Seize the Moment.

07:45. Another day, another dollar, whatever that's supposed to mean. Resignation, as ever, looms largest at the outset.

This colder snap hasn't really helped- unless you happen to be a major share-holder in one of 'our' big energy companies- so I'll wrap up in a further layer, avail myself of a warm beverage and curl up around a book. Escapism, exactly the ticket. I just hope that, when I reach for the tea, I can still bend my arms.

Thanks to Sailing "Footprints: Real to Reel" (Ronn ashore)

Curse of the retired; no sooner have I settled, than the doorbell should ring out in 'cheerful' misrepresentation. So, to the door I should waddle, the option of walking having been sacrificed to that one further layer. Not even a parcel for me, merely a drop off for the at-work neighbours. Naturally there is a small admin charge, so not an entirely wasted journey- a tenner I consider, plucking a random figure from the ether. Postie isn't exactly over the moon but, as I am quick to observe, the Post Office is far from above such things. Perhaps I shall risk half an hour of heating, as due reward.

08:50. As the inside temperature returns to single figures I arm myself with bus pass and venture towards the city library.

09:50. Too slow to sidestep the clipboard-armed youth, a further ten minutes is devoted to the aspired boosted sales of some company of which I have never heard. Chancing my arm, I levy a small admin charge; "Time is money, my friend," I feel obliged to point out. And I'll forgo that chance to 'win' the placatory clothes voucher, thanks all the same. Things are looking up.

Thank you i.tokaris

It would appear that I am not alone in my yearnings for a smidgen of warmth. The library has been transformed. Are these not the same crowd, with which I once shared a Saga Holiday, albeit somewhat more subdued this time round? Colder too; on this occasion I'll give it another fifteen minutes, before I might venture to shed the outer coat.

11:25. Fortuitous indeed that the library is so conveniently adjacent to those public toilets. Curiously I appear to have passed more liquid than I have actually consumed, maybe my flask has acquired certain TARDIS-like qualities, or maybe it's an age thing.

Delaying the return journey, I opt to join the library; use it or lose it! Naturally there was a very small admin charge. Strictly speaking, it was a tiny bit of a liberty; I'd become obsessed with the ideas of rounding the day's takings up to thirty quid. "So, just the eight pounds, if you please."

17:30. The boiler is roaring, but the living room has barely crept above seventeen degrees. I daren't twitch the dial, so I cocoon myself within a further layer once again. Then I notice the post, which I can no longer bend to retrieve. What's this, 'Don't lose your right to vote!' Another admin charge, think I.

Tomorrow I shall be writing to my bank, to advise them that I am still in the black, despite the numerical protestations of my energy supplier. I believe the going rate is thirty pounds a letter.

Cold callers beware!

Three Worlds

Maurits Cornelius Escher, or Uncle Maurits as my father used to refer to him, always presented to myself as something of an enigma; hardly that surprising, given that he travelled through Europe, and fascist Italy, at such a time of unrest and injustice. I would imagine that many of those who were able to maintain and conduct their lives with any sort of moral code or compass, at such a time (WWII), may also have developed somewhat enigmatic traits. Yet, even with this past turmoil in mind, Uncle Maurits struck me as fascinatingly unique.

Highly treasured, amongst my meagre possessions, remain a handful of dusty books, embellished by his exquisite illustrative works, within which I am still able to escape from the soul-destroying excretions of British life today. Many of you will be familiar with many of his works, through reproductions that you may have encountered, even though you may not, until this moment, have been aware as to who the responsible artist was. Nevertheless, it is surely certain that some readers will also have been able to virtually slip inside the picture frame, in order to contemplate a few of the mathematical concepts with which he was ever obsessed. Who can say, perhaps one day, there we shall meet.

With eyesight less crisp than in my youth, I have increasingly taken to the magnifying glass, as enhancement to my cerebral journeying. Happily the companionship of Uncle Maurits's knowing chuckle is never far from my side. Yet, alas, it remains one of time's many cruel paradoxes that, with diminishing energies and years, one is often cursed by a greater clarity. Oh, how I wish that dear old Uncle Maurits was here today, in order to re-elaborate upon his, then unfathomable, theories of time, infinity and contra-illusion.

Thanks to slworking2

Age and duration have also sought to play many a cruel trick upon the memory and this has been sadly abetted through the demise of the two other souls then present. Even so, now alone, I remain, to this very day, able to convince myself that, as a mere boy, I once sat, mesmerised,  and listened to Uncle Maurits expounding upon one of his less popular theories, that of time travel. As I recall, he was armed with a hastily crafted Mobius strip, which he may or may not yet have bisected, and his eyes were shining; not simply sparkling with life but were magically endowed with a crystal twinkle all of their very own.

Uncle Maurits spoke with a compassion and conviction, the likes of which I have yet to re-encounter; always the master storyteller, he was. His words, for me, were always liberally dusted with more than their fair share of enchantment. But I shall never forget the look upon the face of my grandfather- himself no mean philosopher and mathematician- as dear old Maurits, on that long-ago New Year's Eve, let it slip that his theories were no longer simply that. My grandfather's face was transformed, enlightened!

Thanks to moyerphotos 

After Uncle Maurits's passing, my father was able to shed much light upon the, lesser known, political aspects of many of Escher's works. Father was able to explain that 'Square Limit' (1964) was not only another of Maurits's depictions of perceived infinite possibilities, but also a work of comment upon the ways in which those in power chose to divide up a nation's wealth, where, seemingly infinitely large may be seen to co-exist with a theoretical singularity (infinitely small), or macro along side micro.

Two of my father's favourite works remained 'Belvedere' (1958) and "House of Stairs II' (1951) . 'Belvedere, within which we can see the scholar, frustrated with the impossibilities before him- surely a comment upon the falsehoods that are everyday presented as truths to the minions. Notice also the gullible citizen who has somehow managed to climb the political 'house of cards' that he believes to be reality, whilst his lords and masters unconcernedly survey an altogether different world, perhaps unaware as to even his existence, that is until luncheon is to be served.

In 'House of Stairs'- also one of my particular favourites- a host of identical creatures can be seen to populate an infinite world of stairs and corners, each perceiving their world to be the 'real' one, oblivious to the different realities of their co-inhabitants. Could this be be an allusion to the media-painted facades, behind which the 'mighty' might seek to hide the greater truths or, perhaps, the peddled deceptions within which 'elected representatives' are able to get themselves re-elected within a house of mirrors, or false promises; if a work of art ever predicted the abhorrent concept of Blairism this is surely it, or so one might be forgiven for so believing.

As is often the case, not unlike as with genuine conversations, we have wandered somewhat from my intended theme, that of Uncle Maurits's fleeting reference to time travel- and here I should make it abundantly clear that my grandfather had always, since that day, insisted that Uncle Maurits had said that he had, "travelled beyond mankind's wildest dreams. "Grandfather often repeated these exact words- never outside of the immediate 'family', you understand- with a knowing wink and a far-away glint in his eye, which though I had always wanted to, I never, in truth, fully understood.

Decades later, alone now, with my own frail recollections, I am drawn time and again to the political allusions, made clear to me by my father, in his father's favourite of Uncle Maurits's works, 'Three Worlds' (1955). Indeed, each time that I am drawn to study this piece, I find that it is almost as if Uncle Maurits has somehow contrived to add another minute detail that I had, until that moment, inexplicably, overlooked; that, were it possible, would fit his humour to a tee.

I rue the complete lack of chance that human frailty has denied me, that one final opportunity with which to share an informed conversation with my long-departed-and-much-loved grandfather. 'Three Worlds', surely, almost denies credibility in its quite surreal allusion to the Blairite years of untethered dehumanisation with which we are still effectively shackled. But, it is as clear to me, as it ever was, that this is about as close to proof as it gets, that Uncle Maurits either really did make that momentous yet unrecorded journey or that he had an insight beyond our wildest imaginings. Just think upon it; who, even during the worst suppurating manifestations of Thatcherism, could realistically have predicted the hatching of the creature that was to contra-alchemically become Tony Blair? I can almost sense your befuddled noddings, so imagine my own, confronted, as I am, with Escher's very words.

Thanks to cornish.pixie07

Art historians and the likes have obviously steered clear of the controversy, preferring instead to expound upon Uncle Maurits's penmanship, the ethereal quality of the water's surface, the partial obscurity and buoyancy of the central Koi Carp, giving Escher's political observations an inexplicably wide berth. Thus, it has been left to the less materialistically-driven amongst us to comment beyond the superficial.

Check it out: there are precisely 417 leaves, perfectly suspended upon an invisible meniscus of water, representing, I would contest the 417 argued practised faiths around the world. The five- a religiously significant number- species of leaf that have been depicted (oak, beech, maple, sycamore and something slightly cottonwoodish) could be said to represent the variety of religious creeds and races within the population; to have depicted a more representative number would obviously have undermined the otherwise simplicity, and realistic homage, to a genuine landscape. The leaves are precariously placed in an almost two-dimensional world, of extremely limited manoeuvrability, awaiting demise, upon which they will crumble and add further sustenance to the significantly greater world of the privileged minority of one (the Koi Carp). Even the duplicitous Mr Blair hadn't quite split the UK's population into two such disparate parts, the uber-wealthy 0.24% and the rest (99.76%) but, give Cameron and Osborne a couple more years and who knows?

Slightly contentious, you think? Or maybe not, the numbers are just that little bit too significant, aren't they? Had you been there, with grandfather and myself, on that magical day, you too would, by now, be all but convinced. Allow me to embellish the allusion further, to see if we might not yet convince you fully.

Finally, there is, of course, the third world- not 'Third World' here, I'd argue; that much really is just circumstantial- tethering the image together, into one 'coherent' whole. Those three reflected trees, clearly representative of the three major English political parties- again note, not the UK- are shown in all their nakedness, that is bankrupt of credible answers that will convince a more discerning voter. The almost dormant winter trees are simple reflections, at best two-dimensional; arguably, as creations of no actual substance, actually no-dimensional. Thus, we have the illusory substance of accountable governance, under which we are expected serve. None other than an almost faultless parallel to Britain under New Labour.

Curiously, there is no obvious allusion to the National Lottery, an actual illusion, if this is not an oxymoron, by which the masses (the leaves) are deceived into believing that they are able to attain the lifestyle of the uber-wealthy (the Koi Carp). Given that almost the entire population is represented as being suspended within virtually two dimensions it is likely that Uncle Maurits was unable to conceive of an acceptable reference.

Or, perhaps, even this is merely awaiting my next visitation.

Slash and burn!

I had occasion to visit a primary school the other day and was surprised to find the management team, within said location, in the process of removing, from the library, a number of beautifully crafted, yet no doubt harmonically-defunct, musical instruments. I think that there may have been a couple of violins and a guitar, nestled within a somewhat larger array of curios; the sort of items that one almost instinctively 'rescues', before recognising that one's own shelves are already bending under the weight of a gradually accumulating cornucopia of previously acquired objet d'art.

Upon arrival in the school's car park I had already noted the large skip, parked obligingly (or worryingly) adjacent to the premises, and was, thus, anxious to enquire as to the reallocated location for the noted items. I had mistakenly assumed that they might offer an interesting variety of angled plains, shapes, textures, reflected and refracted lightings and shadows for, perhaps the number of budding or interested artists, numbering amongst the school's role. Thus, I was to be further 'enlightened' as to the direction of education today.

Thanks to lokarta

Perhaps I should explain, before you assume that I am in the process of condemning this particular school, that previous visits to this place-of-learning have always given the best of impressions, that the staff are industrious and diligent in the extreme and that the pupils always present as polite and friendly. Not that one should, for one nanosecond, be fooled by such a narrow spectrum of judgement as Ofsted reports or skewed league-tables, but I also know that even these can offer only positive data regarding the school's progress. This school fares well, given the constraints within which it is expected to operate.

Nonetheless, the response to my observations did somewhat take me aback. I was informed that such items were now only seen to be of 'educational use' where they offered direct support to the 'core curriculum'; that unless these consummate objects were able to embellish the 'greater' subjects they were effectively merely taking up valuable space that might otherwise be occupied by Maths or English related support materials. "And, the creative arts?" one might have ventured, but the chosen course was already brightly illuminated, so one did not.

We are undoubtedly educating our children for the markets of tomorrow; thus enabling them to develop the entrepreneurial spirit required of the next generation, to venture out, into the global marketplace and compete for Britain. Common sense! The capitalist's dream! The 'free market. The message from the 'great and mighty' beckons as brightly as the fires within the gates of Hell.

And again, lokarta

Needless to say that, back in the car, meandering back homeward, I actually shed tears. It's just a shame that an enterprising young police officer wasn't able to exploit such compromised driving and create some much-needed revenue, with a well-landed fine of some sort. A factory for Blair-Cameron-Clegg-like clones; the mind almost recoils in horror!

Should we not, just for a planet-and-society-saving second, stand back and spend a few seconds re-analysing the world that we've already created? Really? Satisfied, are we? Honestly?

Counterfeit World

In 1964 Daniel F. Galouye's (sadly) little known masterpiece, 'Counterfeit World' was first published. It is certain, I am sure, that a brief summary here would fail completely, to do anything approaching justice to the great novel. Let it suffice, however, to be written that the plot hinges largely upon the fact that one of it's main characters believes himself to be conducting important research, until the day that something inexplicable happens, causing him to question, thereafter, everything that he has ever believed to be fact.

I cannot recommend it highly enough, not least because it, curiously somehow, appears to allude, allegorically, to a modern day Britain. Obviously, you may be thinking, this cannot be the case, written, as it was, some thirty-eight years ago.

All the same, the parallels, are more than quite remarkable. You really should consider giving it a spin. If nothing else it'll probably reacquaint you with your nearest library, before the Coalition closes it down in order to help fund tax breaks for the very wealthiest in 'our' country.

Special thanks to Vincent van der Pas

It was whilst listening to that curious anomaly, Edward Miliband, that I was given to recall the aforementioned novel. Young Edward was, I think, seeking to impress someone with his 'level-headed' refusal to oppose 4% cuts in certain public sector pay. "Pay cuts before redundancies," was the message, as he climbed comfortably on to that anti-public-sector bandwagon that the Coalition have been joyriding up and down the nation; always a safe bet with the tabloids. "I am not going to change my policy, in the face of threats," he retorted to questioning Union members. Well, certainly not, it would appear, threats from that section of society that he pretends, intermittently, to represent.

"So, how will this 'common sense' stance be affecting your meagre income, Mr Miliband?" I would have been curious to enquire. "Or perhaps your property portfolio?" I might have added, given the opportunity. Where to turn, we, the working classes, might be forgiven for thinking?

Thank you to Jan Tik

So, whilst yet another government bows and scrapes entirely to the demands of the hidden powers of the uber-wealthy, the new face of Labour finally begins to shed its cocoon, transpiring to be the uber-disappointing face of old New Labour. We could wonder if dear old Ed already has one eye on the tax-evading havens of one of his former leaders, the uber-dupicitous Mr Blair. Whatever else we might think of the aspiring ex Prime Minister, he certainly seems to know his way around the tax circuits. His Windrush Empire seems almost immune to the inconveniences of income tax; not so very different, then, from the mathematically astute Mr Osborne.

I think that, even as a child, I had begun to suspect that the likes of the unelected CBI held far more sway over the big decisions of the UK than the media-elected Government. And that was before the demonic spectre of Thatcher had raised its charred and soulless profile. All kneel and chant, "Oh money, we worship all that you may control and will seek to bludgeon all else into subservience."

Do you remember the last Hollywood blockbuster that you watched? No neither do I, probably because, once the glitz and special effects had been stripped away, the memory had so little, in the manner of substance, to hold on to that the film just melted away, like candy-floss upon the tongue.

On the other hand, I enjoyed the original Danish 'The Killing' so much that I sometimes sat and watched three or more episodes on the trot. So enamoured with the drama was I that I even gave the American version a chance. A mistake that was gratefully terminated, less than twenty minutes into episode one, although I suspect that its lack of subtitles probably grossed it a great deal more than its European superior.

There could be no prizes for guessing which version Michael Gove (Education Secretary?) would prefer. His expensive, port-droopy eyes of privilege will be blinded by the zeros. Integrity also must bow down to the profit god; after all 'what point art if it brings not great spoils?' Really? Education Secretary? Seriously?

Thanks to quisnovus

Although, Mr Gove does have one 'valid' point to make, regarding all of those 'teachers' that 'need' to be removed from the system. Who, in all honesty, can seriously argue that teachers who fiddle thousands out of the system and flip their many homes, at the expense of the state, should not be summarily dismissed. Wasters and crooks, every one of them!

At least, over Christmas- 'good will' and all that- we were, occasionally, heartened to witness just a tiny fraction of the good work being undertaken at the behest of some of our highly revered top celebrities; always a good time to lever one's 'underexposed' face back into the media spotlight, isn't it? How, I find, it warms the soul to see the likes of Bono or Sting enlightening us as to some of the immense inequality that is taking place upon the planet. As, I'm almost certain that they are endeavouring to inform us, there is only so much to go round; the world's resources are decidedly not infinite.

How I laughed at the humorous, yet curious, concept of Rio Ferdinand debating with Keira Knightly and other nefarious celebrities, arguing the case over who should be permitted to visit some of the most poverty-stricken spots within the safer countries of the African Continent. If only those who shed their tears, from their custom-built castles in the clouds, could figure out how to solve this growing inequality we'd be half way to some kind of solution. Go on Mr Branson, tell us do, why are there so few islands to go round?

Maybe one day we'll all wake up to discover that 'redundant', just like Morton Lynch, someone from an altogether 'higher' standing has decided it's time to simply switch us off.

The Grand Divide

I've come to consider it somewhat of a duty to attempt to keep abreast of the news. We should, shouldn't we? It's a kind of obligation that goes along with living in a 'democracy', to be aware of what is happening, often supposedly, 'on our behalves'. Otherwise, when we're actually required to 'participate', how will we be able to put our role into some kind of context, upon which we might then act?

That's what I've done, anyway. Perhaps, at first, I didn't use to view reading, watching or listening to the 'news' as something of a duty, because I was just naturally curious as to what was going on in the world, but, regardless of the reasons for beginning to take an interest in regional, national and global affairs, a kind of reciprocal duty is how I have now come to regard this simple interaction with the radio, television and some of 'our' newspapers.

That's not to say that I claim to be able to keep abreast of all that is currently judged to be newsworthy, or that I fully understand the finer points of international currency fluctuations. Things like that, I presume, will never, by covert design, be entirely revealed to minions like me. I suspect that the vast majority of us just glaze over, when somebody with an important-sounding voice informs us that the FTSE is up or down a seemingly-random number of points. And, by the time that these already forgotten points have seeped through to the real world, where they might actually impact upon an aspect of our everyday lives, we no longer make the connections, even though we may harbour more than a niggling suspicion that someone is really to blame.

Thanks to daveblume

Of course, there are also times when things are just too darned depressing to watch- the repeated and most graphic footage of natural disasters, MPs, from within their far more cosy lives, seeking to justify their outrageous greed or English football's latest over-remunerated revelations. At such times my language has been known to blossom into something far more colourful, often to the point where watching the news offers absolutely nothing that might be conceived as beneficial to personal wellbeing, nor helpful to any degree of domestic harmony. So, at such moments, the option of whether to watch or not might have already been wrested from my control.

Oh, so often, when attempting to analyse any 'newsworthy' event, we may stumble upon finer points, secreted within finer points, any of which might seek to lure us down any number of alternative pathways to discussion. But, I ask, entirely for the purpose of continuity, you understand, that we take much of what I have written thus far at face value, just for the present.

Having 'accepted' this dubious premise, do you still, like myself, find yourself, daily, confronted by items with which it is virtually impossible to agree? And, before you nod affirmation- how can you not?- thinking, "We all do that at times," allow me, please, to clarify further. What I mean isn't just that I find myself opposed to certain proffered opinions, arguments and statements; my objections increasingly seem to run so deeply that I can find myself offended by the mere premise of certain political 'discussions', before they have even commenced. 

Seeking to analyse this (let's for the moment refer to it as a) gulf, that serves to separate me from the world in which I reside, I think that I may have hit upon one very significant and major contributor to this chasm. 

There have been more than a couple of reported issues lately, with which I have struggled to get to grips. Indeed I would go as far as to say that I am as certain as it is possible to be that the alluded to issues are (currently) unresolvable, from within our society's 'chosen' political framework. 

For example, let us consider the very recent issue of 'dealing with rioters', perhaps in the extreme circumstances whereby they might be actively seeking to burn inhabited properties, thereby (obviously) accepting that others might die as a consequence of their actions. To shoot or not to shoot? Would you or I, were we armed, actually shoot upon someone who is seeking to burn our home and family?

For my part the answer is, "Absolutely!" if such were the very last resort. Having studied so much footage and comment, relating to recent events, it strikes me that reasoning would have been unlikely to result in anything other than significant injury to the intervener. So, yes, I am as certain as someone who has never so much as held a gun can be, that I would shoot, and might additionally resort to any form of violence that I deemed, in my heightened panicked state,  to be justified.

Thanks to Gideon Tsang

But, would I want to know that Police officers, acting on someone else's orders, could shoot such people? Remember the control that I reluctantly sought is now no longer mine. Is the answer still a rather more reluctant 'yes'? Someone, armed with something akin to a Molotov Cocktail, who might view my (should it happen) heart attack, in the stark reality of their life, as a wallet gaining opportunity, threatening to set my home and family ablaze? Again, priorities scream, "Absolutely, shoot!" But, just pause for thought for a moment; in so doing, might I not also be accepting yet another tweak to a system that is becoming ever more reactive and divided? "Where next?" I might be justified in thinking, as I cradle my vulnerable and recently saved-from-certain-death family.

You see, the real problem, I believe, is that the debate, as it stands, doesn't really have an answer; not the sort of answer that a civilised society should be seeking anyway. And that's because, I would argue, that the questions that really need to be asked at the outset are not (by design) being asked. Ask the right questions first and then the subsequent debate might take on an entirely different, and more pertinent, hue.

Currently, we reside in a country (the UK) where capitalism is king; not just king but some crazily elevated and unchallengeable deity, that nobody- not New Labour, certainly not the Conservatives, not the invertebrate Liberal Democrats, nor any other likely-to-get-elected party- dares nor wants to significantly question. This would be an increasingly laissez-faire system, based upon the simple premise of supply and demand, entirely controlled by those with the biggest wallets. Now, even if we naively accept that successive governments haven't sought to tweak, even further, the gradient of the 'level playing field' upon which we are expected to eek out an existence, in a country where the richest 3% grasp 95% of everything, before we can seek to make any sort of headway we need to address this point. The issue of the great divide is not only highly significant, it is also accelerating away from the poorest and in favour of the richest at an ever more alarming rate, and has been doing so since (I think) 1979. 

Ask yourselves this: If supply and demand (with additional tweaking from the richest, via their pawns in government) really dictates the level at which goods and services are to be made available to the wider public, how is the 'right' price arrived at? Imagine, as a fictitious shop owner, of a fictitious shop, with the freedom to determine your own fictitious retail prices within, that you seek to maximise your profits- a good thing we are constantly being reminded. You would consider, I would imagine, the means by which profits are to be sought, thus the customer and his or her means to pay.

Thanks to Caffeinehit

Now skew this beyond comprehension, by factoring in the range of customer incomes; a very 'hard-earned' £115,000 per week with many taxes avoided, right down to a reluctantly paid £150, with all manner of variables ranged in-between these extremes. Remember that exploiting your fellow human beings is the system under which we currently exist and aspire to thrive, so pitch your prices where you hope they will gain maximum profits.

Supply and demand remember; you wouldn't just give things away to beggars hoping for a free hand-out, so don't be taken in by the sob stories of those who haven't sought quite so hard to climb the employment ladder; make them show you the money before you relinquish your goods. Remember also that if lovely Phil Davies MP has his way the gap could become even wider, so this might also affect your calculations in the future. 

I know it's just a fictitious shop and you, for the purposes of musing this idea, are just pretending to be a shop keeper, but, on the other hand, this is basically the system by which so much of our lives are currently being governed. If you can afford the rail fare in to London, to undertake your job, it's because your income is deemed high enough to permit you to travel, in no way because of your need to travel. When, should it happen, your salary is not enough to afford such luxury as travelling to and from your place of employment it is simply because you are being judged, via your means to pay, as insignificant to the aims of the provider of the train 'service', which is to maximise its profits. 

The same is true of your means to buy or rent a property, your means to afford a holiday, visit a distant or sick relative, eat at a certain restaurant, obtain the right foodstuffs for a healthy lifestyle, heat your home or shack, clothe yourself, travel at all by any means, increasingly your access to adequate health care, ultimately your means to live as a dignified human being. And, if you've noticed this widening gap and every day had your nose rubbed up against the consequences of this gap, would I be right in thinking that you would feel almost ostracised by society, disenfranchised, an almost persecuted minority? Might you, in your anger and almost parallel universe, wish to react somewhat differently to the world around you? 

Now, imagine changing just one thing, in this unequal society. For example bringing the incomes of the top and the bottom earners closer together. Let's imagine bringing them as close as, for example, the top earners never receiving more than twenty times the lowest earners. £150 x 20 = £3000 and who amongst us wouldn't jump at the chance to take home three grand a week? Consider how this might affect the imaginary prices in the imaginary shop. Consider how it might affect the likelihood of rioting taking place in some of our inner cities, or simply your chances of being able to avail yourself of an affordable dentist.

Do you see my point? Maybe we need to change the parameters within which these discussions are being undertaken. Then, maybe, just maybe, the answers that are arrived at will suggest more in the way of genuine solutions and rather less in the way of reactionary responses and further subsequent restrictions upon our freedoms.

Fingers crossed and good luck to everybody as we release those magic balls.

Why does everyone hate Liam Fox?

Does everyone hate Liam Fox? It's certainly a question that dear ol' smiley Liam's been asking. Apparently we're within our rights- what's left of them- to enquire as to exactly what it is that we pay him to do on our behalf, but the poor little man doesn't feel comfortable with the degree of hatred that is being engendered, over his extra-curricular slight of hand.

Do we hate him? Is he right to feel so affronted? And, if we do hate him, could there possibly be any due cause for such extreme emotion?

I'd say that hatred is pretty much rammed up tight, at one end of the emotional spectrum. So, it could be argued that it shouldn't be tossed around quite so freely as is currently the case. I offer, in support of my contention, these thoughts: is Marmite really a deserving recipient for that, heart-felt emotion, hatred, or are we instead debasing the language, simply in order to sell a few more jars of a brown, yeasty substance? Brussel-sprouts, a tad bitter upon the pallet, might leave a bit of an after taste, a difficult odour to immediately dispel from the kitchen; but, on the other hand, pretty good with roast potatoes, served with the protein of your choice of a winter Sunday afternoon. Should they not be to your particular taste, hatred is not really the appropriate default emotion, is it? Dislike is surely as extreme as it ever needs to get.

General Pinochet, frail, doddery old man, who had a predilection for draping himself in medals that really didn't belong anywhere near him- misguided, maybe in need of some sort of care? But add to the equation the fact that he embraced the role of spiteful dictator, under whose rule thousands of innocent Chilean people were systematically slaughtered, and the choice becomes instantly far more clear. Probably, everything considered, hatred is the very best- perhaps the only- emotion upon which to draw. Only another tyrant, shackled with his or her own blackened soul, could even pretend to feel any other way about such a monster. Hatred simply has to be the sane choice.

Should consequent death lessen the degree of hatred? Well, I suppose that might depend upon whether you read the Daily Mail, or whether large numbers of your own family featured amongst the thousands who simply disappeared. I, for one, am quite comfortable with my choice.

Thank you wstera2

In order to develop any sort of emotional response regarding Liam Fox we'd first have to look at the sort of stance that he has taken up in our society. We could choose to factor in that, "shared burden," bullshit that Cameron puked out just a short while back.

Examples might include, Bed-blocking and the newly christened idea of Empty-nest Homes. This being the contention that some of our older generation are essentially living in homes that are far too large for them, with several, sometimes un-brim-full,  rooms that might otherwise be occupied by larger families. On the one hand, and as a purely mathematical exercise- beans and jam jars- this might even work. On the other hand, how will it be affecting those who are to be displaced? Perhaps more pertinent to the 'Liam Fox argument', how will this process be affecting those who are keenest to push forward the idea? If the answer is, 'not one iota,' then, I would suggest that this is another point against Mr Fox.

Interestingly (and typically disingenuously), the Daily Mail refers to the hypocritical bigot behind the idea as left-leaning. In reality, and in his defence, I'm sure that Angus Hanton is just one of several very, very rich people, with a vice-like grip when it comes to any form of sharing, who is thus not in the slightest bit leftward-leaning. "Do as I say, not as I do," I think sums up this sort of 'much heralded wisdom' from the well-to-do, on the extreme right.

A second point, again referring back to the somewhat clouded, 'we're all in this together,' government contention, might be the issue of income taxes, and who pays what. Remember that Mr Fox is an active part of this coalition drive. Now, I haven't even bothered to research Mr Fox's position, but I am confident in my contention that he has yet to question his own chancellor regarding the man's tax status. And the evidence suggesting that Osbourne doesn't pay taxes quite like the rest of us is about as irrefutable as it gets. Maybe this is a second point against the 'respect Mr Fox' argument.

Highly pertinent in the, 'are there enough homes to go round?' aside, might be the second, third, fourth or fifth, home ownership issue. Where do Mr Fox and his cabinet colleagues stand on this prickly subject?

For my own part, I have just the one home, acquired through a quarter of a century of accumulated interest payments. Well, it would be just plain greedy having any more, wouldn't it? A mortgage taken out when a home cost roughly what one would expect to pay for, say, a home, before the so-called investment buyers chose to routinely excrete upon the rest of us. Thanks for that, and a special thanks must also go to the BBC, working its little socks off to reignite that outrageous property prices boom, by ramming the market down our throats throughout the day, every day.

Special thanks to Michel Banabila

There had been a time when I was left with little choice other than to rent. And when I say "rent" I mean rent at a price whereby I was still able to afford the 'luxury' of food and heating; always a bonus at the end of the week. There was even a means, all of those years ago, by which one could ensure that the rent was fair, but I'm guessing that this secret little sanctuary has long-since been well and truly knobbled, by our lords and masters. Can't have that old spanner, 'fairness', interfering with such a vital thing as market forces, can we?

With this in mind, let's ponder a moment upon the idea of a cut in housing benefits; another change that Mr Fox seems more than happy to endorse. As I understand it, we are currently in the process of asking the poorest in our society to choose between:
a) Making up the grossly overpriced rent, out of money that might otherwise have been put aside for the purposes of eating, or
b) Being evicted and ending up in an even more cramped and poorly heated box room, or possibly just out on the street.
Let's hope that Mr Fox and his millionaire buddies are ahead of the game, in not permitting these individuals to adversely affect the official unemployment figures. Another point against, we might argue?

So, I would say that, on the whole, there are probably more reasons to dislike (and the extreme end of this stance would necessarily include 'hate') than to like Mr Fox. You see, for me, the recent shenanigans regarding Mr Werrity are almost entirely irrelevant; what real difference is one more alleged crook going to make to the smooth running of the UK gravy train? I was already more than comfortable with my emotional stance regarding Mr Fox, long,long before this particular issue raised its ugly little head.

Whether it's hatred or just a passionate dislike- the good thing is Mr Fox- that at least we're engaging in the political process, in just about the only way we're still permitted to, by despising everything that you stand for. Isn't that all part of being in a democracy?

Should we ever stumble upon such an unlikely happenstance of living in an actual democracy, then I'll let you know.

Bye, for now, and don't forget to wrap up warm.

Don't Lose Your Right to Vote.

There it was, almost snuggled, amongst the usual array of rising bills, advertising paraphernalia and plastic bags requiring discarded clothes for the recently made homeless; another government endorsed misinformation letter. "Don't Lose Your Right to Vote," was emblazoned across the front of the envelope. I would imagine that, far and wide, the length and breadth of this 'fine' country, similar (essentially junk) mail is currently landing upon countless doormats.

Thanks to stuartpilbrow

As I recall, graphic accompaniment used to take the form of a concerned young man, whose mouth had been replaced by a closed zip. Powerful stuff! And right he was, to look so concerned. I couldn't swear to it but, I have been led to believe, that the presence of the young man's image was recently challenged in the high courts, when it was, I am reliably informed, successfully argued that the voters' mouths had effectively been zipped for rather longer than was deemed healthy for a genuinely aspiring democracy.

Having wasted far too much time communicating with 'my own' MP, it pains me to contend that the cause has most definitely been so thoroughly lost as to be decades beyond farce. Maybe you believe yourself to be slightly more fortunate than myself, in not having a stuffed jacket as your MP- truly, a dead office plant with a blue rosette could have been elected here- but I would urge you to notice that its still pretty much the same precipitated excrement raining down in your neck of the woods.

Ask yourself this: "If everybody I know feels the same way about parliamentary expenses and bankers' bonuses, why is it that a general election appears not to have changed a thing?" I will tentatively venture that, should your vote ever come to represent such overdue possible change, then it will be so swiftly removed as to leave burns upon fingertips. Thus, it really doesn't matter whether you vote, just can't be bothered or already (and correctly) don't see the point, because your vote has long since been completely nullified. It's your (so called) Council Tax that they're after, you fools.

Much thanks to shakestercody

Here's a thought: maybe, if all of the powerless masses completely boycott the next general election, thus removing the last vestiges of pretended accountability, something far more useful will grow to fill the vacuum. If the vacuum is already there, why not acknowledge it as such and see what happens? Just a thought.

The 'free' press will undoubtedly rush to concoct a cover story; what else would we expect from those millionaire's play things. The police and the army will, quite naturally, be entrusted with the 'keeping of the peace', until an alternative is safely in place. Maybe there will be an emergency coalition, just until order is restored you understand; a 'benevolent dictatorship', of some sort or other, I would imagine. And who better to administer this stop-gap government than those with the experience to keep it running smoothly?

Christ! Now I'm really beginning to scare myself! Pass the arsenic, someone...