When we were kids, we would sometimes try to come up with the most horrible possible images. Maybe we were camping and maybe someone told a ghost story and then the discussion would go towards what might be genuinely frightening to witness. We would really push the envelope. My equivalents are nothing to the creativity of the brilliant awful people I was friends with back then. The notional status of the people involved mostly guaranteed their involvement in the images. The closer to the debate the more frequently they’d be used. Maggie was popular, and strangely so was Terry Waite. Nowadays the tiny envelope of … people considered to be worth noting … It has been colonised by the dullest humans that have ever been invented. You have to be creative to make these colourless nobodies into something hideous. “Rishi Sunak dangling from a ceiling by multiple meathooks in his back, priapic and laughing constrictedly as he spasmpisses into the face of a delighted Vladimir Putin who is lying on a blanket of rotten meat wanking in his leopard skin bikini as he screams “I’m not gay!” You get the idea.
We don’t need these images. We don’t need these fucking idiots leading us. Other people were always better than me at making these assholes look even dumber than they are. In many ways there’s nothing to be gained from looking at our Prime Minister and observing that he is a whore who would say anything about anything for the right price even though his wife has already got everything. He’s a plug. He’s nothing but greed wrapped in skin. But apparently it’s what we want. Starmer is offering the same with a different badge. Anything else is made pariah.
But… But…
How can we make sense of it all?
If I fight it too hard, I’m called anti-capitalist, which is no description for me as I enjoy trying to make sense of these silly systems.I hate thoughtlessness. I detest the ease with which some of the privileged fail to understand the struggle their forefathers made to give them their safe standpoint. Apparently I’m from a Spanish aristocratic line destroyed by Franco. I’m lucky in that I have never had advantages from it, so it has never made me complacent. Also my father made his own name from Scottish organised prohibition era crime, and he worked very hard before he died to teach me that respect is EARNED. I remember being this posh kid aged 22 facing down a youth and his gang. A knife appeared and my dad’s voice in me almost got me killed but also stopped me being robbed. “Do you respect me? *knife* Do you respect me?” This is like Sands End, about 11pm. on a night like tonight, near the fuckawful graffitied rollerskater statue that I believe has finally been removed, before it all got gentrified. “No. I don’t respect you. I fear you. You have a knife. I might have to defend myself. I have no weapon so… yes I fear you. Not respect . Fear.” “You FEAR me?” “Um… oh… Yes… yes I fear you.” “He FEARS me!!!!” “I fear you”.
Meh
I’m going to bed. Long forgotten interactions with assholes…. nah.. I’m done.
AlBarclay 