The Skies Will Fall!

It's been whole days- they yawn as if millennia- and I'm scared witless, awaiting certain oblivion!

Daring barely to peek from beyond the sofa, I see that the sky is still blue, that the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west, yet this is surely but an illusion. Life as we once knew it has irrevocably changed, and we are all damned to eternity!

The seconds sound leadened, each one a cancerous nail driven with malice into humanity's collective coffin. The wheeling gulls cry into the approaching storm, yet I hear only human screams. Night draws its veil and I fear that even the stars are slowly winking out. I have taken to charting the heavens, and I am certain that Sunday's count is down. The air tastes strange-surely you've noticed it- slightly bitter, it burns my throat and claws at my eyes. I cry at the slightest provocation.

Thanks to William Cho

If Wednesday's morning's skyline is unchanged the temporary sameness of it all will only taunt me! Tick follows tock, follows tick...

Yes, madness has consumed the nation- some of it- and the UK is now listing, sinking slowly but certainly, strangled by its briny tourniquet. We must pray for the aeons to cleanse our wretched rock free from its sins, that we might someday arise again, more humbled and perhaps begin afresh.

"Gawd 'elp us!" an impeccable observer of the facts has uttered. No further questions m'Lud!
"Unelectable!" one insightful Express reader noted.
Some critics have said, "His clothes are too old."

The election of Jeremy Corbyn has brought about a deep and analytical scrutiny that one might reasonably reserve for carriers of a modern black plague, infectious upon breath, upon mere sight!

Thanks to Franck Vervial

Beware the Corbynistas, they will steal away your children in the night, harvesting human organs to power the mighty bellows. Hell is not yet warm enough! Clutch the infants to your breasts, gather around the night fires- industrial action has already stolen our meagre light- and whisper stories of the dark 1970s, when the Four Horsemen commanded a lawless army so mighty that the hoard covered the earth from coast to coast, consuming everything in its wake. The viscous pitch that bubbled in its trail devoured even the last vestiges of ghostly colour, leaving a vapid landscape where only the scorching winds did thrive.

"Won't be getting my vote!" the Mail's political editor enlightened.
"... bit of an own goal!" discredited pie salesperson Eamonn Holmes scorned.
Some critics have said, "His hair is too grey."

Beware the Loony Left that might bring down our towering glass empire of inequality, throwing up instead ugly brick monstrosities that might house the work-shy unclean, denying them the just rewards of honest toil. Mocking laughter will again ring out to stain the very aether. It denies our most reasonable attempts to commodify the terminal patients superfluous organs. Respect for the animal kingdom will be terminated, as trophy heads and target hides are again discarded to roam financially burdensome into the void of valueless nature.

Thanks again, to William Cho

"... always happy to spend other people's money," HSBC tax consultant Justin Sane told the Sun newspaper.
Some critics have said, "His bike is too slow."

The hard left that despises aspiration, that would meddle in God's work, where man may be set above man, above man, above man, that we all might know and cherish our given place upon this earth. A medieval void beckons to the foolhardy, leading them away from the honourable servitude of their betters, and into the traitorous gawp of that impostor security, away from incentivising and Godly insecurity.

Let not your person slip- as has mine- into that Satanic cauldron of hard left supporters, lest your soul be forever doomed to respect your fellow country persons. Let us instead together cower and pray that the Righteous Sword of DWP, the Avenging Angel IDS, might yet return us to the pathway to honest toil and salvation!

"Copy to press, Mr Paul Dacre?"

Rights of Passage?

Much as I may not care for certain individuals- in extreme instances perhaps wish them misfortune- I am not, nor could I ever be, a killer. The idea of violence on my part is something that I reserve entirely for those that might cause harm to close friends or family, thus currently it languishes in the realms of fantasy. 

True I would wish to remove, from the most greedy, entire fortunes, acres of land and mountains of superfluous self-indulgences, that we might better address our collective social responsibilities. But, to extract that reasonable retribution armed with hammer or knife, no thanks! I would rather see our society redress the growing imbalance through more democratic means. Of course, the chances of this happening, when huge swathes of the electorate are politically inept, remain pitifully remote, but one can dream.

Just to qualify 'ineptness,' I do not necessarily regard these individuals as worthy of contempt or even of mild dislike. Perhaps instead, extreme disappointment. They may well be, in every other sense, utterly delightful individuals, generous of possession and of spirit. But, when I witness (young) people so, so disengaged as to blindly follow the lazy voting preferences of politically inept parents, or I am given to converse with those who do not know, at the very least, who might best represent them, then I am very disappointed. Incidentally, I do also recognise the act of political abstention as a valid choice, infinitely more so than either of the previous options.

The utter simmering contempt is reserved for the neoliberal system, and for those individuals who slavishly uphold its supremacy.

So, how better to meld the three points that I here wish to expand upon other than randomly?

Always grateful for these images, Gerry Gaffney

My first point is still fresh in my mind, my heart still beating, my temper still simmering. It involved a schoolboy. He, upon a bike, almost wiped me out, speeding down the St Stephen' Road slope to the underpass. He skidded, I stepped aside, muttering, "Christ!" we avoided one another and he was gone! I never even had the chance to shout at the stripling.

Had I been sharing the slope with another, he would have collided with someone, and at considerable speed! Had it been my beloved grandchild, I may well now be either pacing a hospital corridor, or else in heated discussion with a rare member of the constabulary. Potential consequences chill my blood, and may well have spilled the blood of several others. I'm sure that I don't need to elaborate further.

He never stopped to see if I was okay, or to apologise. He may be sitting in a classroom still shaking, or he may be laughing it up with mates, who knows? Maybe he collided with someone else, just around the next corner. And, if he did, I know who I'd like to think came off worse.

Secondly, Monday night's TV viewing caused me to chance upon a programme about London's moped gangs. Of course I didn't waste more than a few moments to consider the 'entertainment,' but that was more than enough. Gangs of armed- hammers and knives- young men, filmed targeting the easy money? The 'easy money' came largely in the form of £40,000 wristwatches, weighted upon neoliberal manikins.

The violence was disturbing, certainly something that I would endeavour to avoid. And I found myself reacting with a deal of anger to these CCTV filmed acts. That quite so many had been captured upon film is altogether another debate. The contempt for 'fellow human beings' was in itself contemptible. Any regard afforded to those foolish or brave enough to intervene, I would imagine, would have been similarly minimal.

But ultimately, as with so much societal violence, the levels are a carefully calculated balance of potential personal gain set against potential retribution. Inside the head of the villain this might simply equate to, 'The risk of imprisonment for murder is or is not worth the chance of not needing to find gainful employment for another couple of months.' The footage, and any subsequent acts,  would seem to suggest that the youths had opted for the latter.

In the short space of time that I watched the barbarism, the maximum gain captured upon CCTV was a forty grand wristwatch. It told the time, and hung a lot heavier upon the arm than does mine... which also tells the time. In defence of his badge of superiority, the chap (target) raised a broom. Three armed thugs against a broom handle? No chance!

Cut to the Chief Superintendent with a plan. One might briefly have been forgiven for believing that the British Police plc. are still rather more than corporate mercenaries with ever-so-tiny frills, but only very, very briefly.

Again, much appreciated, Randy McDonald

And finally, yesterday's drive to Waitrose, along the full length of Norwich's Newmarket Road, brought about reasonable use of the rear view mirror, as should all such journeys. And, as journeys go, this one wasn't so very different to numerous others that I've had. Not so very different, in that I happened perchance to witness a young lady driving a black SUV whilst texting. I was stationary, at a traffic light, she was slowing down to join the back of the queue, not the most blatant use of a mobile whilst driving that I'd ever witnessed.

The lights duly clanked round to green and the chain of vehicles chugged up through the gears. The texting woman afforded the road a cursory glance, before drifting onwards. Not too close, again not the worse case of mobile phone use whilst driving that I'd ever seen.

Up through the gears, another flick of the eyes, before the text was again prioritised. Clearly, this text was judged to be more important than the life of any temporarily distracted pedestrian. Walk five minutes through the city and one'll encounter more than a few of these distracted pedestrians, heads buried within similarly important texts one would imagine.

Finally, I reacted! I opted for hazard lights, the texting was, after all, a hazard! She duly slowed, whilst continuing to text. The line resumed, me driving, she texting. I attempted a second time to make my point. The text prevailed. Upon a third burst of hazard lights the woman was seen to be less than happy. She presented an angry face, probably uttered something of a derogatory nature and gesticulated her impatience by waving her arms about. Perhaps she had considered my driving to be dangerous, I don't know. Either way she wasn't that happy!

When I turned off she was still texting as she sped onto the duel carriageway. Perhaps this had become one of the more sustained uses of a mobile phone whilst driving that I've yet seen. I feel confident in my assumption that she hadn't devoted much time to calculating the likelihood of any potential death(s) into her decision to text.

Thank you, Avital Pinnick

Lives are very much upon a sliding scale consideration in neoliberal Britain. All three of the above instances involved fleeting calculations as to its worth. When a Norwich bus driver jumps the lights at a busy crossing, or when IDS lies and misleads and bullies genuinely sick individuals back to work, and then fights tooth and nail to prevent resultant fatality figures from being published, all these instances involved placing human lives upon a sliding rule. The covert implementation of TTIP, and especially ISDS, into European legislation will be permitting many more corporations to push human life down this sliding scale.

Now, for whom should I reserve the greater contempt? Who's most likely to kill my granddaughter?