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Stan
I don't have an answer either. But I can think of something that would help.
Our biggest problem is that people are stupid. They are stupid because they are mis informed. They are mis informed because the media is corrupted beyond salvation. The media is corrupted beyond salvation because its the cheapest way to make a fast buck and for big money and for our political elites to stay in complete control over our minds.
Therefore the MEDIA is the key to making democracy work for the benefit of the people.
Question is how do we transform the media?
Not easy but easier then it may at first seem.
The internet helps but is also in itself often counter productive.
The best place to start is the BBC. Firstly it must be shown up for what it really is.
However much the BBC tries to pretend otherwise it is an instrument of the British establishment and the corporate powers that control it.
The organization cares nothing for truth and even less for the well being of the British people.
THE BBC MUST BE DESTROYED as it is currently structured because it is more then dangerous, it is entirely evil. Whats worse is, it spreads its clever fascist propaganda around the entire planet.
The worlds people need the TRUTH not deliberately devised divisive right and left wing bullshit. The truth is even more so, not in the middle either.
The TRUTH is LOVE.
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Mr Atlas Shrugged
Not always but often, as on this occasion, think you are daemon mind-reader. Yes, Truth, that's what I was saying.
Amen
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Dear Dr Monygham
"dr monygham said...
Stan,
It is too late. We've entered a new totalitariasm that will forever enforce the utter fuckupedness of thinking that has made it possible in the first place."
Stanislav not quibble with one word of that. But do you include yourself in this happy band, those too fucked-up to think straight ? Unless you exclude from them at least yourself and Stanislav, there is no point in attempting a dialogue is there?
On the other hand, fuck it. Stanislav off now, anyway, down Tapas bar with few responsible professional very close friends of great integrity and utterly honest bastards wouldn't never do anything wrong, not fucking ever, is fucking plumbers for God's sake. Have a couple of moderate, relaxing drink. Maybe bit of Bible-study*
* Translation, from Book of Stan. Going out to get pissed-up with mates down pub and leave infants fend for selves. Is absolute utmost responsible thing ever, deserve good parenting award off Michael Jackson. Really. Every other fucker do it. Go on piss and abandon baby.
Oh, whoops, fuck me, look, baby is gone. Well I never. Who woulda believed it ? Just fucking leave baby alone for few hours and fuck me, baby is gone. Is all clearly in-fucking-credible. As most responsible Dad ever first thing is phone PR company and copyright baby image, fix book deal and get agent for film and tv rights. Obvious. innit. And second thing is phone to transexual friend Krusty Wark off BBC to have quick word with prime minister. And third thing, maybe fourth then is sober-up a bit and phone unhelpful Dago bastards of police and ednure unhelpful question.
And then is get everybody out in hunt for baby. Only not me. Is fucking talk to Pope about baby, He is fucking expert on children. And, just remembered, me and Mrs, Cilla, is big Pope-ites. Go every fucking week. Not put anyone in jail who know Pope, eh, Mr Blair?
And go off in Washington to head up international nonce-busting task force while Mrs, Cilla, set up foundation teach dopy cunt how to be responsible parent.
Maybe baby is in Morrocco, go and take a butcher's down there but too busy with tv crews to do any real deep looking. Best thing is other people do looking. Fucking devils these Ayrabs, steal baby off pisshead at first opporunity. Make few appearances for charity which I own with Mrs and brother.
Fuck me is so knackered have to put plump sister (plump like fucking whale) in charge of daytime tv. Sister is eminent expert on Dago juisprudence, on forensic science and on frying fish and chips in day job. whenever anyone says anything wrong sister go on tv with Fiona Phillips and say is all bollocks, trust me, I is expert, want salt 'n' vinegar ?
And whole country go Ah, bless. Could happen to anyone, eh. Just leave baby all alone for hours and all this shit happens. Here, have some money off everybody and pay mortgage and have some nice clothes for tv career.
Is this what you mean, Dr Monygham, by the new totalitarianism; people peddling any old shit, and other people believing it?
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In Scotch Sunday Brown Herald is piece written by boy on work experience about John Reid's peaceful war in Afghanistan where nobody get killed apart from few score of worthless squaddie, would only be on dole anyway. Brigadier General Jockstrap says lads is all bedding down nicely with local fuzzy-wuzzy Afghani Army, apart from cloud of hashish come from Fuzzy tents and British Troops, Doing Magnificent Job, not like hash too much. Honest, not invent.
Brigadier Rupert Jockstrap-Golightly says his men are there to teach the Fuzzies best way of kill other Fuzzy bastards, the Talimen . It's reet good, says fusilier Bolam, them fuzzy lads, them can spot a Taliman at a hundred fuckin' metre, but to the lads in the platoon like, one fuzzy looks just like another fuzzy, so its reet helpful to know which o the bastards we'm meant to be shooting at, ken. Reet good shit they smoke though, cannae get that fucking black shit on Tyneside, nail yer fuckin' head to the floor bonny lad. Sometimes me an me mates can''t be arsed, like, wi' all this fucking shooting and fucking RPGs and shit like that. Not when we'se can squat doon and get fucking wrecked big time. Who wants to be bothered wi' all that shit. The fucking noise is evil, man, and if you cop one o they fucking RPGs up the arse ye'll no' be eating any more fucking Baltis.
Brigadier Jockstrap-Golightly- Featheringstome said that things had got much better since (honest to God) Gordon Brown's policy of "winning hearts and minds" in FuzzyWorld had taken hold. No Shit, said the Brigadier, is like fucking Woodstock round here these days. Aye, its that good shit, agreed fusilier Bolam, ye cannae beat it fer bringing folk together, hey, Brigadier, have ye taken oot a fucking mortgage on that spliff, or what; come on sir, play the fucking white man. Shall I roll another one, sir?
Given the success of Mr Brown's hearts and minds policy here at home in the UK, we all better get down on our fucking knees and pray that the mad fucking snot-eating bastard doesn't now go and try it out in Pakistan, now that Ms Bhutto is off down the river. They got fucking nuclear bombs in Pakistan. And twenty tribes of nutters all itching to get hold of them. For fuck's sake don't let that cunt or that useless fucking idiot Milliband anywhere near the place.
Look like happy new year in state department and foreign office. Any more troops left? Or is all down to Admiral Liberace Bendover and Royal Navy to invade Pakistan. Win hearts and fucking minds.
Christmas Jive Talk
Great Polish musician, Mr Handel, like Stanislav, was a European who made his home in the UK -although not in Scotland, best part of England - writing music for an educated and enthusiastic audience and patronised by the Hanoverian Royal family.
Premiered in the gracious city of Dublin in the eighteenth century, Mr Handel's major opus, The Plumber, deals with the birth, the life and hard times and the eventual murder and resurrection of a young itinerant artisan and preacher. For Unto Us A Plumber Is Born; Worthy Is The Plumber That Was Slain; I Know that My Plumber Liveth, The Trumpet Shall Sound And the Toilet Fix-ed Shall Be are just some of the parts loved and performed all over the world to this day.
Scathing about the Blairite-Ratzinger doctrine - that it doesn't matter how wickedly one behaves, how much of a thieving repellent bastard one is, there is always some poor plumber, who, by him -and not them- being despised and tortured and nailed up on a tree, absolves the most criminal of their sins, indeed permits them further malevolence, fashioning their wickedness on man and mother and child - Handel’s Plumber, tracks the cruel infamy of the ruling class, the parasite bureaucracy, the worthless, predatory, sermonizing priesthood and the penny-a-parchment scribes, exploiting for their masters the malleability of readers of the Hanoverian Sun-Guardian.
Ultimately, though, it is revealed that The Plumber can, in fact, in a spiritual way, clean up the shit, shoulder the guilt of Everyman, but only if Everyman puts his hands up to it. The Plumber says My yoke is Easy, mate, and my burden is light, but don't give me none of that I could never do anything wrong shit, ya fucking creepy little bastard. Is me , mate, they call the King of Glory, not you.
Behold, I show you a mystery. No use dealing with the Devil and calling on the Plumber to keep your arse out of Hell. No use spending your nights in prayer and your days in shameless larceny and slaughter foul. The Plumber's instruction was love thy neighbour as thyself, even - especially - those defenceless, little roasted Iraqi babies, and not, as you interpret it: Love thyself and shit, grinning, in everyone’s face. Come the Day, there'll be some heavy shit coming down on your pointed little head; Plumber's old man not lightly mocked, not by some cheesy little cunt like you. No use pleading for mercy while crewcut, psychobastard waterboarding Mormons from the CIA dispenseth it not. Lady Sir Michael Kneepads White's good opinion of you counts for nothing where I come from, Sweetheart. Plumber hope you can stand things hot. Fucking roasting hot.
The choruses from Handel's Plumber are particularly familiar, the whole world knows and loves the chorus, Hallelujah, The Plumber Has Arrived, King George himself leaping to his feet on first hearing it performed, yelling, This Hallelujah, The Plumber Is Here, Motherfuckers, this is far out. Too fucking much, get up off your poxed-up arses, loyal subjects, and give George Friedrich some respec', innit.
And to this day the opening notes of Hallelujah, The Plumber Is Arrived, bring audiences to their feet. Sat at computer, Stanislav listen on Windows Media and still jump up in fucking air and stand in attention. And Stanislav is atheist and fucking anarchist.
But anyway. The final chorus in The Plumber is the best thing ever; consists of one word, over and over again, endlessly refreshed, restated, building, decaying, building again, voices and instruments all over the place but tethered at the limits of what the listener can amalgamate. Thundering basses, soaring sopranos and everything in between sing in mad, divine counterpoint, before a heavenly juggernaut of a full orchestral scoring, by turns sombre, joyful, reflective, quizzical, melancholy, martial. Just when you think there's nowhere else for this one word to be taken to it jumps to another continent of emotion and then another, its mighty crescendo suspended in the echo of God's harmonies before crashing, comfortingly, reassuringly to Earth, and then, once more, just to make sure.
The single word, of course, stretched and bent by a hundred voices, amplified and underscored by a hundred instruments is the last of all last words, Amen. They say it over you. When you’re dead
In Egyptian, Greek, Hebrew and Latin Amen is affirmatory of what has been said and means: good shit, so be it, finally, in truth. A modern equivalent to Amen would be Right on; It’s a wrap; Job done; Job’s a good un, or, I agree with what everyone else on the panel has said. But as Mr Handel made clear, the Amen moment - a declaration of final accomplishment, that through sin and guilt and struggle and redemption we come to the triumph of Good over Evil - is not arrived at without going through a whole shitstorm of grief. And, by Christ, that’s what we are in.
Never, in these islands, did a fouler, rottener bunch spread their canker into every corner of our lives. We live in a wilderness of mirrors and spin, lied to, stolen from, barracked, hectored, cajoled and bullied by the vilest most obnoxious creatures. What a fucking crew. The unspeakable cunt Blunkett, just for instance, just for instance; the shameless BBC claiming tonight that, after just a few short months of Peacemaker Blair being on the case, the Bethlehem tourist business is rocketing. Honest, not invent.
There may come a time when through relentless exposure, scorn ridicule, mockery and unsubtle downright kick-in-the-balls personal abuse we unseat the Horsemen of the Apocalypse - for that is what these criminals are. Terrorism and global warming are just further whips and spurs to our eventually unquestioning obedience. Or so they think.
We must resist at every opportunity, we must chide and chastise them and bring them to court, we must expose for ourselves -for the press won’t - their personal venality. If they plunder us further in their salary claim we must take to the streets. If ever we could, we can no longer rely on politicians’ self-policing, nor on lobby correspondents' scrutiny, desperate, in mutual admiration awards ceremonies, for lip zipped access; all pimps and charlatans, haunting the same dingy brothel.
No, Smite them with a rod of iron. It is only by our own trials, our constant resistance, that we may, one day, be able to say Job done, Job’s a good un, That’s them sorted, Done and Dusted. Amen.
Happy Christmas off Stan
11:58 AM, December 25, 2007