"Ah, yes I know that," he kept his voice even, "and it was, but on this occasion the wind must've blown it off the dash when...."
"Tickets have to be displayed," repeated Jane.
"Right," it was getting harder to maintain the even tone, but he managed to swallow his irritation, "I know that but the main point is that people buy a ticket, I mean, that's the whole point right?"
Jane didn't respond.
"That's the whole idea, to pay for the parking space for a given period of time, well I did pay and I have the ticket to prove it...."
"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, adding firmly, "at all times."
"I know that, Jane, but I'm telling you I bought a ticket, so I rented the space, and something occurred be it an act of god or what, but something occurred so that the ticket fell from my dashboard into the car well. I didn't avoid buying a ticket, I bought one, still have it and sent you a copy...." He was losing it, and losing her, he knew it but he couldn't stop.
"I'm sorry sir," said Jane, her voice still at the same equable pitch, "but I will have to terminate this call."
"Don't do that," said Barry, wildly, "it took me fifteen minutes to get through."
"Sorry sir," said Jane, sounding anything but, "I've advised you that tickets must be displayed so I can't help you any further, good day," with which she hung up.
Barry clenched his fists, incandescent with suppressed fury, knowing it was bad for his blood pressure but momentarily unable to get a grip. He breathed deeply and counted to 10 then punched the number in again. His heart slowed to normal during the enforced waiting period. He avoided looking at his team idling down the road, working on the childish premise 'if I don't look at you, then you can't see me.'
It was 10 minutes before he heard the voice he'd been waiting for.
"Hello, my name's Gareth, how may I help you today?" Smooth, silky.
"Hi Gareth," said Barry, aiming for instant camaraderie, "I'm having a little problem with erm.....a parking ticket."
"We can't take payments over the phone, sir" said Gareth, helpfully, man-to-man, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."
"I know that, Gareth but the thing is, you see, I did buy a ticket so this fine isn't really relevant to me."
"Was it adequately displayed in your car window sir?" asked Gareth.
"Right," said Barry, thinking 'this is going pear-shaped fast', "let me explain ..."
"I'm sorry sir," said Gareth, oil-slick smooth, "unless the ticket was displayed in your car window I won't be able to help you."
"I get that," desperation was taking his breath away, "but can you please explain the purpose of buying a ticket?"
"To rent the parking space sir," said Gareth, happy to oblige, "but the ticket has to be displayed. It's part of the terms and conditions. This is displayed on the sign where you would have purchased the ticket and on the reverse of the ticket."
"So you don't dispute that I bought a ticket?" This is not what he had meant to say, the conversation was getting away from him again.
"I'm not in a position to comment on that, sir."
'Stop calling me sir when you mean shithead', Barry thought savagely, whilst forcing his voice into an even tone, "Surely you have a procedure in place that takes accidents into account?"
"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."
"But that's criminal," now he'd lost it, "that means you get money for the parking and then you get to fine people 60 quid with no recourse or....."
"I'm afraid I can't progress this any further sir," said Gareth, all firm and righteous, "so I'm terminating the call, good day."
"Don't..." shouted Barry to the dial tone, "You fuckin' bastard, right, I'll 'ave you!" he snarled, manhandling the number into his phone, cursing violently as each digit went in, heart palpitating ferociously as he waded through the auto service and this time waiting a further 20 minutes for an operator, neurotically convinced they knew it was him and were making him wait longer on purpose.
"Hello, you're through to Diane," yet another well-modulated voice. Were they churning them out of a fucking sausage machine somewhere? "How may I assist you today?"
He launched straight away into his speech, hoping to catch her unawares, "I bought a parking ticket and I placed it on the dashboard of my car, but when I returned to my car I had a parking fine ...."
"Ah, well sir," began Diane.
"If you could just wait for me to finish please Diane, you see I then sent a copy of the ticket and a letter explaining what must've happened to...."
"Was the ticket displayed in your car window sir?"
"It was when I left the car but it must've fallen off...it was on the floor," he was aware how piteous he sounded; it was all he could do not to cry in rage and frustration.
"If the ticket wasn't adequately displayed we are entitled to levy a fine...."
"Surely once I present evidence that I bought a ticket ............"
"Do you still have the ticket sir?" asked Diane.
Breakthrough, he thought, she's listening, "Yes I do Diane," he said warmly, he could cuddle her.
"Good," said Diane, her voice bright and even more helpful than before, "then if you look on the reverse you will see it says in the terms and conditions...."
He blinked. For a moment he was too shocked to speak, then he rallied, he'd come too far to stop on a technicality, "Yes I know what it says, but you're not listening to me, I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there and now you're fining me for an act of god."
"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."
"Diane, please, am I talking to a human being or a robot here? I'm telling you that I bought your lousy ticket, I paid to park there, this fine is all wrong."
"I'm sorry sir, but unless the ticket is adequately displayed...."
"Right!" said Barry, "in that case give me my money back. The money I paid for the parking ticket, £3.50, I want it back. If you're going to fine me anyway then you have to give me my money back."
"I'm sorry sir," said Diane, sounding infinitesimally off-balance. He felt like he'd scored a goal at Wembley, "there are no circumstances under which we'd offer a refund."
"But I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there, so you owe me a fucking refund if you intend to sting me for 60 quid."
"If you are going to verbally abuse me," said Diane, balance restored, "I will have to terminate the call, good day."
He dialled again, he would do this all day if he had to; it now meant more to him than his job, in fact he would commit the rest of his life to achieving this one thing. Verbal abuse? I'll give you verbal abuse. He readied himself to launch a vitriolic tirade when he heard an electronic male voice on the other end, "We have received several nuisance calls from this number, therefore, I'm immediately terminating this call."
Extract from my book 'Corpalism'
The Independents - What price democracy?
The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place. We’ve selected a few people to speak with you today from the hundreds of offers we had …for those of you disappointed this time, we have a list for our next meeting and gradually we hope to give everyone who wants to speak a platform.” The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Now, please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”
The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.
“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “It’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…” There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”
There were more cheers and scatterings of delegates stood to applaud him; then more followed until the whole assembly was on its feet.
“No longer will we tolerate a corrupt, locked in party system; no longer will we tolerate their machinations, their duplicity, their constant deceptions, and their fake party divisions. We know they’re all the same, that they represent the same hidden wealthy few who own this country, we know they all rub shoulders with this clique of scoundrels and that they pander to their every whim. We will resist, we will stand against these corrupt servants of the rich and we will win.”
There were shouts of ‘win’ from the floor. Colin gestured that they should sit as he prepared to begin his speech proper. He waited a few moments until all were seated and the hall was quiet.
“I set out on this trail barely a year ago, not knowing where it would lead. Like many of you, I watched the Occupy movement in its struggle to take back control from those who hold us in thrall. I admit it, I watched rather than joined them; I supported them in spirit.” He paused, “I tried to make a stand by myself. I tried to keep my business going; I was trading on fumes. I cut costs and used inferior materials, I streamlined processes until there was no slack, I had to lay off staff who’d been with me for years and make the ones I kept work a 3 day week. We missed deadlines and our quality dropped – in the end I closed it down. Rather than be associated with what we were being forced to produce, rather than re-locate to China and do what my competitors had done – take advantage of slave labour in the East, rather than sacrifice my principles, I closed down the business I had started from scratch 10 years ago.”
He stopped talking, leaving a gap as if mourning a lost dream then he spoke again, quietly but with deep passion, “I was deeply unhappy and desperate to do something to make these rogues realise and stop what they were doing; it was something that seared into me until I could stand it no longer. I spent hours thinking about what I could do; without a revolution I couldn’t see anything changing. Then it hit me – I could ‘occupy’ the Political Space! I could stand on an ethical platform as an independent at the next general election.”
He looked slowly round the hall, making eye contact where he could. “I am a loyal Briton, my lineage reaches into all corners of these great islands of ours and I have always loved this country and all it has stood for. I love its people and our culture. I can no longer sit idly by whilst the greedy rich dismantle it, whilst they remove all investment from the UK and place that investment in areas of the world where they use slave labour, I will not tolerate it.”
There were shouts of support from the floor and again people were standing in their excitement.
“It is intolerable that the uncontrolled greed of the few should impact so heavily on the many. It is unacceptable that the political jackals should stand before us and spin their concoction of lies to justify their plans to run down the state of Britain. It is deplorable that they should think themselves free to consign workers of the west to destitution whilst enslaving the workers of the 3rd world. It is unacceptable that they seek to return us to the same conditions as existed in the Middle Ages, a time when the rich elite was served by destitute serfs. They must think we don’t have a thought in our heads.” There was a rapturous round of applause. Colin grinned and added, “They must think we’re STUPID!”
The applause continued, accompanied now by excitable foot stamping.
“They clearly believe that the years of watching junk TV, of listening to their constant lies about the economy, about economics, the GDP, the unions, the balance of payments, the national debt, the so called ‘scrounging poor’, the so called ‘benefit cheats’, the communists, the NHS, the welfare state, state run education, Muslims, world terrorism, our lack of productivity and competitiveness, has shrivelled our brains and blinded us to the real truth, the reality behind all this.” he paused, took a breath then thundered out, “We, the masses, are being sold out by rich greedy psychopaths.”
More clapping from the floor.
“There is a precedent for all this but they hope we’re too stupid to see it, that we have no knowledge of history, that we’re so wrapped up in ‘reality’ TV that we miss what is happening, miss the correlation with the past.”
He poured some water from the jug on the table before him, allowing a few moments for his words to sink in, “The Roman Empire which for centuries was the dominant power, had legions that controlled vast territories of the known world, and then we’re told, all of a sudden, Rome collapses.”
He paused, then raised his voice slightly, “I say to you, Rome didn’t collapse, Rome did not fall – the wealthy and powerful families of Rome took advantage of prevailing winds and reorganised.”
He glanced out across the hall, checking the attention of the audience, “They recognised that maintaining legions to hold territories was costly, and they had a new weapon in their arsenal - religion. Caesar became the Pope, the leading families entered religion, the Roman Empire transitioned into the Roman Catholic Church collecting more revenues than a thousand legions could gather. That’s what happened to the Roman Empire, that’s what happened to Rome.”
He banged the table abruptly, startling a few people in the front rows, “But what happened to the ordinary people of Rome, to the plebeians, the out of work soldiers? They were reduced to penury as the Rome they knew disappeared from the map. As they starved, these legions that had made Rome great, the wealthy Romans, the patricians, the upper classes became richer than ever and the Pope found he was able to control the whole world with a few monks and threats of excommunication, of burning in hell for all eternity.”
He paused and took a quick sip of water, he knew that making the link was vital and these concepts were new to most of his audience.
“And that is what is happening to us…though it’s not belief in God that’s the new export, the new method of raising gold for the new aristocracy, the new export is a new religion altogether, and is called ‘consumerism’ or the ‘market’. The rich have exported our jobs to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, where land costs are minimal, where there are autocratic leaders and armies willing to crush the workers who ask for more, where there are billions of potential economic slaves to serve them and gain them even greater wealth.”
Someone in the crowd called out ‘Apple’ and a couple of others picked it up.
He nodded, “A good example, thank you” he said quietly, then raising his voice continued, “There’re one million people employed in sweat shop factories in China producing Apple products…think about it, one million jobs that could’ve been situated in the West but for the fact of having to pay minimum wage and provide decent working conditions.”
He stopped and stared out at the crowded hall, his eyes burning, “Wealth, that’s what this is all about, it’s what it’s always been about, the creation of wealth for the very few, for the greedy psychopaths who want to own everything and drive the masses into the gutters so that they can lord it over them; in order to feel rich they have to have the poor.”
Colin studied his audience, “So what of the British worker? What of the US worker? What is intended for us? In the recent past we had service industry jobs, easily accessed credit and the creation of massive debt, all this was done to ensure a smooth transition from production and purchase from the West to the East. It was no accident; it’s part of a plan and exactly what they intended and so far they have been successful. They have managed to transfer most of production from the West to the East and during that time the Western worker had artificial service industry jobs to ensure that there was still a market for products being made in the East. However, we have reached an end of the first phase - the credit bubble in the West has burst, the western worker is no longer able to provide the buying power required to maintain supply and demand so the wealthy few and their economic and political servants are looking to provide easier credit to the worker in the East, where there is a potential new market for debt.”
He waited a moment, and then continued, “… I’ll say that again because it is an important concept… not a new market for products but a new market for DEBT… where there are billions of potential buyers all wanting to borrow from the western elite, ready and willing to pay interest to the western elite. They are doing today what the wealthy Roman families did to Rome all those centuries ago; they are abandoning the nation state and taking all of the money with them. They will oversee the breakup of the UK into small and dysfunctional territories unable to work in unison for the benefit of all. It is the same old story of divide and rule but we will not tolerate it!”
The hall erupted as the delegates all stood and cheered. “WE WILL NOT TOLERATE IT! We will change things, we have changed things already; never before has over 600 independent candidates applied to stand for Parliament, never before have the people stood as one and threatened to wrench control from the economic and political elites. This is OUR time and we’ll wrest power from their grasp and do it by peaceful democratic means.”
The noise was deafening and Colin waved them to stop, “But we do have some very big problems. We’re here, our supporters are here and our followers are here but as a movement we still only number in the tens of thousands and there’s a reason for that. Where is the media? Where are the reporters? Where is Sky news? Where are the BBC and ITV? Where are the red tops and the broadsheets? They’re not here and there’s a reason for that, they’re all owned by the rich elite and it’s not in their interests for us to be successful. They will impose the same suffocating news blackout they’ve used with the Occupy movement, and try and prevent us from reaching a mass audience, obstructing us in our attempts to spread the word, restricting our access to massed support and so thwarting us in our aims to gain power.”
He paused, “But we do have some friends, Russia Today [RT] is here, Al Jazeera is here so we will have an internet presence and those who follow these things will know what’s happening. We just have to encourage them all to tell someone, use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word and we must get out on the streets NOW to get our message across to the ordinary voter, to help them understand that as independents we can form a viable government and that we can solve this nation’s issues.”
His voice throbbed into the room “DO NOT UNDER ESTIMATE the size of the problem facing us. It would be easy to think that we will sweep all before us because we have right on our side but we are up against the evil of our times; Goebbels called it propaganda, they call it spin, it doesn’t matter what name it comes under it’s the same thing. They will attack us on all fronts; besmirch our names, belittle our efforts, deny our credibility, assail our good character, criticise our aims, pick holes in our structure.”
More cheers and applause; a few cries of ‘shame on them’. He acknowledged it all with a smile.
“They will say that we are a party the same as any other but we are not. We are as we must remain, INDEPENDENT of any lobby group, of any financial backing and of any political affiliation. We seek to govern by concord, to make constructive policy, to implement cohesive policy when in power, to lead this nation into a fairer and better world where all can benefit. We are independent of the powerful rich elites who will never be able to blackmail us or bind us with gifts. We are not a party with a programme designed to benefit one social group. We have one purpose, and one purpose only and that is to do what is right.”
Cheers met his words, and there was a palpable feeling of excitement emanating from the floor.
He got his notes together, notes he’d not needed to refer to throughout his speech, “A note of caution” his voice dropped slightly, “although we are here and here is a great place to be, although we’re making progress, and we think and feel we’re unstoppable, we have not yet achieved our aims. We have not yet forced these rogues from office, we have not driven these thieves from their dens of vice, we have not crushed the beast that lusts after power and wealth, and we have not won yet.”
He moved to the front of the stage, “To finish, I would like to read you something that Oliver Cromwell said when he instituted the dissolution of the Long Parliament (1653).”
He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes and held it high, brandishing it for a moment, then began to read, the Old English sounding strange on his tongue, “It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonoured by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice; ye are a factious crew, and enemies to all good government; ye are a pack of mercenary wretches, and would like Esau sell your country for a mess of pottage, and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money.”
He took a breath, and then continued, “Is there a single virtue now remaining amongst you? Is there one vice you do not possess? Ye have no more religion than my horse; gold is your God; which of you have not barter'd your conscience for bribes? Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth?”
The audience was entranced, hanging on his every word, “Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil'd this sacred place, and turn'd the Lord's temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices? Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress'd, are yourselves gone! So! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors.”
He waited a second, and then said, “In the name of God, go!”
The audience was on its feet now, some had moved into the aisles and were moving forward to the front, the better to acclaim their messiah.
“As Cromwell did then, so we must do now to the villains in our Parliament and in order to win we must pound the streets, speak in open forums, in markets, in town centres, in village halls, we must knock on doors and let people know that we exist and persuade them that we are a viable option worthy of their vote. But know also, there will be one hell of a machine waging war on us in the coming year, a machine of immeasurable wealth and influence and power and privilege and prejudice aiming all of its guns ON US. And we must WIN, we must win because if we fail then this country is lost and the world will sink into years of dictatorship, a thousand-year Reich. It won’t be the German Nazis ruling it; it will be the Anglo Saxon Nazis ruling it here and in America.”
Colin stepped back and raised his hands. Instantly everyone in the auditorium stood and cheered and clapped and chanted his name. He turned without another word and made his way to his seat, passing the meeting organiser who approached the rostrum to introduce the next speaker, Catherine Jenkins.
