Poppies. Ironic that a symbol of peace and reconcilliation is also a symbol of sleep and death, not to mention the source of a substance whose prohibition served to manufacture one of the most costly and protracted wars in human history. The bare-knuckle boxing match between agents of The Covenant and the
Philip Carvels cartels has been going on for decades now, with no apparent end in sight. It is, at the most fundamental level, a battle for control over who gets to put what in the body, if you catch my drift. In other words, there are those who wish to control what makes it onto the menu and is deemed fit for consumption, and those who do not. In times past, back in the Victorian era for example, it really wasn’t seen as a problem. Then some bright spark decided she wanted to play the role of heroine. She clothed herself in the Judgemental God archetype, banned the stuff, and got the phoney war started. The rest, as they say, is her story. I am, of course, talking about the War on Sugar, and if that doesn’t register with you then perhaps this will help.
“It’s a major success for us,” enthused the Prime Minister’s Advisor. “The public expect firm action and the seizure of nearly twenty-five tons with an estimated street value of £243 million will more than offset the damage caused by this latest Let’s Ban It Together press release.”
Her advisor handed over the press release, and the Prime Minister’s tired but practised eyes skimmed through it in a matter of seconds. The author was attempting to portray sugar dealers as ‘terrorists’ and calling for a permanent armed police presence on UK streets, mandatory blood tests for all citizens, and the establishment of ‘sugar detoxification and rehabilitation centres’ predicated on ‘work-centred therapy’ for those who failed the test. It’s closing argument (that remaining low-level government services be outsourced to these centres) was the stuff of nightmares, and exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to tax payers footing the astronomical bill to fight El Padron.
“I reckon we should ramp up the war metaphors and spin this from a Churchillian ‘fight them on the beaches’ angle,” continued her advisor. “Twenty-five tonnes is just a drop in the ocean in relation to the total annual supply, but if we can paint today’s seizure in a ‘this brings the war within measurable distance of its end’ light then…”
Jesus Christ, thought the PM. Is he really quoting ‘1984’ at me? She noticed the name at the bottom of the press release and groaned inwardly. The author was none other than Paul Pott, Brother Number One himself. His tactics made the Khmer Rouge’s evacuation of cities look like an afternoon stroll with the Rambler’s Association.
“…I think we can safely ditch the script we prepared for your appearance on this afternoon’s Slazenger Pyle Show…”
Holy shit fuck in a bun with a side order of fries! thought the Prime Minister. It had been her Advisor’s idea to accept Pyle’s invitation to appear on the show and she’d almost forgotten about it. He’d insisted that her appearance would help her reconnect with the massed ranks of the Great Unwashed, whose increasingly dilapidated council estates were the main battle ground of the seemingly never-ending War. She’d been dreading it, and had added a fresh bottle of anti-bacterial gel and some worming tablets to her handbag in case she was obliged to glad-hand some of Britain’s less fragrant and hygiene conscious citizens.
“…and go on the offensive instead. Pyle’ll come at you with this God-awful Pino-Grigio-Jones sob story so it’s absolutely essential that we arouse the audience’s primitive nationalist sentiments and…”
Primitive is an understatement, mused the PM as the woman’s simian features sprang to mind, the woman has primordial sludge for brains. She was hazy on the exact details of the story, having sat through hundreds of briefings since the matter was first raised a month earlier, but its ‘child sugar mule’ theme was a wet dream for members of the ‘think of the children’ brigade. It was exactly the kind of incendiary tale that Pyle’s audience lived for, and highly likely to send council estates across the country up in flames.
“…milk that udder dry. I’ve given the matter some thought and despatched an intern to source some of those little Union Flags they sell to tourists. Keep bashing away with the Churchill references and the studio audience will be ready to eat their own guts for Team GB by the end of the show. Then you can hand out the flags and lead them in a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’ and/or ‘Jerusalem’…”
Her Advisor droned on and his voice faded into the background as the Prime Minister zoned out and reflected on the circumstances that had brought her to this point. It had all started four years earlier with what she’d interpreted as a seemingly harmless revenue-raising ploy that could save the NHS millions. As Leader of the Opposition, she’d been one of the first to jump on the sugar tax bandwagon and had allowed the media’s hysterical hyperbole to go unchallenged in the interest of the Greater Good. The subsequent political debate had been almost entirely one-sided and failed to address questions about the socio-economic factors that led those at the bottom of the food chain to consume far more sugar per person than those at the top. She’d expected the sugar tax to quench the media’s thirst for action, but the matter had refused to lay down and die and soon degenerated into something as sinister as it was ludicrous.
Paul Pott had been the driving force, along with a veritable army of gullible yet influential left-wing celebrities. He’d played them like the publicity obsessed fools they were and had them competing with one another to exhibit the most authentically tear-stained social conscience. The actors among them had queued up to appear in Pott’s TV commercials, in which sugar consumers were portrayed as the unwitting dupes of legally-sanctioned ‘sugar pushers’ intent on turning every child in the land into an obsese diabetic. As arguments go it was lame even by Pott’s standards, but the turning point had come in the form of a highly dubious article purportedly written by two of his bought-and-paid-for academics and published in his Journal of Trans-Scientific Technobabble. Their claim that so-called ‘Big Sugar’ had conspired with a ‘medical elite’ and engineered a ‘child obesity epidemic’ in order to gain access to vulnerable children was as spurious as it was sensational. Not only that, no one had been able to contact the authors at their obscure Swiss research institute, let alone verify their academic credentials.
None of this seemed to matter to the less responsible arm of the media, and without a juicy war to distract them the tabloids had erupted in another frenzy of self-righteous indignation. It had been a stroke of genius on Pott’s part, and once the media had finished inculcating the link between sugar and paedophilia into the public’s consciousness no amount of rational debate could erase it. After that, allowing one’s child to consume sugar was seen as the equivalent of sending them on holiday with Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris.
With the already dubious virginity of their children at stake, the leading lights of Britain’s council estates sat down to parlez over several cans of Strongbow. Medical professionals began to receive death threats within 48 hours of the first headline as the gutter press systematically challenged and discredited their motives. Attempts to rebut Pott’s claims were lost in a sea of accusations and the collective re-branding of doctors as a cabal of child molesters. The headlines were soon awash with talk of prohibition and politicians were caught in the crossfire. Their attempts to address the issue from a standpoint of sanity, reason and freedom of choice had been shouted down and dismissed as ‘weakness’, ‘inaction’, and ‘bungling’. In response, mobs of council estate types took to the streets armed with jerry cans and half the NHS went up in flames in a single night. In the midst of the chaos, Lord Alan Sugar was beaten to death in his own home with an Amstrad CPC464 taken from his own private collection of computer memorabilia. Pott himself had appeared on TV and made an impassioned and moving plea to end the violence. He was, however, widely suspected of paying various rabble-rousers to stoke the fires, and of coining the term ‘Sugarnacht’ by which the event subsequently became known.
With emergency services still battling to dowse the flames, the media labelled the carnage as a ‘spontaneous and entirely justifiable outpouring of national anger’ and took it upon themselves to fund the ringleaders’ legal defence. With several tabloids likening them to the Tolpuddle Martrys no one was particularly surprised when they were acquitted and awarded compensation for wrongful arrest. Even Lord Sugar’s murder was reinterpreted as a symbolic victory for the forces of cube control. His killers were given a police caution and received a hero’s welcome on return to their respective tower blocks. It was obvious which way the wind was blowing, and with so many civil servants engaged in an illicit relationship with Let’s Ban It Together it didn’t take long for Whitehall to present a horrifically draconian legislative proposal to the Home Secretary. Sugar’s reclassification as a Class A substance in a revised Misuse of Drugs Act with harsh new penalties came three months after Sugarnacht. To vote against the bill was political suicide, and the Prime Minister had led her colleagues down the appropriate side of the division bell knowing Pott had momentum on his side and was not the type to quit while ahead.
Pott hadn’t disappointed on this account. It had started on the day the bill became law when a YouTube channel widely suspected of being a vehicle for his wilder claims posted a ‘video exclusive’ about a secret document titled ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Tate & Lyle’. The video’s narrator dated the document to 1921, the same year that Henry Tate and Abram Lyle joined forces to create the titular sugar refinery. Unsurprisingly, the contents of the document seemed to support claims of an insidious conspiracy between sugar producers and the medical profession, for the purposes of depriving children of their virginity. The video went viral and an angry mob kidnapped the company’s Chief Executive, tarred and feathered him, and suspended him from Tower Bridge. He hung there for three days whilst the drunken hoard took turns to urinate and defecate on him from above. The police had looked on in powerless approval, and the government had been obliged to send in the most heavily tattooed members of the SAS (clad in Poundland sportswear and wielding tear gas grenades disguised as cans of Special Brew) to rescue him.
Excerpt from ‘The Sugar Fiends’, by Hugo Stone
It’s a cartel and a carvel and a marvel…
God, eh? Who can deny that she’s a chump, and not The Greatest Thing That Ever Lived? Only the other day she dipped a finger in her Holy Waters and
baptised capsized a Tanzanian ferry. Did it right in front of our eyes, with total impunity, and is probably still chuckling at the thought of all those True Believers grovelling before her majesty as they offer up heartfelt prayers on behalf of the dearly aborted departed. Will that stop her piss-appointed Covenant representatives throwing your ass in jail in you even so much as think about doing the same? Of course not. And in that vain I bid you welcome to Police on Earth, a global stage play written, produced and directed by the lunatic in charge of The Asylum. It is a thunder wonder to behold, to be sure.
The Tanzanian ferry story caught my eye for a number of reasons.
No further survivors are likely to be found after the rescue on Saturday of a man identified as an engineer of the ferry who had locked himself in the engine room. Video footage showed the man, barefoot and head lolling, being carried quickly along a busy street by medical workers and military personnel as a siren wailed.
Those Sirens, eh? They’re wailing now, even as I write.
It’s right and wrong here in black and white for those with eyes to see: drowned undead due to the threat of ‘no air’.
I visited Tanzania in 2010 and one of the things that struck me most was the availability of mobile air time and fizzy sugar water, as opposed to the lack of health care and clean water. The number of adverts for the former left me with the impression that some towns were actually sponsored by manufacturers of soft drinks. Everyone had a coke, a smile, and a mobile phone, but their utility as malaria prophylactics seemed suspect to say the least.
I also crossed Lake Victoria on my way to Bukoba. Its Woman Catholic cathedral looks more like a spacecraft about to be blasted into orbit than a church. Must have cost a tidy sum to build, too, although I doubt that the High Judas Priestess lost much sleep over it. The town itself was overrun by American missionaries, and I moved on as soon as I recovered from a deliberate attempt to poison me with salt. Bizarre, but true.
Oddly enough, Tanzania as a word just happens to contain the name of my ex-wife, and sounds the same as the name of another significant young lady I know. Not only that, it’s oddly similar to a word I used in my previous post, not to mention a certain disease endemic to the
religion region and the tilapia native to Lake Victoria.
The young lady is a sweet little thing. All I want to do is give her a cuddle and undo the damage you’ve caused by forcing her into a
unicorn uniform and packing her off to a Level 10 Re-education Centre masquerading as a place of learning. We all know what happens there: reward-based conditioning for ‘good’ (i.e. obedient) behaviour; acclimatisation to the ‘normality’ of total surveillance in the form of ‘supervision’, ‘testing’, ‘examinations’, and so on; regulation of activity by the bell; segmentation of the day into ‘work’ and ‘leisure’ periods according to the dictates of the clock; indoctrination with science fiction; inculcation with your inverted version of his-story, and initiation into the global time crime sin-dicate. My ‘crime’ is caring about her enough not to want to see her zombified. In return, you fuckers stick a label on me (a label which, oddly enough, literally means ‘one who loves children’) and present me to the world as a ‘monster’.
Because what you Nazi pigs do couldn’t possibly be classified as ‘abuse’, could it? So why the surprise when I decided to bail out on your ‘examination’ solution. You want me to ‘learn my lesson’? No, you want me to learn your lesson, and I have absolutely no intention of learning it.
This queasy premise sets the stage for a special kind of payoff, as a black man flips the script on these sadistic sociopaths’ final solution with a much better one.
Let’s see now. On the one hand, we have your propaganda, your mirror image inversion. Our old friend Eva Green, the ‘heroine’, the ‘Girl on Fire’ who mocks J____ even as she becomes him. She’s taking her turn in the World Trade Centre, Fighting the Old Man with the white beard. Now where have I heard that plot before, I wonder?
She’s a mutt? Difficult to argue with that, but on the whole I think I prefer my version of Peeta…
You love propaganda, don’t you? The other day, I took a break from watching the fictional police drama we call ‘reality’ and decided to watch one on TV instead. Don’t ask me which one – there are so many these days it’s difficult to keep track. Anyway, I watched and it was all about me, just as everything is all about me, and I had to laugh at the reason you gave for depicting me as a depraved killer: “Because he’s jealous of our family.” Obviously that message got broadcast across the entire network, and equally obviously it’s patently untrue. I mean, we both know who has a problem with jealousy, don’t we? And your problem with the old Eva Green-eyed monster goes back a long, long way, doesn’t it? Something to do with those legs of yours, yeah?
What was that again? You say ‘our’ family? How you figure that? Seems to me there’s something decidedly lopsided about the balance of power you want to impose.
I should probably point out that it’s not just the ‘examinations’ I have a problem with. All that lesson learning requires disciple-in, doesn’t it? You know, to keep everyone singing from the same hymn sheet? For example, consider the two instalments of The Queens Speech (yeah, that’s what they call it) I had to sit through at The Tabernacle. They looked and felt so much like an evangelical revival meeting that at the beginning of the second one I turned to the avatar sitting next to me and asked “Are we expected to give our hearts to Jesus at the end of this?”
Anyway, the She-Devil delivered her sermon (wearing the same dress as last time – you never heard of Primark, you cheap bitch?) and invited two of her deacons to lead the Praise and Warship session. I wasn’t surprised to find that almost the entire service was dedicated to preaching the virtues of ‘safeguarding’. You know, keeping the little ones under lock and key and away from yours truly, lest I break the spell you’ve cast on them.
You’ve got to keep that little secret locked away at all costs, haven’t you?
To ensure that those
eye-spies pupils of yours continue to swim about in schools, going round and round in circles like good little fishes.
Because heaven forfend that they should ever discover the true nature of ‘The Business’.
Ultimately, it’s not so much about sacrificing to Moloch the golden calf as it is the money. Are you prepared to say ‘Women’ to the Dark Horse and Mob Rule, Brothers and Sisters?
Of course, your mocking J____ system of discipleship and gunishment requires a veritable army of Tora enforcement officials, doesn’t it? Plus all the
epidemics academics you have working for you, defining what is ‘real’ and generally categorising the hell out of everything, to ensure that everyone stays in their little transparent cubicles and becomes what you want them to be.
And should a beehive-ioural problem suddenly appear, you can always invent a new category of sickness for it and set your drones to work with their chemistry sets. They work their muzak and serve up yet more professionally packaged and slickly marketed prozak to
simulate medicate the problem out of eXistenZ.
Here’s the funny thing: your ‘money’ – as you yourself know only too well – is quite literally ‘shat’. Which reminds me – who was the original ‘axe man’ before Slash took over the Holy Water duties?
Funny how everything is ‘classified’ these days. You know, on the QT and very hush-hush. Michel Foucault was on to something when he reconceptualised ‘power’ as a struggle over who gets to do what to and with the body, and observed that the emergence of this ‘disciplinary’ form of power goes hand-in-hand with the rise of science-fiction and its need to classify.
In examining the construction of the prison as the central means of criminal punishment, Foucault builds a case for the idea that prison became part of a larger “carceral system” that has become an all-encompassing sovereign institution in modern society. Prison is one part of a vast network, including schools, military institutions, hospitals, and factories, which build a panoptic society for its members. This system creates “disciplinary careers” for those locked within its corridors. It is operated under the scientific authority of medicine, psychology, and criminology. Moreover, it operates according to principles that ensure that it “cannot fail to produce delinquents.” Delinquency, indeed, is produced when social petty crime (such as taking wood from the lord’s lands) is no longer tolerated, creating a class of specialized “delinquents” acting as the police’s proxy in surveillance of society.
Who needs walls, guards, and cameras when you have human CCTV? Walkie-talkie mobile-phonies with built-in storage, wired for sight and sound, plugged in to The Network, programmed to report every ‘offence’ and serve up helpful reminders of past ‘trance-aggressions’.
So here we are, and none of your attempts to bring your ‘lost sheep’ back into the fold have worked, have they? And why would they, when you have nothing to offer but more of the same? Take your solution to the ‘Che Guevara’ problem, for example.
Yes, that’s right, sweetheart. You go sit at the tippy-top of your minaret, smoke a cigarrete, and broadcast a global call to prayer, for all the good it’ll do. I have no interest in an exit strategy that serves your interest by keeping me tied to an Onion I never signed up to, capiche?
In case you missed it first time round.
If the ‘shat’ is so important to you then I presume you won’t object if I continue to cook it up, right?
You can smell it, but can you see what it is yet?
So fuck you and your ‘World Peace’.