Monday, 4 May 2009
A MAYDAY ESSAY. IT'S NOT THE ECONOMY, STUPID
SUMER IS A I-CUMIN IN (A 14th. century Toppe of Ye Pops.)
The daffodil harbingers are gone over now but the Whitebeam avenue springs into leaf, spiky, urgent, hurrying, soon to be lush, in a few days it will unfurl, obscure the path, it's blossom fragrance intoxicating, uplifting and sensitising like the most delicate, angelic hash; soothing, like Sweet Sister morphine to a soul in agony; mischievous and exciting, a walk in a magic glade; no business like show business. Every year a miracle, tulips from Amsterdam, rhodedendra from the Hindu Kush, sharp,spiteful thistles from Scotland; all appearing from nowhere, thrusting, erect, showing-off, scenting, firing seed everywhere. In Spring the fancy turns....
There was a point in living memory, maybe before the Labour Party got it's Equity card, when the changing seasons still retained some power over us, when they were marked and celebrated; hints of the pagan, of riotous, Jesus-free sexuality, of the elemental; Maydays and Solstices, Harvest Homes; ancient, starborne, prehistoric survival rituals - which had been colonised, hi-jacked by Pope Nazi's predecessors, parceled-up with Feast Days, Saints' Days and Guilty Days - marked periodic awarenesses of the cyclicality of creation, of death and renewal, or of, as the Noncing Monsignors would have it, the craft of the Divine Watchmaker; you know, He who's gonna forever roast your arse if you don't do as we, His kindly minders, say. Dominus vobiscum.
These Stone-Age festivals, these seasonal forebodings, joys and obeisances formed a truly British, truly European - or Northern White - culture, long before John Bull and immeasureably more valid, more connected than the morbid, touchstone, tribal posturings of the SNP, the BNP, Plaid Cymru, Ulster's pestilential Kneecappers and sour-faced, joyless Orange undertakers, all rooted not in Earth, Water, Fire and Air but in hangings, arson, rape, torture, mayhem and martyrdom, Christian Age alpha male shit.
As the Green Man carved surreptitiously by apostate joiners in ostensibly Christian Saxon and Norman Churches hung-on, in hiding, these pagan seasonal customs clung, too, Bowdlerised and adapted, the Furry Dance, the joyful Mayday cock-worship, a clandestine, Earth-worshipping Resistance movement; the ringed stones of Wiltshire and Gloucester and Orkney attracting all sorts, freaks and Wiccans and libertines but many more just vaguely aware of bigger, eternal patterns, of a pre-programmed, stellar air-conditioner, whirring through Time, ventilating Life.
For the longest time, perhaps until the gaudy arriviste iconoclasm of Thatcher's brigandage, we - maybe unknowingly - heard the old prayers, feared the old gods. Soulless monetarism banished much that was good, essential, leaving litte but - as we see, the noo - doomed Avarice.
Now, our lives are measured, instead, by the Dow-Jones Index, whatever the fuck that is, some micro-calibration of greed, and the Footsie One Hundred - how rich are the rich, today ? Fuck me, no, dropped a few points ? Aw, shit. And how many of their floor-sweepings, their discarded farthings are the portion of we, their servants, gasping in admiration as the Jeremy Clarkson Trio lament the miniscule imperfections of the never-to-be-ours playthings of the idle rich? Volunteer dummies foregather, standing obediently in an aircraft hangar, like supplicants, applauding bits of machinery, awed by Mrs Clarkson's fat son, Jeremy, Greed's bombastic bought and paid for ambassador to the peasants. Up against the wall, simile-spewing motherfucker.
DISORDER-DISORDER. SLEAZE, SCANDAL AND TITS. BUT MODERATED, MIND. IN THE BEST POSSIBLE TASTE.
In cyberspace an outmoded, laddish, Bacchanalean blitzkrieg of increasingly irrelevant nonsense rolls over us from dawn until the next dawn. X is on the fiddle, Y is on the fiddle. A is more on the fiddle than B but B is worse than C. Jesus wept. Shock, Horror, Disbelief. Next week: Saint Augustine is Dead. Listen, I wanna tell you a story. Max Bygraves is alive and well and disqualified from driving, wowing them in the cyber-aisles of political naivety.
This moneyshit obsession is everywhere, in cyberpolitik and in digireality. When the counting houses in our time zones are shut, contingents of number-crunching cyborgs from Asia breach our insomniac peace with percentageised gibberish; lip-glossed harpies on BBC PermaNews pout through the night that the Nikkei is up, scowl that it is down. We in the world this side of the screen are meant to jerk and twitch, Money's Pavlovian marionettes, even though, really, we don't have any.
Mouthy, lard-brained, ignoramus nobodies like Jeff Randall and Robert Peston and the walking corpse, Will Hutton, have ordained themselves in the New Priesthood, interceding on our behalf with Divine Money; nasty, stupid little prick, Randall, not a word of poetry nor a line of music, not a brush stroke of paint, a phrase of scripture to leaven his ferrety, Murdoch tripe but only bluster, truculence and the disease of conceit; I-know-bestism; stupid, horrible bastard; Peston a stuttering, shameless gossip made o'ermighty by those, lesser even than he, unable to think for themselves, unable to consider that there might be something different, something better, that just maybe, this nonsense is no longer supportable, let alone desirable.
Lurking neath layers of outraged hysteria, Mr Guido Fawkes' shudderingly dull, unimaginative and PaddyThick alternative political and economic strategem - that in order-order for the poor to have some or indeed any, the rich must have more - is clodhopping, spud-gulping, Guinness-swigging, melancholy bollocks, unjustifiable in the nineteenth century, obscene in the twenty-first, when the poor can cybergape through Money's bulletproof window. Look out, they're coming to get you and there's billions of the fuckers, try showing them your share portfolio, see how clever they think you are. They'll shove it up your arse and set fire to it.
The Pizza-thesis of the anti-politics blogger is that it is desirable, inescapable, inevitable, an article of faith in the Mick Voodoo of Holy Mother Church, that fat, idle, gun-toting, Adam-and-Eveing Americans, too stupid to wipe their own arses must waddle, obese, to every protein-heavy meal, that in some Devil's double-entry book-keeping system Palestinian children must be mangled under Israeli tank tracks in order that Uncle Sam's lunatic military-industrial complex be perpetuated; this fatuous nonsense is as criminally obnoxious as it is stupid and empty-headed, this is the Beano character as political scientist.
Even though the big ends have gone on the imaginary engine of global capitalism and Uncle Sam is outworked by yellow and brown bastards, up to his bleary eyeballs in Chink debt and exporting little but terror, the tax freak, his head up his arse, persists in this US-led, benign, liberal capitalist mythology, blithely overlooking the fact that George W Chimp nationalised the banks and made Amerika communist overnight.
The one-trick pony dogma - that to replace the criminals of New Labour with richer, more adept criminals marks progress - is emblematic of the Kelvin McKenzieism which underpins the thinking of the Tottywatching Saviour of the Nation; risible, part of the tsunami absurdiste which insists that we must be enslaved to planned obsolescence, that against all the evidence of all our senses we must commit ourselves to infinite growth within a finite ecosphere in order, simply, to maintain the differential between greedy bastards and the rest of humankind. These people talk Horseshit.
WANNA SEE MY HEDGE FUND ?
Human nature, thay call it, these ignorant, cultureless, ranting, greedy, stupid gashites, human nature that the world must be ordered to soothe the few, however badly it destabilises the many. A child could tell them it's bollocks. Even should the skies fall, More must have more, this is their timeless, discordant rant, this, fugitive from reality, is the burden of their whining song. As though human nature was not ever a process of refinement and adjustment in the light of the possible, a choice of survival over Ruin; now, when globalisation makes Reason essential, these buffoons insist that Greed is the only way, immutable, a force of Nature, even though it's not.
But, soft, they urge, the Growthsters; these are the wealth creators, these maligned jackanapeses, without them there would be no black dishwashers, you'd have to make do with white ones; without them you wouldn't, the instant you bought it, be dissatisfied with your brand new BMW, desperate for next year's model, you wouldn't, without the rancid Alan SugarBeard and the entirely pointless James DysonBalls, be kept eternally at the point of consumer ejaculation. And how so not great would that shit be ?
PharmaCorp really does wnat to ease suffering but, you know, R and D costs, all that. Yes, without PharmaCorp we wouldn't live so long; just a shame thsoe little brown buggers can't get a drink of clean water; still, fuck em eh? These wogs, good for fuck all.
Without some larcenous arsehole banker,like Sir Fred Pensions - only not him, obviously, goes the apologia for Greed, without some sticky-fingered political hand at the wheel, like that of Peter, Lord Crabs, only not him, either; without the uncompromising invigilation of some shit-eating, drunken money-grubbing hack like Toilets Maguire or Polly Mascara, but not actually them because they're crap, but without, in short, our betters shitting in our faces all the year round, why, Goodness me, we'd all be fucked. If We, the People, after all, are to add surplus value to stuff, well, where would we be without other people to cream it off for themselves. It's the economy, stupid.
The talk, now, is of economic stoicism. For us, mind. Just while we get things back in order. Not in order for us; in order for the bankers, dealers, traders and all the other hustlers. Yes, belt-tightening, boot-strapping.
KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING
And the talk is also, distractingly, of wars. The war on terror in which the mightiest military, surveillance, espionage and terror machine in the history of anything cannot - or doesn't want to - locate and destroy one miserable, diabetic old age pensioner lurking in a cave; in which the same eye-wateringly costly apparatus could not - or did not - deal with not one but nearly half a dozen hi-jacked airliners tootling around it's airspace for half an hour; in which all the Jihadis lurking under beds in Bradford and Manchester are, mysteriously, innocent Jihadis; in which even though we are agin torture, a priori, per se and ipso facto, it's ok, really, just a slong as it's wogs; in which the cassus bellus for the Iraq Misadventure was whatever our parliamentarians now say it was.
Our friend with the cyber Gunpowder steadfastly censors all mention of the Manhattan Escapade, decrying, offensively, any who query the Bush/Cheney regime, even the police-beaten relatives of the Twin Towers deceased, as Troofers; the biggest military fuck-up in history not a fit subject for political comment, those asking questions unstable loonies, somewhere aligned to Flat Earthers. There's political sophistication for you, a hunger to expose a real truth. No the real issue is not the fomenting of World War Three but the War on Taxes. Isn't there some way that rich people don't have to pay any tax at all ? Where the fuck would we all be if Michael Caine buggered off. Who would staff the hospitals, tend the old folk, teach the children, if this cockney playactor took his mrs to live next door to Lewis Hamilton in whatever rich shithole it is ? Country'd be fucked, no mistake. It's a miracle that we struggle on without Sean Connery.
THE THEORY OF TRICKLE-UP WEALTH CREATION
The Trickle-down defence of the indefensible won't run. Capitalism's just failed to trickle down and is now urgently engaged in Trickle-up and it's reworking into New World Order Authoritarian Capitalism is assisted and not hindered by so-called Libertarian anti-politics fuckwit bloggers banging the greedy drum. In bewailing the fact - as they unknowingly do - that obscene wealth is incompatible with Liberal Democracy, on a national, never mind a global scale, Mr Fawkes and his cohort aid and abet the looming totalitarianism which they claim to boldly resist.
There must be another way, not a Third Way, but a fresh way. The current, favoured solution, a uni-party, almost pan-global economic dictatorship based on satisying the insatiable minority by stoking but never realising the consumer fantasies of the majority is not libertarian but a recipe for constant war against somebody or other, anybody, really; for constant surveillance and regimentation and for the proliferation and entrenchment of the parasite political caste which the blogosphere - perhaps, after all, theatrically, Andrew - claims to so despise.
When much of the world is starving, in want and angry, heated concern about relative levels of taxation among those who have much is an historically, potentially catastrophicically short-sighted pre-occupation. As, kow-towing to the Fairy Queen, the gangsters are kicking-in the doors of the legislature we are foolish in the extreme to plead, on their behalf, that they pay too much tax and we should pay more. We are in Ruin, Mexican Pig 'flu or not, Gordon Brown or David Cameron or not, If there is to be, as there should be, a New World Order, because this one's fucked, it should be based upon the needs of the many, not the greed of the few, Tony and Imelda.
The institutional Christians and the money lenders and the thieving scumbag politicians have robbed us of Creation, robbed CReation of us, set us apart, alien, time-clocked, mortgage-paymented, credit-card statemented, photograpehd, recorded, observed, policed, regulated, homgenised and obedient, imprisoned in debt and fear and guilt. Fuck 'em. And fuck their braindead stooges, stupid and grunting More, More, More. Man that is born of woman has but a short time to live, we bring nothing in and sure as fuck we take nothing out. We spring not from balance sheets and columns of numbers but dust we are and to dust return. We must move, not to the thud of the jackboot, the curse of the cleric, the clanging of the Wall Street bell, but again to the steadier, less sclerotic heartbeat of the planet. To all, the sign of Ruin and Happy Mayday.
Should Rhodes Scholar, hypocrite, sexual predator, warmonger, thief, coward and arsehole, Spunky Bill Clinton, be not hoovering-up bribes from Arab torture freaks but looking in here, the Ishmaeli MayDay salutation is:
It's not the economy, stupid, it's the stupid economy, stupid.