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.”

Re-jigging

Minor tweaks and reforms ongoing, just to make the life of anyone who cares that little bit easier. On the right, there is a 'page' section, which can send you to archives of themed pieces.

Because I care.

New feature

Just because I love the word 'widget', I've added a little feature where you can click the box(es) under each post that reflect what you thought of them, if you can't quite be bothered to write a comment.
Give 'em a go. I dare you.
Some guy said you couldn't. Prove him wrong.

The Tale of Cameron's Cunning...

...Or, how the Pearls and Handbag are coming back to haunt us in more ways than we thought.


In a leaked cable around this time last year, it emerged that William Hague described himself, George Osborne and David Cameron as 'Thatcher's children'. Putting aside, if at all possible, the disturbing image of this terrifying and repulsive family (note to self: clean mind with bleach later), it is clear that several elements of truth have emerged from this out-of-the-blue maternity claim. It is certainly enough to make 2010's intake of the New Right giggle with glee, and make the Left grow a goatee for moral support while reaching for a copy of Das Kapital in the vain hope that, while worn in the jacket pocket, it can stop the myriad bullets of privatisation that are whizzing our way.

Some of this Thatcherism (and please, for the sake of sanity and all that is holy, let us please assume that Hague was speaking figuratively) is fairly explicit as Cameron bids adieu to the Royal Mail, the NHS (if some have their way) and anything along the lines of Union authority or money for the public sector. However, what is slightly more worrying is the stuff that isn't immediately noticeable; the wave of 'stealth Thatcherism', if you will, that is slowly creeping over us. The Big Society, sold to us in its vague, vague terms of 'self betterment', 'get the chance to do it yourself' and 'communities coming together', is a beast that masquerades under the cloak of 'empowering' (a term that I am, frankly, always slightly dubious of, despite the fact that at my school's open evening, at which I was helping, I said it so many times that I started to sound like a tiring and cheesy feminist rally, if such a thing could ever possibly exist). Perhaps it is. Perhaps there are people who really do enjoy organising their own sewage cleaning, and feel better for it. However, I can never quite shake off the feeling that the Big Society is just another Government ploy, another way for them to rinse their hands of people's lives, another way to disassociate themselves from any responsibility when things go wrong, while leaving them able to claim credit for success. It's the underhand, smiley re-emergence of the laissez-faire of yesteryear, "rolling back the frontiers of the state" in a cunning, brilliantly intelligent, gloriously Tory political master-stroke which allows Cameron to reap the crops that he did not sow. Thatcher would be proud.

And now, just as an afterthought, I'm going to embark on a brief dalliance which is sure to set some people a-tutting and which pre-emptively invokes Godwin's Law. I'm drawing on the Nazis. Now, before I jowls start quivering with rage, I will hastily point out that I'm not completely conflating the right-wing ideology of Conservatives with the right-wing ideology of a barking mad Austrian chap. Just hear me out. One of the reasons that the Gestapo were so effective was that Himmler engineered its methods in such a way that they had to do relatively little. Ordinary people were turned into informers through a mix of fear and duty, leaving the Gestapo as a mostly administrative body, sifting through the huge weight of reports that people filed on their friends, neighbours and family. Society was snitching on itself.

Wait wait wait wait wait... Government stepping back, leaving responsibility to the people of a society to do the job themselves? Familiar, much?

Sorry, Dave. When it comes to originality, you're 70 years too late.

Liberty, the Government, and 'For Our Own Good'

On Wednesday, a group of doctors advised the government to pass a ban on smoking in one's car. There is no point even trying to argue against the negative effects of smoking, be they physical, financial or psychological. Put bluntly, smoking kills.

Similarly, I myself dislike and disagree with the idea of smoking. I am also personally against taking illegal drugs. But do I think that my own opinions and the fact that things are dangerous make sufficient grounds for making something illegal? No; not by any means. I don't ever think personal views on a certain area should ever be the basis of legislation which will affect the whole country. My distaste should not translate into infringements on others' liberty.

Take the smoking in the car debate as an example. Obviously, if there is someone in the car with you, particularly a non-smoker, then the situation changes. You shouldn't be allowed to smoke in a situation such as this where it infringes on another's health. However, should it still be banned if you are the only passenger? No. What right does the Government have to say what you can and can't do with your own body? Yes, it's dangerous, as are drugs. But then again, so are knives. So are painkillers. So is alcohol So are plastic bags, and hammers, and chocolate.We don't ban those things. These are clearly not the same things, but the principle is the same. Danger and ill-health, when caused with consent, should not be reasons for illegalisation in my mind.

I cannot reiterate enough that I am against smoking. But what I am against more are the patronising, arbitrary attacks on liberty. By all means, try and discourage people from smoking, and taking drugs, and drinking too much. The fewer people that do these things, the better. But ultimately, it is their choice. Someone may choose to smoke 40 cigarettes a day and send themselves to an early grave, and many would disapprove of this. I would. It would be heartless not to care. But if it were their decision, then so be it. It was their path, and it was the right of no-one else to forcibly move them. Your body may be a temple, but everyone should be able to worship in their own way.

It's for this reason as well that I agree with President Santos of Colombia as he pushes for the legalisation of drugs. Personal liberty is ultimately the strongest driving factor for me, but there are swathes of other reasons. A regulated, taxed drug industry cuts out the evils of dealers with their shady methods and tainted products. It would also bring in large amounts of revenue; vastly more than the costs to any nationalised healthcare.

To an extent, I also find myself agreeing with the UK Libertarian Party's idea to "repeal nanny-state legislation such as compulsory seatbelt and crash helmet use". Harsh in words, but ultimately sound in reasoning. Quite honestly, you'd be an idiot not to wear a seatbelt or a crash helmet. I see no reason why one wouldn't want to. But equally, I see no reason at all why 650 well-off, predominantly unrepresentative people should be allowed to smother liberty, that most precious of commodities, in such a patronising, demeaning manner.

I wouldn't smoke, or take drugs. Nor would many other people. But, as I said at the start, I am not everybody. And the opinions of one should not block the freedom of many.

Things Which Irk Me.

I like to think that, on the whole, I am a mellow, calm, slow to anger kind of chap. However, there are certain things which just make me irrepressibly furious. Learn them, and avoid them.

1) Shoddy use of the subjunctive case: "If I was...". No. Shut up. Move along. You're to be shot. Shut up.
2) Coventry.
3) People who pronounce <H> as 'haitch'. It's 'aitch'. Not complicated. Google Chrome, while still refusing to recognise 'radicchio', gives 'haitch' the red squiggle of doom. Good work, Google Chrome.
4) First Past The Post. Bah.
5) Laughing babies on adverts. It's my firm belief that children should never be happy to the point of excessive chortling. They must be planning something.
6) Communism.
7) People who label Obama as a Communist. Get educated. Socialised healthcare does not make him the offspring of Lenin and the Devil. Sort your life out.
8) People who barge into you in towns and cities without apologising. Oh, how I hate you.
9) People who insist the world will end in 2012 and moan about it all the time. We all know it will end; we've accepted that and have moved on. I suggest you do the same.
10) The social stigma attached to lists which don't have 10 items in them.

Yet Another Political Cow Thing

Yeah, they're as common as dirt. But, as far as I know, there's not a 'Cow Political Theory' dedicated to our chums on the extreme left, and, besides, Communism's always good for a chuckle. Alors, voila:

Communist Political and Economic Theory Explained Through Cows

Marxism: After an age-long struggle, the proletariat throw off the shackles of the bourgeoisie and milk the cows. The milk is distributed evenly ensuring everybody gets a millilitre or two. Everyone is equal: equally unhappy and equally short of milk. Get over unhappiness over cup of tea. Green tea, of course, because proper tea would be theft.

Soviet Communism: Despite there being plenty of milk for everyone, there are long queues and inevitably shortages. People discuss failures of the capitalist system while sipping glasses of milk imported from the US. Meanwhile, the government has sent the cows to the Gulag over fears of them mooing anti-Soviet Propaganda.

Cuban Communism: After eventually deciding they live in a Communist state, citizens are well educated enough to read instruction booklet on milking cows. There is an attempt to seize the milk by Americans and Cubans happier with the previous corrupt dictatorship. Meanwhile, cows turn out to be secret plot to assassinate Castro and are sent into exile.

East-German Communism: Watch West Germans milk cows while being told how they are living in milk-less squalor. East-German cows milked. Milk is ‘borrowed’ by big brother Russia, who promises to pay you back one day.

African Communism: The one cow is milked. Milk taken by government to distribute elsewhere. People get fair share of dirt. In the middle of the night, people are taken away for having too much dirt. Cow dies, sparking bloody war with neighbouring country.

Far- East Communism: People milk cows. The government seizes the milk while informing citizens how proud, strong and milky the country is. Nuclear missiles are primed after apparent insults over milk production by western scum. West is bemused.

Democratic Socialism: People milk the cows. The government takes the milk and holds a nationwide referendum to decide where the milk should go. By the time this has been decided, the milk has gone off. New Referendum is unanimously passed to begin production of more milk. Rinse and repeat.