Give 16 year olds the vote- Later.

Since Alex Salmond announced that 16 and 17 year olds would be allowed to vote in the Scottish Independence referendum, there has been some sort of media frenzy; one drop of blood spills from a story into the waters of the press, and there's a sudden frothing and foaming as people spew their thoughts hither and yon. But enough of that laboured metaphor which, honestly, could be applied to anything. A story breaks, people report it. I feel bad for writing that now. I guess it just sounded good at the time.

Anyway, there has been a surprising amount of support for Salmond, with many (even the Times) feeling that the voting age should be dropped by two years for all manner of elections. The general line of argument is repeated enough that I don't have to spell it out here: they can pay taxes, have all these rights and responsibilities, and so on and so forth. And, on balance, I find myself agreeing with this.

Except for one thing.
We're not ready.

I say 'we're'; as of December, I too will be able to rob whichever monkey has a blue rosette pinned to it of one vote in their majority in Mid Worcestershire. Take that, Cameron! Anyway, by 'we' I mean the cohort of 16 and 17 year olds of which I am, for a couple of months, still a member (past that, I dare say senility will strike, and my hairline will recede to be replaced by cynicism, a bad back and a burning desire to think about mortgages). And by 'not ready', I don't necessarily mean it in the patronising 'not mature enough' sense, although the mock election my politics set ran last year, where year 11 swept Nick Griffin to a landslide victory, may beg to differ. How much of this was genuine belief, though, and how much down to the hilarious prank of 'let's support the BNP' (because, you know, voting for them is, like, the funniest thing ever) is another question.

No. We're not ready largely because we have not been prepared. 4 years of Citizenship at high school. Three hours of political education. One of which was spent watching Eastenders, one of which was inventing a party and then holding a little election (the Fun Communists won, mostly due to a rigged ballot. I should know. I rigged it. Although, to paraphrase Blackadder, the 50 or so votes they won in a class of 30 just proves the conviction with which people voted). People tend to complain that teenagers know little of, and show little appreciation for, politics. Well, maybe if more of an effort were made to teach them, to engage with them, than that needn't be a concern. It's absolutely true that teenagers don't perhaps know enough about politics to vote at the moment (but then, it could be argued, have adults been taught any more?). But this isn't sufficient reason to say that they should never be given the vote.

Take it to the system. Get people interested, or at least educated, in politics from a younger age. Develop a more politically mature generation. When society has provided the tools to make it worthwhile, then 16 year olds should be given the vote.

Happy Birthday to Me (Blog)

So. This blog is now a year old.
As befits its birthday (<inset quibble here about blogs not technically being born>. Tough. Mine was. Deal with it), you'd expect some kind of magnum opus to be churned out. A provocative, witty, persuasive, hilarious argument or observation that will blow your socks off.

Good luck finding that.

My back hurts and I can't, frankly, be bothered to celebrate this. So here's a link to an amusing tumblr account.
http://tragedyseries.tumblr.com/

Bah

Blogger has changed.
It has changed the dashboard.
It has changed the look behind the scenes.
It has changed the way you do a new post.

It has changed, and it did not ask me first.


Bah.

Okay, let me make on thing clear. I do not object unreservedly to change in itself (nor do I mean this in the 'I'm not racist, but I do think it's okay to burn crosses while wearing a pointy white hood' sense). Change is all right; it's manageable. But, and here's the key thing, only when it's actually for the better.

Got that, Blogger? Got that, Tesco? Got that, whatever else changes whenever the hell it feels like it without offering a suitable, compelling reason?

I had just got my head around the Blogger system, and was starting to feel comfortable with it. I was perfectly content. But now, presumably with the idea that changing something automatically improves it regardless of what has been changed, it's all gone wrong. Suddenly, I feel ignorant and confused and bewildered and just a little bit scared.

I shall repeat. Bah.

Slang Ahoy!

There's a growing emphasis for many young people about the need to be 'street' (look it up; can't be bothered to explain it right now). However, I can't quite escape the fact that this is inappropriate for that sorely neglected group, the middle classes. They don't want to be seen playing loud hippety-hop in ripped (the tears make them worth more. Duh) clothes. No. It is time for the ground-breaking entrance of a new sub-culture. It is now the era of people proudly wearing fair-trade beanies and pronouncing themselves as 'Avenue'.

• A common initiation for those wishing to be avenue is the peddling of chilli peppers on the streets. For many, it's Scotch or nothing; none of that weak, cut rubbish.
• Many wouldn't dream of being caught outside without the latest clothes from the sales racks at Next and Boden. A serious negation of Avenue Credibility ('Av Cred') could be at stake.
• A popular past time is walking down the streets, bouncing a tennis ball with a racket on the ground, with Coldplay blasting (quietly) from a small speaker.

And now I've run out of steam.

I knew it was too good to last

"Waterloo. Couldn't escape if I wanted to."- Confucius

Hubris, it would seem, is the downfall of us all. Whether it is a slow and steady walk up to the top of Mount Giantegohead, or a quick trip on the ski lift, sooner or later we will all come crashing down.

It can happen in small ways. The other day, I got the hiccoughs. Not too unusual. I tried to cure them with my own patented method, and it seemed to work. Remarking "See, hiccoughs are really very easy to cure", I was later cursèd with another two bouts of funny squeaky noises.

That was manageable. This plight, however, is not.

Latvians, wherefore have thou forsaken me?

Was my humble Google Translate offering not enough? Did it even turn you against me?

Whatever it was, I am truly sorry.

For those of you who can't read my stats page (and that should, theoretically, be everyone but me. If you can read it, aren't there more important things to hack? Presumably someone is constantly hacking the Daily Mail website, or else there wouldn't be the continuous stream of semi-digested bile and half truths that passes for journalism there), Having gone from a peak of 45 Latvians visiting this esteemed website, a large number of them in one week, I have somehow managed to fall to 44 Latvians having visited it. Someone hated it so much, they travelled back in time to prevent themselves ever reading it in the first place. But, hey. I got arrogant. Almost 50 people from one country read my stuff, so I naturally assumed I was now some kind of celebrity god figure. It seemed like a logical conclusion. And then they abandoned me...

Touché, Latvia.

Attempt at Economics

I will just clarify now. I am not, have never been, and probably will never be, an economics person. A lot of the complicated stuff goes right over my head. However, below are just a couple of musings of mine which I'm fairly sure make at least some sense. If they're completely off the mark, then oh well. On with the show.

The Paradox of the Free Market
It's something beloved by Americans, Thatcherites (irrelevant, but Google Chrome's spell checker suggests 'Thatcherites' should be 'hesitater'. Biting satire there from Google Chrome) and Pinochetians (which, as far as Google Chrome is concerned, just shouldn't exist). But is this fabled 'Free Marker' actually possible? Can it exist? (There's the crux; 'can', not 'should'. I've nothing against the market, per se; not without its flaws, of course, but anywhoo. That's another debate for another day.)

The problem is, as far as I can tell, that there seem to be two different definitions as too what constitutes a free market:
1) A market free from government regulation and influence, where pure capitalism takes centre-stage
2) An economic environment wherein one is free to compete and potentially prosper.
And the way I see it, these two are mutually exclusive ideas. Only something that combined the two would truly be a 'free market', in my opinion, yet such a scenario is impossible.

Allow me to demonstrate with the aid of soup. In this free market, government would take a back seat and everyone who wanted to make soup would have a fair chance at doing that and making a living out of it.

However, without the government, a few soup empires will rise to the top and crush all opposition. No room for the small soup merchant here; oh no. Huge business has a stranglehold on the market; ergo, it is not truly 'free'. Free suggests the freedom to compete, and this clearly isn't here.

On the reverse side, though, if there is to be competition, then businesses have to be kept artificially small, or at least restricted on where and to what extent they can pop up. This calls for Big Daddy State to step into the ring and make sure everyone is playing nicely. Hello government; goodbye free market.

Why Raising Tax Makes More Sense
Obviously, in an ideal world, we'd pay no tax. All the many services that people want and require would mystically find some sort of  easy, everlasting funding; the nuclear fusion of the public sector. As it is, if people want to live, they have to cough up a bit of money to the government. We can agree, hopefully, that this is basically acceptable, unless you're the cold hearted person who doesn't mind the old dear across the road croaking because you wanted a new box-set of Friends.

As it is, about 29 million in the UK pay income tax, which is the broad supply of funding for government spending. Raising or lowering this amount is a contentious issue. Using the complex science of 'Big Numbers', I will try to argue why raising tax makes far more sense than cutting it.

Basically, the science of 'Big Numbers' suggests that 29 million is quite a big number; in terms of pound sterling, at any rate. Conversely, 1 is quite a little number. Following? I should hope so. Anyway, 29 million people across the country are unlikely to notice, or be hugely affected either way, by a change of £1 (approximately 5 Freddo Bars, or a teeny-weeny-eeny chunk of the Swedish Forests). Raising tax by £1 per person, or even a little bit more, is unlikely to cripple households. They may have to go a week with a slightly less posh bag of crisps. But to the state, £29,000,000 is really quite useful, and can be spent on whatever needs £29,000,000, or even double that, should people be forced to fork out an extra £2 rather than 1.

Now, flip this scenario (I mean reverse; not the very polite, middle-class curse. Oh, flip this flipping scenario!), and apply the same figures to lowering taxes. Families up and down the nation aren't going to jump up and down for joy because the Chancellor has made them £1 or £2 better off each year. And The £29 million or £58 million loss of revenue for the state is going to hurt. For tax lowering to actually be useful and worthwhile, they need to be really quite big. And this just puts a drain on the country as a whole's income.


There. I hope that wasn't to banal, inane, or wrong. If you would like to learn more about the science of 'Big Numbers', then pick up your nearest calculator and press 9 until your finger starts bleeding.

An Idea (gasp!)

This will be quite short, as it's only a little idea, and I'm writing it down in the twelve minutes before University Challenge (priorities, people). It is also unlikely to be taken seriously, as it concerns constitutional reform, a subject that the government can never find time for when there's any slight possibility that it will make the Lib Dems happy (for happy, read 'not soul crushingly miserable'), while suddenly becoming a top idea when it will conveniently happen to rig the next election for the Tories.

Anyway, that's two of my twelve minutes gone, so I'll be brief; though, I'm sure that you have all the time in the world for constitutional reform, it being such a thrilling subject ("All right, Li'l Eric, what story do you want to be read for bedtime?" "Oooh, ooh! Tell me the one about the 2011 AV campaigns, Daddy!")

My idea is a small, yet I think, important one. Secret ballot for MPs. It worked, in a way, for Thatcher (and I'll wait now for the red to dissipate from the left-wing's eyes) and the unions. MPs are, frankly, too easy to bully, bribe and cajole into voting a particular way, whether the bullying, bribing and cajoling is done by governmental whips or outside interests. As such, it is really very, very easy for the government to pass any legislation that they want by threatening or tantalising their cohorts. It's at this point that Li'l Eric should gasp, and shout "But Daddy! That's not very democratic! And it's a feeble way to hold the executive to account in an institution wherein Parliament should be sovereign."

Damn straight, Li'l Eric.

As I said, it may just be a small change. But I do feel it can do little harm, and possibly a lot of good, for our legislative process to be voted on without whips breathing down our MPs' backs. Give 'em a chance to decide by their own accord. Gone are the days when the electorate would stand in a huddle and raise their hands for Fusty Manythugs the Tory or Oilward Bribethelot the Whig under great duress. Perhaps Parliament should catch up with the times.

And all that, with two minutes to spare. Fantastic.

Sveiki Latvija!

Tātad, es tikko uzzināju, ka pagājušajā mēnesī, man bija četrdesmit trīs apmeklējumus no Latvijas šajā blogā. Es nezinu, vai tas ir tas pats cilvēks, vai es esmu tikai pēkšņi padarot to liels Austrumeiropā (panta jums ir jāsāk kaut, es domāju). Tātad, ja tu esi latviešu, un vēlos, lai mani karalis vai kaut ko, tad atstājiet man komentēt. Vai varbūt kādu naudu.
Ak, un žēl, ja tas ir šausmīgs latviešu gramatiku. Es zinu tikai tik daudz latviešu kā Google Translate.


So, I just found out that over the past month, I have had forty-three visits from Latvia on this blog. I don't know whether this is the same person, or whether I am just suddenly making it big in Eastern Europe (you have to start somewhere, I suppose). So, if you're Latvian, and want to make me King or something, then just leave me a comment. Or maybe some money.
Oh, and sorry if this is awful Latvian grammar. I only know as much Latvian as Google Translate.

As testament to Google Translate's poor... translating, here's the English version again after it was translated into Latvian (allegedly) and then back into English:

So, I just learned that last month, I was forty-three visits of Latvian in this blog. I do not know if it is the same man, or am I just suddenly making it big in Eastern Europe Article you have to start somewhere, I think). So if you're Latvian, and I want to make me king or something, then leave me a comment. Or maybe some cash.
Oh, and sorry if this is a terrible Latvian grammar. I only know so much Latvian as Google Translate.

Marvellous work, Google.

Defiance

It happened, as these things usually do, in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was for the fear factor, to strike a blow against thoughts of speaking out when people are at their most vulnerable. Perhaps it was to lend that air of sinister mystery. Perhaps it was because jackbooted goons burn easily in the day and sunscreen is too expensive to buy in bulk.

Whatever their motive, it was inevitable that they would come, eventually. Oh, you could hold out for a while, maybe to the point where you thought you had beaten they system. But that’s not how it works. Not now, not ever. It always starts the same way. A collection of small, seemingly trivial things build up. And then the anger grows, and it froths, and it boils, and it spills over, until, ultimately, you stand up to the regime and the regime pushes you backwards so you fall over another conveniently placed part of said regime that is crouching behind you.

So when they arrived, I wasn’t really surprised. From the moment I began, I suppose I was always resigned to my eventual failure. Still, a man can dream.

A man can dream.

***************

It began, as angst-filled flashbacks usually do, in the past. It was a hot day in The Glorious Summer, and I was walking through the packed streets of The Capital. My eyes had never really been opened to the atrocities of The Organisation before; I knew that they disliked free speech, but I had never presumed it was to the extent that it would appear they did. They were bizarre, in a way. The symbol on the side of a van, doors ready and open for the screaming man who was being led towards it, was apparently omnipresent. They said it was meant to be. But woe betide you if you didn’t get permission first. The Organisation was very... particular about that. Their reasoning was, as ever, vague and unenlightening. Some spiel about ‘proper interests’ and ‘economic implications’. It was the same with other symbols, as well as words and phrases. They were all in favour of their name being spread –how could the ignorant be ruled, after all?– but only by the right people, lest the ideas they coveted be slighted and smeared. This was apparently what the man, who had been running a market stall, had done. ‘Undue permission’ was what the uniformed men had said as they dragged the offender away. Some more smashed up the stall, and confiscated the wares. Soon, they were gone, leaving little trace behind. I sometimes wondered if these were faux raids, pre-planned to instil fear and obedience. The despairing face, streaked with tears, threw this into doubt.

Seemingly, not a day went by where there wasn’t another such event recorded. A deli here, a hair salon there. Some of the big companies, of course, laughed smugly at all this. Others gritted their teeth with resentment. But there was little they could do. The Organisation had government backing. At times, it seemed they were the government. Hell, there was little anyone could do. You could conform or confront. But only one of those options guaranteed safety.

I don’t fully know why I did it, in the end. I guess the endless reports wore down my indifference. The Glorious Summer had recently turned sour as the heavens opened. Anger seemed to grow, both for those in The Organisation and those against it. ‘Pre-emptive detentions’ suddenly rocketed in number; all those who may have caused trouble for the Event, which grew ever closer, were detained. Better safe than sorry, they said. I guess that was really the last straw.

One day, open rejection of The Organisation’s policy seemed the only option. I walked to work eating unofficial chips, drinking unofficial soft drinks. I marvelled at their speed; it was barely ten minutes before a black car seemed permanently within 100 metres. Well, I say permanently. I own a small café, with one of those blackboard menus outside. I dared, that morning, to write some of the forbidden words on that menu for all to see. For all to be inspired by. Shortly after, the black car sped away. And, for the time being, that was the end of it.

That night, I packed a small bag containing some essential belongings, some changes of clothes, all that jazz. I put some food in the fish bowl. Left a note for the milkman. It wouldn’t be long.

***************

“What makes you think you can flout the rules so publicly, Mr Foster? They’re there for a reason, you know.”

I raised a finger. “Uh! Can’t use my name without permission” I said, with what I thought was a wry smile. For some unknown reason, I thought a little (attempt at) humour wouldn’t go amiss. Now, I’m not great at reading emotions, but from what I could gather from the way they pummelled me, the goons thought otherwise.

The relentless beating must have worn me out, because I soon found myself asleep, and the next thing I knew I was tied to a chair in some dank and damp grey room. A couple of thugs –they may have been the same ones; they all seemed largely interchangeable– were in the room, as was a man in a suit. He wore a gold watch and an irritable expression.

“Mr Foster,” I thought about repeating the gag, but for some reason my swollen mouth couldn’t quite bring itself to utter the words. “Do you know exactly what you are trifling with?”

“If I did, would I be allowed to say so?” Mistake. Beatings were lashed out again.

“I suppose concessions can be made, occasionally. You seem so intent on treasuring this ‘free speech’ business. Quite why, I couldn’t begin to even hazard an answer.”

I shrugged. “Got to have something to do.” I swallowed, painfully. “I can name you now, if you like.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And where exactly would that get you?” The goons cracked their knuckles.

I looked down, and blinked. Where would it get me? “Defiance starts with small steps,” I mumbled.

The man laughed. “Very well, then. Name us.” The thugs took a step towards me. “Name us! Sully the air with words that you are not fit to utter!”

I took a deep breath. I raised my head with an aching neck, looked out through puffy, swollen eyes, and spoke through a mouth filled with blood. “I name you,” I coughed.

“I name you... LOCOG.”

The Real Concern With Lords Reform

I'll put it out there. An unelected law making chamber is an undemocratic abomination that should be purged without remorse or concern with overly hyperbolic language (what do you mean it's not worse than Hitler's Germany? Hitler's Germany is a fail-safe comparison for ANY internet argument! Oh, all right. Stalin's Russia, then. Take that, Godwin's Law!)

So, the current government (I say government. I mean Lib Dem) plans for a 300 strong, 80% elected House of Lords should be welcomed with open arms, right? Well, not quite. This may seem contradictory to my reasonably and moderately phrased second line at first. But stop and think; how many laws could you name that actually stem from the House of Lords? It is a very small number each year. Therefore, the abhorrence of unelected people making laws is not mutually exclusive to the idea of having the Lords remain largely as they are. Why? Because our second chamber is primarily a revisionist, not a legislative, body.

Its main functions are deliberation and scrutiny, two features that are sorely missed in the House of Commons due to the Lower Chamber's whipped majority (painful). The House of Lords, which has neither a single party majority nor the presence of whips, is able to independently analyse and amend bills as necessary. To this end, they are aided also by their professional expertise. Election could threaten both of these; there is a danger that those elected would simply be party animals trained to win elections, who would then toe the line once they had their tenure secured. There is no guarantee that the ‘right’ people would get elected; this may sound patronising of the public, but this makes it no less of a concern.

Election would then throw up the question of power. Currently, as well as amendments, the Lords can delay a bill for up to a year, which seems an appropriate ability for an unelected body. A determined government could eventually pass any law, either by simply waiting it out or citing the Salisbury Doctrine (essentially a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to the Lords); however, this delay can still provide valuable time and publicity to a controversial debate (think of the Welfare Reforms), as well as giving the executive food for thought. Throw in elected members, though, and the Lords will start to demand more teeth. The result, then, is a second chamber with a mandate that will probably have to be given more power; a direct challenge to the already present government and its efficiency.

Election is then, in my eyes at least, unnecessary and potentially dangerous to the effectiveness of our political system. That is not to say, however, that there is dearth of reform that needs to be made. An 800+ House is far too large and a drain of public funds; likewise, the ability for the PM to parachute in new peers (a lovely image of men in red robes and wigs bursting through the roof) to fulfil his want vests a worrying amount of power into the executive; early after the 2010 election, Cameron brought in 117 new peers, most of whom were Tory, to aid his new government. So, I would suggest a cap on the total number of peers, and a limit on how many party ones could be introduced at any one time. Maybe encourage more crossbenchers. But election? No thanks.

Perhaps the worst thing about the current proposals for House of Lords reform doesn’t reflect the ideas for change themselves. Rather, it concerns the timing. The obvious argument is ‘why waste time on constitutional matters when we should be fighting the recession’ (image of George Osborne dressed as a wrestler is less lovely). However, more worrying for me is the fact that if the Lib Dems get their Lords reform, then the Tories will get their Boundary Change reform. Aside from the obvious numerical issues (I can’t find exact figures at the moment, but the Conservatives certainly lose the fewest MPs, proportionally speaking), there is also the fact that this would hand more power from Parliament to PM. Removing 50 MPs makes the House of Commons easier to control by far, and this attack on democracy (it seems impossible at times to talk about democracy without getting too emotional) seems ill-justified by the quarter of a million or so pounds that would be saved annually. As top economists say, this amount is ‘small beans’ in the grander scheme of things. Cameron has been clever keeping this bill low on the boil; the economy, Olympics and Lords ensure that there is far more to get riled by. And if Lords reform is passed, there will be little stopping the Boundary Changes. I’d rather have neither than both.

So, House of Lords reform: the wrong terms at the wrong time. Other than that, top job, Nick.

Boris Johnson Planning His Tea

Because I could literally think of nothing better to do, I'm making a Boris Johnson Planning His Tea tubmlr account. There are photos of Boris. And caption of him planning tea.

After it, basically anything will be enjoyable in comparison.

Yeah.

Animation Time!

A while ago, I made some strange little animation things on Microsoft Powerpoint. Now, for no discernible reason, I'm putting them on YouTube. A link to the first two can be found below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lA60FGmoX8&feature=youtu.be  Something strange with a rabbit
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrI8y7cejgE Action clichés ahoy!

Enjoy (responsibly)

Oh, and here's Google Translate being nasty about the government. Ignore the stuff at the start about essays in French. That's what we (read: I) like to call 'an introduction'. Thank you to MOM (see below) for pointing out the eye-watering hypocrisy from our friend Dave.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCFCZzVT7kc

Constant

Tick

4 people are born

Tock

2 people die

Tick

The Earth moves another thirty kilometres

Tock

The bloody clock in front of me refuses to. Just. Stop.

I clench my fists, tightly, tightly, until nails dig into palm and pain sneers derisively at my Tick incompetence. I hold them out in front of me, arms stretched, facing the clock. And then, never blinking, not once blinking (might miss something), I continue looking at the time piece, and Tock then

BAM!

Like a fleshy gunshot, I open my hands, waggling fingers slightly. Palms are white, yellow, pink, red failures. Because Tick there it goes again.

Time time time time time timety time time BLOODY Tock TIME! Does it stop? No? Will it stop? Yes, yes I’m sure. Because I’m close. So close. So very, very Tick close...

A young boy, lying in a verdant field. Joyous green stalks brush flesh, and perfect clouds in a perfect sky tell a story of a perfect life. But...

“Stop lazing! You’ve work to do!”

Never. Enough. Time. Never enough time to just...be.

The boy sighs, gets up. There’ll be time tomorrow.

A knock on the door disturbs my concentration. I irritably wave my hand in the sound’s direction, hoping to bat the annoyance away. It Tock rings out again, a more urgent knocking this time. I close my eyes and exhale loudly. There are murmured voices at my door, but there is nothing as urgent as the Tick task in hand. After some time, I don’t know, don’t care, how long, it stops. Hah! At least some things can Tock stop. I place my hands on the clock, keep my eyes closed, and focus.

A teenager, sitting in a hot room, scribbling away furiously on the exam in front of him.

“Last two minutes!” cries the voice of the apocalypse.

He lets out an inaudible cry of despair. The pen nib bursts as he forces it on the paper.

Each second falls like a hammer. There is still so much to do but there isn’t-

“Put your pens down.”

-the time to do it in.

I feel something different; an inner peace. Hunger pangs at my stomach, but the need for nutrition seems largely trivial now. Big things are going to happen. Big, Tick important things.

My clock, my friend, my enemy, my love, my Satan. But a voice piece of the greatest foe in this universe, but, O, what a fickle, mocking voice piece it Tock is. I carefully put it back on the table. The corner of my left eye twitches and, in a moment of weakness, I blink. Then I curse this lack of willpower. Tock.

The phone starts to ring. Without taking my eyes of the clo- it, I carefully lift it, then, maintaining eye contact, find some scissors Tick and cut the cord of the phone. I allow myself a chuckle. I pause briefly, then close the blinds, bolt the doors, turn off my mobile. The outside world is a distraction, and has brought little Tock good to me.

A man, in a suit, standing, swearing, in a cramped train. He glances at his watch, frequently and nervously. He clutches a CV and another form with carefully printed details over it.

 A tinny soothsayer proclaims “Unexpected delays”.

But they weren’t unexpected. The man, who realises now, and perhaps, deep-down, always knew, that this job interview was just another joke reality threw at him, expected them.

I Tick look dead ahead of me, and concentrate. All that is me focuses on that clock, on time itself, and I push my mind until it roars and squirms and suffers. There’s a point, when everything just hurts, at which you transcend the pain. It’s there, all over your body, but you’re not there to experience it. Instead of pain, I feel just a warm light-headedness. And I keep on concentrating.

The tea next to me is stone cold, but I don’t care. There’s a buzzing in my ears, but I don’t care. A vessel in my nose bursts, and glistening red desperation streams down my face, but I don’t care. Coloured lights explode in front of my eyes, Mary weeps in a painting and Jesus laughs from a piece of old toast, but I don’t care, because I have beaten time. I have beaten time. It waits for no man, but it waits for me. I dared to stare it in the eye, and

Tock

Years pass, or at least it seems that way. I begin to giggle. Slowly, quietly, at first. Then, Tick like the constant, uncontrollable, forever-to-damn-us flow of time, the laughter streams out. I can’t stop. Vision goes hazy. Goes dark. Goes Tock black. Time, you joker ,you...

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I almost had it, there. Almost.

A dishevelled man, the wrong side of thirty, lying in a heap on a litter covered floor in a decrepit flat.

Voices cry out to him, but he doesn’t know who they are, or what they say. He listens only to the clock. It stares at him, grins at him, gleams at him. He looks up at it, weakly, neck barely supporting his body, body barely supporting life. He stretches out to touch it, and, for once in his life, he finds that he finally has the time to carry out this action, this last, pathetic, action. 
At last, he has enough time.

Essay- "Fairness must be at the heart of good government"

Interesting story, this one. A few weeks ago, I sent a letter into a local paper, challenging some disparaging remarks someone made about the coalition. He wrote back, and made some patronising comments about the Nazis ("if [Chris] had studied modern history..."). Then, my friend wrote in. And we thought that was the end of it. However, in the Friday 16th March edition of this paper, some local Lib Dems basically said that they had been inspired by the letters of me and my friend, and subsequently created an essay competition, with a set title which had to be commented on. Below is mine. (I might get round to writing something less serious, and indeed original and entertaining (hopefully- ooh, look. Brackets in brackets (how pretentious)), at some point. Insert general excuse about work and lack of imagination.)
It's a bit of a lengthy read, at 2000, but heigh-ho. Deal with it.

“Fairness must lie at the heart of good government”

"The British people believes itself to be free. In this it is gravely mistaken; it is free only once in every four years, during the election of its members of parliament. For the rest of the time, it is nothing more than a puppet of its corrupt government.”

The French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau expressed this sentiment in the mid 18^th Century, a period when Britain was still stumbling into and experimenting with democracy. The Bill of Rights, which followed William of Orange a year after his Glorious Revolution, did much to limit and constrain the arbitrary and unchecked powers of the monarch, perhaps marking the most recognisable transition from absolute to constitutional monarchy. However, it did little in meeting the goal of a fair and democratic government; it merely moved the goalposts by addressing the nature of the executive, rather than the method. Before the Great Reform Act of 1832, a system wherein just 3% of the population (some 214,000 men in 1780) could cast a vote could barely be described as democratic or fair, and neither could the government that it produced.

Fast forward just over 200 years, and the situation is bleakly familiar. In 1997, total, nigh-on-unrestrained power was granted to a man for whom only two in five people voted. Thanks to the warping effect first-past-the-post has on British democracy, Tony Blair enjoyed a majority of 179 despite around 60% of people failing to express support for him. What followed was that most worrying of things: a presidential-style Head of Government, granted the powers of Head of State by the Royal Prerogative; a figure who perfectly matched the spectre of “elective dictatorship” that Lord Hailsham warned of; a Prime Minister who, due to his majority, Party Whips, and relentless headstrong attitude, could and would do whatsoever he pleased. Over his decade of power, Blair hamstrung human rights in a draconian, knee-jerk reaction to 9/11, opened the gate to student fees and the huge resultant debts, and waged an illegal war which caused the deaths of thousands of innocents.

The point isn’t ‘Blair was a bad person; therefore all governments are bad things’, although undoubtedly the Blair regime was saturated in unfairness, both in how it came to be and how it acted. The point is that a supposedly fair and democratic system that allowed this to happen must be intrinsically flawed and deeply unfair in itself. And although, at face value, an unfair system is different from an unfair government, it is clear that the two are broadly related and interlinked; after all, as Blair for some and Thatcher for others proved, it is depressingly easy to install an unjust government if the system itself is poor. So, if fairness is indeed desired for good government (which, I will argue, it is), then the political system must first be addressed. A fair, wholly democratic system can lead to an executive that shares these traits; a government that truly is, as Abraham Lincoln said, ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’. And in a democratic society, a government that serves and is chosen by the people cannot be too far from being a good one.

Before the merits of ‘fairness’ can truly be discussed, it must first be defined, as must ‘good government’. Living, as we do, in a liberal democracy, most would agree that the state is the servant of the people, not vice versa; therefore, a ‘good government’ is one that acts well and efficiently in the interests of the nation, both as a collective entity and a collection of individuals. Fairness constitutes accountability and transparency, and an outlook that is broadly egalitarian and unprejudiced, offering equal opportunity regardless of race, religion or gender. Both of these aspects, and their advantages, will be examined.

It is in any government’s interest to maintain its position of power for as long as possible, and it achieves this by keeping the majority of the population happy. When this fails, though, a distinct line is drawn between dictatorships and democracies. A dictatorship can ultimately forgo good government which appeases the people, as long as it has a good military that can suppress them. This is clearly illustrated by the atrocities in Syria; unfairness there has ultimately led to the death of over 8000 people, a figure which continues to rise. In democracies, however, the government can be ousted simply by putting a slip of paper in a box. Although, as Rousseau said, this is an infrequent opportunity, it is nonetheless one that defines democratic governments; if they wish to remain in power, they have to consider every action, every stance, every policy and think ‘Is this good for the people?’. Because if it isn’t, the people will throw them out. At elections, governments are more accountable than ever, and this ability to change who governs a nation is undeniably a fair one, however flawed the electoral system may be. This is the nature of democracy; like capitalism, it utilises the idea of competition to drive up standards. Few would dispute that when genuine democracy exists, it produces governments that are fundamentally fair and legitimate. This leads to executives that must be kept on their toes, that must be continually effective, or else they risk the removal that comes from an electoral defeat. And although democracy in Britain is a given now, it must remain so; indeed, it can and must be improved. Replacing first-past-the-post with a system like the Single Transferable Vote, the further use of referenda, and the general political decentralisation of power can all further democracy, increasing fairness, which in turn maximises the need for governments to do well.Similarly, a fair government is one whose actions can be scrutinised by the general public; the Freedom of Information Act (2000) helped hugely to provide this transparency. In giving the populace the ability to examine, in detail, the laws that affect them, governments continually have to justify their actions, which helps to prevent the build-up of arbitrary power, and ensure the executive acts in the public’s interest. Broadly speaking, a government that is doing everything well should have nothing to hide; the presence of transparency pushes governments to make sure that this is the case for them.

Fairness also underpins that greatest of British institutions, the NHS. The idea that that most basic of rights, health, is extended to everyone regardless of wealth propelled its craftsman, Clement Atlee, into the British mindset as a great Prime Minister, and its privatisation has been a taboo subject since then; even Thatcher dared not touch it. Even in its current fragile state, it is observed enviously by other nations, like the US. It is something that was born of fairness, and just one policy of many where this is the prevalent attitude. Likewise, equality of opportunity -the idea that everything should be open to everyone- opens the playing field in a way that benefits society and the people as a whole. Women high up in politics and business, for example, while once frowned upon, now contribute hugely; diverse boardrooms (and not just diverse in gender terms, but also race, religion, and sexuality) have been proven to lead to more productive, efficient businesses, which benefit employees and the country, through more money from tax. This is fairness in action at its best, and it would be a foolish Prime Minister who attempted to stifle it. A government that can draw society together into a cohesive, egalitarian entity, where everyone is looked out for, is one that has irrefutably done well, and it is for this reason (because what use is a broken, divided nation? Inequality is the greatest threat to stability, as demonstrated by the myriad different Occupy movements) that fair treatment must always be at the heart of government action.

However, while fairness has its boons, much can be said for sacrificing fair conditions for efficiency, and acting pragmatically. Pragmatism was originally presented as an antidote to the ideological zeal that had, for many, tainted the 20^th Century. Ironically, however, it seems pragmatism has been adopted as a new ideology; the media often talks of ‘the battle for the centre ground’, and politicians fall over themselves to show they are realists. None more so, perhaps, than Blair, who waved his reformist pragmatism like a flag, which would flutter whichever way the political winds were blowing. A combination of the demonization of the Left that the Cold War had ushered in, Thatcher’s penchant for private property and laissez-faire economics (and their favourable reaction), and the Winter of Discontent that arose from James Callaghan’s socialism had taught Blair that Left Wing politics were dead to the British public. And so, he moved his party to the centre, revoking the traditional Clause IV of Old Labour. This display of pragmatism did much to appease the nation, and was largely responsible for the thirteen years of Labour government that followed. These too were terms that were broadly pragmatic in nature and, up until the Credit Crunch and recession that followed, were arguably mostly good. For example, minor constitutional reform removed the blight of most of the hereditary peers from the House of Lords, and unemployment fell from highs of 8-10% under Thatcher and Major’s Conservatives to a consistent 4-5%.

More pragmatism can be seen in the booming economies of the BRIC countries. Predominantly state capitalist nations, Brazil, Russia, India and China have some of the highest GDPs in the world (China has the second best, and is rapidly gaining on the USA). These are governments that do not have ‘fairness’ at the forefront of their mind; there is no minimum wage, little regulation of working hours (even for children) and, especially as the recent anti-Putin demonstrations in Russia have shown, little concern for true democracy or human rights; these just slow down productivity, and are therefore not efficient or pragmatic. There is no denying that, economically and in terms of production, these are successful governments. But does that make them good ones? What use is a bustling economy if vast swathes of the population never get to reap the benefits? In China, 468 million people live on US$2 a day, with inequality rising as fast as their GDP. If government is meant to serve the people, then the leaders of these ‘super nations’ doing a largely unsuccessful job.

Ultimately, compromise appears to be the key. A government that aims to be completely fair on every single issue is striving for a utopia that cannot really exist, and will ultimately be inefficient; there will not be the growth that comes from competition which is ultimately a result of inequality or unfairness. If this occurs, then it cannot fully meet its goal of effectively serving the people, due to economic stagnation. But then again, neither can a government that aims for cold, ruthless efficiency in everything, riding roughshod over basic living conditions and rights. Fairness and pragmatism are by no means incompatible, and this must be realised and embraced to maximise the benefits. A fair electoral system and a written constitution, as well as the upholding of freedom of speech and information, makes the introduction and maintenance of government fair and ensures that the executive can be held accountable to the people. As has been said, a government that can be held accountable is in itself a fair one, and if it wishes to remain in power it must do its utmost to be a good one. From this position it should aim for fairness in its policies and its actions, making sure it provides equality and opportunity, while combining this attitude with enough pragmatism to provide an effective economy in which people can fully prosper, and a stable society in which they can feel safe, secure, and happy. A government which achieves this, a government which has both fairness and pragmatism at its heart, is one that can truly be described as ‘good’.

1000!

So, this has reached the giddying heights of 1000 views, which, considering it was made in September last year... must put it about on par (and I might be a little bit out here) with her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland.

So. Huzzahs all round.

Huzzah.

Eight Buffaloes Walk Into A Bar...

"Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo."
The above is not a snippet of the deranged ramblings of a bison enthusiast; nor is it an attempt by an edgy new theatre to replace the use of the word 'rhubarb' as the faux murmured speech used in the background of productions. Rather, it is the longest sentence in the English language which uses only one word. It makes use of the obvious animal, the American city 'Buffalo' and the use of an American slang word, meaning 'bully', which also happens to be 'buffalo'. In simpler, less mono-lexical terms, it means 'Bison from Buffalo bullied by other bison from Buffalo bully, in turn, another lot of bison from buffalo'. It is, in my eyes, quite a wonderful little sentence.

On telling MOM about this sentence (MOM standing here for 'Mother-of-Mine': an acronym that I can only assume Americans and a growing number of other English-speakers have adopted -and made lower case, so as not to appear obtrusive when written- lovingly as a mode of reference for their female parent), an interesting philosophical-linguistic debate (hark!) was thus sparked, as we wondered what a word actually, fundamentally is (I had queried Buffalo and buffalo (and indeed, buffalo) being the 'same word', what with the former being a proper noun. Apparently, according to the OED and others, it is merely spelling and pronunciation that defines 'a word', and not a deeper meaning).

But this is not really the point of what is to come. The point is that a language that can churn out eight buffalo, and nothing else, into a grammatically correct, if a little clumsy, sentence is one of wonder and beauty, and it is thus a crying, terrible shame that this language is being marred and tarred the way it is.

Look around you. Greengrocer's peddle their fruit and their vegetables and their extraneous unnecessary punctuation, clearly stolen from the large range of Mens Wear that is freely available. Internet adverts ask if 'Is it possible that you're blood pressure be too high?', and the existential crisis of identity that follows (could I be   blood pressure too high?) does nothing to help the suspected ailment. I could go on.

As should be clear, the point that I am making is not an original one, but it is a desperately important one. Our language does matter, and so does the way we use it. But this is where I become torn. On the one hand, being the bleeding heart, wet, good-for-nuffink liberal that I am, I feel somewhat uneasy dictating how people should speak and write. But on the other hand, I am also linguistically conservative (maybe that's being a tad too kind. I'm, frankly, a linguistic snob) and it pains me to see and to hear our tongue being mangled in increasingly unpleasant ways.

Take the 'splice comma', for example; it remains, for me, one of the ugliest pieces of punctuation found. It joins two stand-alone clauses (where there is no conjunction), such as in "It was raining, I got very wet." or "Kumquats are my favourite thing ever, I could eat them all day.", where a semi-colon is called for. I love the semi-colon: I simply adore it. Yet is being replaced by the comma which, frankly, has enough uses already.

People, my brother among them, say that this is just a sign that the language is changing. But why? Why should it change? Granted, there are certain impracticalities stemming from Latin, such as never splitting an infinitive or ending a sentence with a preposition (interestingly, Churchill's favourite 'up with which I will not put' is often misinterpreted; it was a response to overly clunky Civil Service documents which avoided prepositions as the ultimate word like the plague. Next to one particularly unsavoury sentence, he wrote that 'this is the kind of nonsense up with which I will not put'; he was satirising grammatical fastidiousness, not upholding it) that can probably be sent to pastures new (that said, I will still and avoid doing so most of the time; however, there are occasions when what must be done must be done).

So the tricksier, more anal stuff I can probably understand needs some level of reform. However, what is so tricky about using an apostrophe correctly? Or making sure questions end in a question mark? Or even making sure that sentences start with a capital letter and end with anything at all? It reeks of ignorance and laziness, and these are no things that the language should bend down to and change for their sake alone. You wouldn't apply this logic -this populism born of ignorance, this "everybody's doing it, it's time it should change" (note the splice comma. Note it and hiss) attitude- anywhere else, would you?
"Well M'Lud, I did kill him, yes, but I kind of didn't know why what I had done was wrong, and I kind of didn't bother about it, and anyway, M'Lud: the Law is an ever-changing thing and should reflect the common usage!"

What gets me, at times, is the attitude of other people when you try to stick up for poor old grammar. Highlight the finesse of the subjunctive case, for instance, and you will be branded a 'Grammar Nazi'. That sticking to linguistic rules is enough to get you compared to someone who orchestrated the brutal murder of millions of innocents is bad enough; that this only seems to apply to grammar is another thing entirely. Tell a friend they might want to cut the grass, and they don't turn around to call you a 'Lawn Nazi'.  Point out a problem in someone's pipes, and you're not labelled a 'Plumbing Nazi'. No. There's a stigma that's been attached to the decent upholding and championing of our beautiful, glorious, wacky old language and that, my friends, is everything that's wrong with society today.

Well, that and the fact that tax evasion, when done under a dog's name, is fine and dandy... but that's another matter entirely.

Ultimatum

Everything was fine; all was well. Nary a crease nor a tear was to be seen in the great shirt of life, and everything was just dandy. That is... until it happened.

It started off as a normal morning, and why shouldn’t it have been? Most mornings are, on the whole, normal; every day, millions of people fail to make the news owing to the gloriously quotidian, mundane, banal nature of everyday, bog standard, good-enough-for-99%-of-us life. Interesting things happen to other people, and I was quite content to stay out of the 1% to which odd things do indeed happen. However, fate, old fickle free-spirited fate, had different plans for me that day. Oh, did it ever.

So, as I said, things were just ticketyboo, until I decided that what I really wanted on the piece of toast (Hovis, Best of Both; two minutes. Golden brown. Perfection) that had just leapt enthusiastically from the toaster (where else?) was some jam. Quite why I wanted jam was, quite frankly, beyond me. My limited-spending habits (some people call it Scrooge-like penny pinching; I call it thrift. Besides, I’ll be the one laughing when all my savings go through the roof, especially as now in 2007 their position in Iceland’s National Bank looks as strong as can be) meant that all I had in the fridge for said toast-related purpose was Sainsbury’s ‘Red Jam’: a mere pinch at 26p for 300 grams of colourings, questionable fruit and broken dreams. But it would have to do.

As jamming (Not that kind. Back away, Marley) convention dictates, I placed the jar on the kitchen surface, then proceeded to open it. The actual opening process went off without a hitch. However, on opening it, my Red Jam found itself a friend in 3cm of striped yellow and black evil, as a wasp decided that cavorting with compote was just a swell idea.

This left me with a problem. My toast, rapidly losing its comforting warmth, was in sore need of some jam. My jam, rapidly gaining character in the form of insect dribble, was in sore need of some wasp removal. My new mortal enemy, rapidly climbing the rankings in my Big Book of Grudges, was in sore need of death.

Luckily, I had a crossbow readily at hand; I feel no kitchen is truly complete without one, and it helps to deal with such dilemmas as this (‘dilemmas’, incidentally, is an ugly word, and I really feel it needs replacing. But enough of my lexis unattractiveness based tangent, and onwards with my saga).

I picked up Gwyneth (that’s the crossbow; I felt it needed a name, as all good weapons do, but panicked when choosing one. And since I panicked out loud, it would only have served to confuse the crossbow if I were to try and rename it. And a confused crossbow is not a good crossbow, as any child could tell you) and aimed it at the wasp. I had an ultimatum in mind, which was going to end in glory or jam. The day, I could sense, was mine.

“You there. Wasp. Yeah, I’m talking to you.” I tried narrowing my eyes menacingly, but didn’t really have the knack. All I ended up doing was blinking at the wasp, which it may or may not have found terrifying. In all fairness, it probably wasn’t praying that its god would be merciful at that point.

“I know. I’ve got eyes and ears, haven’t I?” I narrowed my eyes menacingly in surprise. Not so much at the fact it could talk (I’ve always harboured a suspicion to that extent. There must be more to their evil than meets the eye), but rather at the fact that it sounded Andrew Marr with a slightly blocked nose.

“Ummm... Yes?”

The wasp had, by now, stopped moving and was staring at me, and I couldn’t help but feel that it was the kind of thing that could narrow its eyes without losing sight temporarily. My anger at this was piqued.

“Good. Glad we got that established. Now, put that blasted thing down, and for God’s sake get a grip of yourself. I’m just a wasp; my eating a little bit of this red goo-”

“Jam.”

“-won’t make it all go off, now, will it?”

“Yeah, but, my jam, things may go... bad?” This wasn’t on. I was being flummoxed by a bloody insect. Sadly, though, not bloody in the REVENGE!!! manner; just in the exceedingly irritating manner.

“Sound reasoning and flawless articulation from the human race, I see. I can understand why you’re the second best race on this planet. Ha Ha.”

More than my honour, and breakfast, was at stake, now. This oik was sassing humanity. And only I (well, and Gwyneth) stood in its way. I thought  of people mistreating kittens to get into my angry mode.

“Now, look here, you,-”

“No. You look here. I am giving you a choice, you malformed squirt of a shaved ape. Either you let me be, and allow me to eat, quite happily and peacefully, this delicious red goo-”

“Jam.”

“from which I will leave in my own good time; or, you shoot me with that bow of yours and –and let me be really very clear– bad things will happen”

I made a noise roughly equivalent to pfftachoo ; the disdainful apathy I had had in mind somewhat spoiled by an impromptu sneeze. Then, just as it looked like it was going to launch itself into a tirade of wasp-supremacy, I shot the rascal. And then, my heart froze. I went white.

The shot was perfect; the wasp had been what is technically described as ‘smushed’ by Gwyneth’s power. But that wasn’t the problem. Lying around the smushings were fragments of glass, bits of sticky label, and, oozing all over the surface... red goo. Jam. I screamed.

Ultimately, it had been right, that wasp. I had dared to mess with it. And bad things had happened.

Fin

Aftermath

And on the 21^st of December, of the year 2012, the Lord did speak to us, all of his loved ones, and hence the world in recognition of his dedication did stop, to listen to and to revere those words of perseverance and hope. And thus, on the day the world ended and the world began, the Mighty Flame Topped Lord spake:

“I’m never going to give you up. I’m never going to let you down. I’m never going to run around, and desert you.”

The Roll of Cleansing was complete, and the world was made better.

My eyelids feel heavy; my vision, groggy and blurred. There’s a sharp pain in my left shoulder, as if it has been wrenched out of place. As my senses crawl reluctantly back into place, it’s apparent that it has. A shackle pulls my wrist, and with it, my whole arm, above my head. The rest of me is free to move, as big a consolation as that may be. Things look decidedly peaky, and are not improved when they walk in, their goateed faces grim death-masks, their open-necked shirts, slashed at the collar, loud to the point of deafness. One of them holds a clunky black box, with a wheel, holes at regular intervals around the circumference, fixed to one face. My history lessons nudge me in the direction of realising that is a ‘tellyfone’ of old. The speaky-listeny end, if ever such a thing were possible, is next to the ear of one of the men. He nods, and makes arbitrary remarks into the mouth piece.

“Ok. Yeah. Interesting. Yes, I’ll let him know.”

He puts the two parts of the tellyfone together, and turns to me.

“That was our great master, Ban’kah, on the line. He’d like to make you an offer.”

As one, the men swivel on the spot, and turn to face the indiscriminate middle-distance.

“5000 Points for the Book, Mr Blessed,” he walks over to me, and looks me in the eye. “That’s a lot of prizes, isn’t it, Mr Blessed. An awful lot of prizes indeed.”

I swallow. 5000 Points does mean a large amount of prizes. I remain, however, speechless.

The man gives me a big, toothy grin. “On the other hand, if you don’t co-operate, I’m sure we can extract the information from you in an altogether more... unpleasant manner. It’s not a hard decision, is it, Mr Blessed? Even a ten year-old could make it.”

His steely-blue eyes glint. “You are smarter than a ten year-old, aren’t you?”

I muster a tiny, almost indeterminable nod.

“Good...So, Ryan Blessed: 5000 Points for the Book? Do we have a deal, or not?”

I ponder my chances. My ancestor earned his name, so the legend goes, from his possession of an enormously loud and potent voice; such a gift must have been a blessing from the gods. I, too, could give quite a bawling when I wanted too; however, I doubted it was strong enough to relieve the quite clearly armed men of their weapons and take me to safety. So, fighting four grown men with a yell was probably out of the question.

It’s then, as all seem lost, that my brain starts throbbing, somewhere around the deus ex machina region, as discovered by the Professors of Convenient Plotology. The wall opposite me bursts open in a shower of rubble, dust and dubious looking doings. Two figures in hooded robes run through carrying weighty looking lacrosse sticks, and bludgeon my captors into submission. They tear through my chain, which on closer inspection appears to have been fashioned from paper and bits of gum. Feeling decidedly feeble, I thank my rescuers. Then, not wholly wishing to undergo another capture-torture sequence, however edgy and zeitgeisty it may be, I test them with the greeting of the Order of Astley, just to make sure.

“Never going to make you cry”

The person on the left pulls down his hood.

“Never going to say goodbye”

I’m satisfied that this person is either a loyal comrade, or at least someone who’d put the effort in and done some research. Either way was fine; further kidnap was okay, as long as the felons weren’t ignorant clodhoppers. That would just be dull.

The Order of Astley is fairly large, and information doesn’t always reach everyone easily.  So, I run through my story, as they had asked me to. I, and a group of other Rickars, had been moving from a temple to one of the few functioning factories, carrying the fabled Book (or, to give it its full name, ‘The Dyson Ball Manual’) to try and fathom its mysteries. Along the way, we had been attacked by one of Ban’kah’s gangs. When I finish my tale (well, factoid), my other saviour begins quizzing me over my companions’ status. It’s bleak stuff, until we reach the last name. I frown.

“I’m fairly sure he escaped...” My memory wanders back into please. “Yeah, he’s definitely okay. Gordon’s alive.”

“Do you have the Book?”

I shake my head. “Hid it when things turned rough. Come on. I’ll lead you to it.”

Night was falling as we set off. There is mostly silence, punctuated by bone-chilling howls of “Scooby-dooby-doo!”. Meddlings Kids are on the prowl. Our pace quickens, and I ask my fellows about the Book, to see if they know much more than I do.

“We believe it is a holy text of old, dedicated to the god of destruction, Dyson. He made powerful weapons, ‘vakyooms’, I understand, which could obliterate anything in their path. It is our belief that the Book can help rebuild these. The Order of Astley will find great use for them.”

We reach the spot, littered with bodies, where I had hidden the Book. Rick be praised, it’s still there. I turn to my fellow Order members. I can’t help but feel uneasy over this weapon plan, and it’s times like these that my faith feels tested. But, desperate times...

I sigh. “May the Flame-Topped one speed your research.”

They nod. “Never going to tell a lie.”

I turn around, and walk slowly into the wreckage of civilisation, to whatever the next dawn will bring, muttering the holy words as I trudge.

“And hurt you.”