Porky Pies, Shy Tories, and the Rise of the Corbynistas.

At the last UK General Election, there was a lot of talk about sly or shy Tories, those who cast their vote for the Conservative Party while being too embarrassed to admit to it. This helped explain why the Conservatives/Tories were unexpectedly re-elected. 34% of the electorate didn’t vote, though the 66% turnout was apparently the highest since 1997. Prior to the election, another hung parliament was widely predicted.

So why are people coy about how they vote? It has to do with voting for selfish, parochial reasons, and having enough self-awareness to feel that one should be ashamed of voting on so thin a basis. In most democracies, of course, the politically engaged are disenfranchised by the ignorant, “None of your business”, part of the electorate. That’s just a fact of life. The amount of people willing to hold forth on issues on the news without any historical understanding astounds me, or used to. Now, I fully understand that holding forth on Iran and Iraq with no understanding beyond the evening news or the Murdoch press is rather alarmingly the norm. Mention historical context and people either become defensive or roll their eyes.

I have never voted Conservative, and sincerely doubt a politically literate population would have tolerated Thatcher or Thatcherism, or a Rupert Murdoch-dominated press, or waved their little plastic Union Jacks as the task force sailed for the Falklands Islands. But then, in thirty years of voting, I’ve been on the right side of a general election only once. That was Blair in ’97, who I hoped was a façade (for Middle England) on a still leftish Labour party. It turned out, of course, that the New Labour rot had eaten away at the foundations. New Labour had transformed themselves into what’s now being described as Tory Lite – in the interests of power at any price.

Since then, it’s simply been a choice between two parties offering broadly the same platform. Nothing much to choose between them – both serving the corporatocracy – like the Republicans and Democrats in the US. Essentially, you’re picking your pimp. You’re going to be whored, and the clients’ interests – that’s the people buying your time and labour – will always trump yours. It’s been said that one of the biggest successes of Thatcherism was Tony Blair and New Labour. That the Tories have managed to convince working people that they, the Tories, represent their interests is a stunning tribute to brainwashing and media control. The same brainwashing turned working people against the unions.

There is a consensus, establishment politics, and you challenge it at your peril. You’re allowed to argue passionately within certain parameters, as Chomsky has pointed out, but you’re not allowed to step outside these parameters. Tony Blair courted Murdoch and the City. One of Gordon Brown’s first acts in government was to pass the right to set interest rates to the Bank of England – again to gain the confidence of the City, who don’t like anything getting in the way of their pursuit of profits, especially political decisions designed to help the poor or the less well off. Under New Labour, deregulation of the financial sector continued to be politically a la mode. In short, New Labour had been elected because it was now safely in accordance with the political consensus and had the backing of the Murdoch press. All of which manoeuvring and shenanigans leads us back to the notion that if elections changed anything they’d be outlawed. They take place at all because they take place within the acceptable consensus bandwidth.

So 2015 was never going to be a rousing election. Labour were always going to be hammered in Scotland given the disgraceful role they had played in the Independence Referendum. The Liberal Democrats had already failed in their attempts to get some form of proportional representation, and would ultimately gain nothing (save for a few individuals CVs) for going into coalition with the Tories. Indeed, they were reduced to a single-figure rump following the election with Paddy Ashdown making arrangements to eat his hat. When the exit polls were released – predicting a Tory majority – there was a slight sense of embarrassment. The British, or English at any rate, had sneaked into the polling booths, done their dirty little deed, and slunk away afterwards, hopefully (from their point of view) unnoticed.

Ed Milliband, the Labour leader, resigned, and the long campaign for the next Labour leader began shortly thereafter. Following drop-outs and non-runners, it looked like a run-off between Andy Burnham and Yvette Cooper with Liz Kendall there as a right-wing also-ran. The plan was simple: vote in another Blair clone as leader, hope the electorate tire of the Tories in the intervening five years, and then get elected – probably with media backing before and after – to do roughly the same thing the Tories were doing. But there was a worry, a niggle, a concern about impressions. Given the similarity of the candidates and the paper-thin differences between them, there wouldn’t be much of anything that could be called a debate – so how about throwing in a left-winger to give the impression of a broad debate prior to electing your favourite Blairite (it had been done before). With minutes to spare, they scratched together just enough votes (some charitably donated in the interests of debate) to get the token left-winger, Jeremy Corbyn in this case, onto the ballot.

It was a good plan. Grass roots party members would get to hear “traditional”, “left-wing” Labour views given an airing before the party elected Andy or Yvette to “unite” the party and appeal to Middle England and disenchanted Tory voters. The Labour establishment would smile benignly and offer their blessings. The best laid plans of mice and party apparatchiks…

Jeremy Corbyn did the unthinkable. He garnered support. He filled halls. He offered hope. Hope. The right-wing press chortled and mocked, and then attacked viciously when they realised he actually stood a chance of winning. The Guardian and BBC sneered and sniped. Then it was all about who could catch him, as Yvette shrieked, and Andy flip-flopped, and Liz repeated herself about wanting to be trusted on the economy. And that pesky question about the Tory Welfare Bill kept coming up, which haunted the non-Corbyns, Corbyn being the only one who had voted against it. Burnham and Cooper, their careers in mind, had abstained; as had Liz, who – to be fair – probably believed it was the right thing to do.

Then came the purge. As part of the new election rules, anyone eligible to vote could become an affiliate member of the party for £3 and take part in the leadership election – so long as they shared the parties values. There was much talk of the wrong sort of people – mischievous Tories, Socialist Workers, etc – taking advantage of this. A lot of votes, were purged, and it’s a safe bet that nearly all – if not all – would have counted for Corbyn. Celebrities Mark Steele and Jeremy Hardy were two unlikely purgees.

None of it mattered in the end, though. Corbyn won on the first ballot. Tony “two interventions” Blair went as quiet as Chilcot, and Andy took a job in the shadow cabinet. A lot has been achieved already. We’ve seen what happens when the status quo feels itself threatened. We know the press – including the Liberal press – favour the rich and powerful, and are becoming less and less subtle about doing so. We’re all supposed to get terribly upset because he, Corbyn, didn’t sing the National Anthem – neither is he too keen on kissing the queen’s hand, which one is obliged to do on becoming a member of the Privy Council. Like the non-singing of the anthem (and why would a republican atheist want to sing God Save the Queen?), an insult to Her Royal Maj, doncher know. Doff your caps and tug your forelocks, people.

Then it was reported that David Cameron had put his Prince William in a dead pig’s mouth, though this has now been officially denied.

The next general election’s in 2020, a long time for a party (for whom people are ashamed to admit they voted) to govern.


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Finding the Grexit in the Dark.

I wonder. Is it reasonable to expect another to be brave enough to do the right thing, the decent thing, the honourable thing, in a situation you’re not faced with yourself? Greece caved in. Despite the referendum (which now seems like a ripple of rebellion in a pool of desperation and shame), they caved in.

What happened? I was tempted to see the referendum as a nod and a wink between the Syriza government (brought to power on an anti-austerity ticket) and the electorate, the latter signalling to the former that they now had permission to default (the gun under the table finally placed on it). We want you to lead, and we hope you do the right, the decent, the honourable, thing. It was, I thought, a mandate of sorts to tell Europe and the Troika where to go. Democracy would trump money. A yes vote for what was on offer would have been shameful, and yet, despite voting no to it, it appears to be what was ultimately agreed to anyway. Why isn’t the parliament now under siege? A heroine addict surely has less addiction to their drug than Greece, the country, has to the Euro. Perhaps, outside it, they imagine themselves in a dark, quivering, economic wilderness with a priapic Turk looming over them. I don’t know. I can’t – of course I can’t – fully apprehend the way their history has shaped them.

If someone points a gun at you and demands your wallet, what’s the reasonable (rational?) response? I’m fairly sure the consensus would be to hand over your wallet and hope for the best; and, if best so transpires, suffer the inconvenience of cancelling your cards. What, though, about a house invasion? Robbery and the rape of your partner, and, if you have them, your children? Surely that’s an over-my-dead-body situation. You might be able to do this to me, but I will fight to the death to stop you. I am not prepared to tolerate this and live because the shame would poison my soul forever. What if they knew – the Greek people, I mean – that they could appear to do the right thing – vote no, that is – in the sure and certain knowledge that their government would sell them out? What if they wanted to be sold out? What if the political dance was about nothing more or less than the mitigation of shame? We want the Troika money, will beg and grovel for it, but want to pretend that we still have the stomach for a fight. This would be a country and culture poisoned by shame, who no longer care about dignity and notions of national sovereignty. A nation reduced to nothing more or less than pleading for its next drug fix.

The music hasn’t stopped, of course. The dance isn’t over. Europe has watched and seen how Greece has been treated. Bullied, browbeaten, humiliated. A country in an abusive relationship with its European partners. Other countries – Italy, Spain, et al – have taken note. So what did the people protesting in Syntagma Square really want or expect (apart from the naive – if entirely reasonable – desire to be treated with the dignity due to an equal partner in the EU project)? What did the no vote mean? Were the Greeks prepared to default, to Grexit, to return to the drachma? And why, if Syriza were too cowardly to put it on the table themselves, was it not explicitly put to the Greek people in a referendum?

The banksters have had their way for the time being, but at a price. The mask has slipped. We have seen that democracy doesn’t matter, neither does national sovereignty. No amount of elections count in the face of the arrogance of the financial institutions. Debt is a tool of enslavement. Greece has, temporarily at least, been brought to heal. They have paid an obscenely high price for joining the Euro, and are stumbling around in the dark looking for a dignified way out. What used to be done militarily is now being done monetarily, and the humiliation is worse and longer-lasting. People agreeing to their own submission with nary a gun or tank in sight. Shame.

So to my unreasonable expectation (and hope). I wanted Greece to default, to tell Europe and the world they weren’t going to pay the debt, and they weren’t going to collateralize their country either. But, of course, I’m not Greece, or Greek; the gun wasn’t pointing at me.

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The Lollipop Stick Experiment.

People who put their hands up to answer a question are self-selecting. They’re essentially ego-shrieking, “PUT THE SPOTLIGHT ON ME! I KNOW! I KNOW! I JUST LOVE TO SHOW HOW CLEVER I AM! YES! ME! ME!” People who behave in this way tend to justify it in terms of enthusiasm, of involving themselves in what’s going on around them, in fully taking part. Actually, these explanations, like the act itself, are entirely self-serving. It’s the neo-liberal cult of the individual, of “Screw you, buddy. I’m in it for me!” Imagine a world where a pupil or office worker, instead of putting their hand up, leans over to whisper the answer in the ear of their unknowing fellow. But, hey, that wouldn’t be good training for selling your arse to the corporatocracy and its game of getting on.

In a school somewhere in England they did an experiment – the Lollipop Stick Experiment. There would be no self-selection, no putting up of hands; the teacher would choose the student to answer the question by pulling out a lollipop stick from a can that contained a lollipop stick for every student in the class. A random choice. Anyone might be called upon to provide the answer. Hmm. Who do you imagine troubled most by this? Not the children accustomed to being ignored, or those who infrequently put their hands up. The worst that could happen to them was to be asked a question to which no-one expected them to know the answer? They might surprise and get it right; or, alternatively,  just shrug  “Don’t know” and let teacher move on to someone else. An opportunity gained, nothing lost. No, it’s bad news for only one group: the frequent hand-raisers, the self-selecting spotlight-seekers. A disaster, indeed. Because they might find themselves in the spotlight – exactly where they love to be – when they DON’T know the answer. Everyone looking at them – under the spotlight – and they DON’T know. The agony, the humiliation! To be exposed like that. The trick revealed. It just looks like you always know they answer because you, though always eager to do so, decide when you put your hand up. You’re a teacher-pleaser, keen to make yourself look good at the expense of your fellows. Shit! You really need to get your lolly stick out of that can.

And that’s precisely what they did. To eschew the risk of being seen not to know, they elected to forego the spotlight altogether. There is no grace or charm in this act, no potential for personal growth; it’s sulky and mean-spirited, a petty passive-aggressive response to not being allowed to show off at the expense of your class-mates. Grace and charm would share the spotlight and take being wrong in it in their seemly stride.

Of course, the system in which you live and work, and educate your children, would rather you compete than co-operate. It has done this to you and is doing it to your children. If you’re fighting amongst yourselves to get on and noticed, you’re unlikely to pause long enough to question the system, never mind change or overthrow it. This is how they – the corporatocracy and its well-compensated political puppets – circumscribe thinking, put it in a box. Be brilliant by all means – problem-solve in your classroom or office for housepoints or money – but don’t really think. Don’t, whatever you do, ask about the nature of the box, or whose interests it really serves.

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It’s a brilliant story, but…

Have you ever been offered money to write someone else’s book? I have. Indeed, I imagine it’s fairly common. Usually, the offerer has a novel that needs a bit of EPR (editing/polishing/redrafting), but, having busy, complicated lives, they don’t have the time to do it… so would I be interested in doing it – for, say, £500 (okay, £1000)? I mean, yeah… because it’s just about a bit of time.

These askers are wannabe authors who don’t think a little thing like not being able to write should hold them back. What they know – or think they know – is that you can write. I mean, shit, you have a blog and you know how to punctuate; and didn’t you say you’d written a novel? I’m sure I heard you say something like that while I was mentioning how busy and complicated my life was – what with the divorce and kids and all.

Should you ever find yourself the askee in this situation, say no… but temporize. Say you’ll look at the manuscript without committing. The look will be instructive.

You’ll be briefly impressed. The first page will be near-perfect, though there might be a clunky sentence lurking in there that alerts the discerning to the car-crash to come. By page two, the standard will have slipped slightly, and by page three the deterioration will be marked, noticeable to anyone literate. The standard of page one will never be recovered.

This type of author will often have read writer self-help books on How to Write a Killer First ParagraphPageChapter… (you get the picture), but their efforts will generally never extend much beyond the Killer First Page, which will probably have been polished to death with the odd smear still in evidence.

Errors will be basic and inconsistent: “Okay”, she said. Or: “Okay” she said. Tenses will be mixed inappropriately as the effort to write becomes exhausting and tiresome – and isn’t it about the story, anyway? Shit, you can hire someone to sort out the clerical stuff. Except that the errors aren’t just clerical. The novel doesn’t just require the addition of appropriate punctuation; it requires rewriting. Sentences at first, then paragraphs, then pages, and then – disastrously – you’ll find yourself drowning in the realisation that their writing has entirely fallen apart. Indeed, that that Killer First Page cost them an enormous amount of time and effort. You will also know that £500 or £1000 isn’t going to cut it in terms of compensation for the work involved in effecting the necessary repairs. Notice I’ve said nothing about the story here, which (in this role) is none of my business.

Would I do it, then, for £10,000? Essentially, you’re being asked to take a scrappy manuscript and make it immaculate in terms of the writing. I can do that – and for £10,000 it would be worth the effort. The problem is the human considerations. Taking an old person’s life savings to edit, polish, and redraft the novel about their father’s experiences in WWII would not feel cool. I’d be less uncomfortable taking the money from a millionaire who wanted the treatment for his post-Cold War thriller because my only concern would be to  deliver an excellent EPR (do a good job, in other words). Whether or not the millionaire later recouped the outlay in the market-place wouldn’t be a concern. At least, he’d have something literary to sell online and show off to his friends.

This is an issue, though – the temptation to blame your editor for the the subsequent lack of success of your novel (since only they will have benefited from it in financial terms). Clearly, there are bad editors out there, or people advertising these services, who can’t do the job: novel doctors and get-your-novel-into-shape merchants willing to offer various levels of feedback and editorial input based entirely on how much you’re willing to fork out. Essentially, we’re moving into the shady world of literary bottom-feeders here – parasitical scamsters willing to exploit your dreams and take your money. Of course, there are also perfectly genuine people offering these services, who simply aren’t very good at what they do. Be careful if you don’t know the people you’re dealing with. You’re likely to come away disappointed – indeed, it’s probably safer to assume you’re being scammed.

As for me – well, I’ve had a few it’s-a-brilliant-story-but novels pass across my virtual desktop (historical romps, fictionalized rock ‘n’ roll memoirs, James Patterson type thrillers) and have offered some free editing (as I said, it’s instructive), enough to assess what a huge task it would be to treat the whole novel. Really, as you plough ever more deeply into their deteriorating writing, you’ll be glad you didn’t take the money and can return their novel telling them you don’t have the time to do it justice (because it’s such a mess), but you might want to keep the bit in parenthesis to yourself.

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Scent of a profit.

If I made a fortune selling scented shit, I’d be congratulated and feted. I’d be a successful business person, a job and wealth creator, an entrepreneur. This is the emptiness at the heart of capitalism. Profit is king, money god. Price matters, intrinsic value not so much.

As a successful purveyor of scented shit, I’d have to grow my business. I’d get a business loan from the bank, employ someone or ones to market my scented poo, my marketing department. I’d also have an R&D department to blend the various scents with the different colours and textures of shit. Runny Brown Rose could be a market leader with Lavender Log more of a connoisseurs’ choice. We would sell celebrity scented shit, which would come with a certificate of authenticity and said celeb’s autograph. We would also promote a cheaper celeb product, the celebrity smear, in order to allow everyone to participate in the exciting world of scented shit. The Celebrity Smear would be a scented, autographed, coloured napkin (and we’d seek to grow our range of scents and colours in response to market demand) on which a celebrity had wiped their bottom. Perhaps we could add a “story” to the moment of the wipe because buyers of the smear would be interested in what was going on in the life of the celeb at the time they applied the napkin to their posterior.

With the company growing, we’d need to find a way to keep manpower costs down – by off-shoring and making use of automation. Developers would write programs to implement scent-to-shit formulae without the need for human sniffers, who would likely prove expensive in the medium- to long-term. In the event our high-end product required human sniffers, we could and would sub-contract to India or East Asia, where they have competitive labour laws.

With our stock high, we’d form the SSBF (Scented Shit Business Forum) to lobby governments to legislate in our favour by removing barriers to the scented shit industry worldwide. We’d create a fund for discreet  donations to political parties in return for honours and concessions.

An empire built on shit would have me and the board smelling of roses, and I’d tour the country and world giving talks on how to create a successful business. Of course, I’d have “written” a book, No Shit! The Sweet Smell of Success!  which I’d sell at these events and online along with other products, such as T-shirts and mugs.

And, yes, I’d be proud to accept the Donald Trump Award for Business Excellence.

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Getting back to Nowhere.

For all the years that passed before I was born, I didn’t exist. All subsequent years following my death, I will likewise not exist. This is true of everyone. You are a smudge of awareness in space-time. This should create a sense of smallness, of humility, a sense that life is random, unfair, and pointless, your life and existence happenstantial – choice an illusion. Accidental creatures trapped in paradox. No-one is to blame for anything; if you had their genes and lived their lives, you’d be them, and someone would be judging you the way you now judge them.

Humanity has invested huge amounts of time and energy evading this truth – because it hurts too much, and affronts our vanity. We’re terrified of insignificance. We want to believe we can influence and control the randomness. Put simply, we want to believe it’s about us. A volcano belches ash and lava on our city, a blight kills our crops – if only we’d sacrificed another goat or first-born! Because that really would have made the difference! Enter gods stage right – with their bureaucracy, religion; enter, too, the tribe; and the tribe writ large, the nation state. We’re important, we’re screaming at the cosmos; we, above every other animal that creepeth upon the Earth, matter. Belief in progress, democracy, capitalism, humanism, are all secular manifestations of the same problem – they are godless religions pretending to an understanding of what we’re fundamentally about. Escaping religion and superstition is – should be – about coming to terms with the futility and randomness of our existence. If we’re not doing that, we’re simply moving from one religion to another (more of which later).

Which brings me to antinatalism. It’s impossible for a human being to evaluate a life (in terms of joy or suffering, say) in any objective way. We are here, and the journey back to Nowhere is non-trivial for us. We have now reached a stage in our civilization where we can, and do, discuss end-of-life plans, which is surely an admission – tacit or otherwise – that there comes a point when life might be seen to be not worth living (from the point of view of the individual having to live it). As joyous and fulfilled as you might imagine your life to be, the vast majority of lives have been short, brutish, squalid, and joyless (unless a crippling pain replaced by a numb ache can be counted a kind of joy). This is why I’ve never wanted to have children – because life hurts, ends badly, and is mostly a tawdry struggle to make the ends meet and keep ourselves clothed and fed.

“If everyone thought like you humanity would die out!”  Yes, I know. I’m cool with that.

What, then, if we’d made a better fist of it? Imagine a world where someone feasting in a palace while another starves on the street is utterly, unspeakably taboo, where it isn’t okay for the very fortunate to cavort and frolic on a bed of luxury while the unfortunate crawl toxic dumps for scraps of food to eat, where entitlement isn’t the mechanical shrug-response to the unfair distribution of luck in the world. Then perhaps the anti-antinatalist arguments wouldn’t ring so gratingly hollow. If the best you have to offer is “I want to procreate, and I’m all right, Jack!”, then you might as well be making an argument for wearing cheap T-shirts, since they, too, are yours at the price of someone else’s misery. This is the flaw of entitlement. Entitlement allows us not to apologize for the hand we’re dealt, especially if it’s a particularly fortunate one. We prefer to think of ourselves, and (more dangerously) others, as blessed or cursed, and ascribe to each the qualities that justify their position.

Why? Because it’s about us. It happened to you, so it’s important. Someone jostled you on a train, or was late delivering your parcel. Terrible! Outrageous! You’re not going to put up with this. Meanwhile, somewhere other, someone screams as a high voltage cattle prod is applied to their genitals in a cell they’ll never leave alive. But, hey, barista, more chocolate on that coffee!

Can humanity live without the illusion (or delusion) of meaning? Probably not. Fairytale babble that puts us at the centre of everything has a far better chance in the soil of the human mind than does meaninglessness. What, so it’s not about me, my team, my culture, my tribe! Sod that! Bring me a flag to kiss and a god to worship!

We are addicted to narrative. So much so that we squirm in discomfort for the lack of a good one. We are self-justifying creatures afraid of the dark. Being or non-being is not an equal choice, since being is a trap. We’re trapped in a flight from randomness and death. Imagine your family dies tomorrow as a result of a lightning strike, or a pavement (sidewalk) collapse. This sort of thing happens to people all the time, and is senseless and dispassionately (from an agency point of view) cruel. But you have – and want – to make sense of it. Was this the point you realized that your family were just so amazing that God had to have their company straight away?

Forced on to the life bus (remember, no-one has ever asked to be here), we make the journey – working, bickering, killing – denying its final destination: Nowhere. It’s surely reasonable not to want to inflict the journey on an ideated resident of Nowhere who never left.

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The Terrible Tyranny of Positivity.

I’m not one of life’s perky, positive types. I tend to a dark, downbeat cast of mind. Greed, venality, entitlement, exploitation depresses and disgusts me. We have been fed a self-serving lie that allows our prosperity to be built on the backs of the poor. As children, we’re told to behave properly, to say “please”, to share, to “play nicely” – while our nations behave like psychopaths, always finding excuses for invasion and plunder, and then over-laying it with a self-serving narrative: the civilizing mission, American exceptionalism, saving one tribe from another while helping ourselves to the resources of both. Western foreign policy is planned robbery. But we wrote a heroic history of explorers and adventurers. So a murdering fortune-seeker in search of loot and glory has a holiday named after him in several countries. Wave your flag and sing along.

From the historical/political to the social/personal. Imagine you have a disability – many people do, This will have impacted your employment prospects, it may have isolated you socially, chores will have become difficult (housework, shopping). You have cause for complaint and need of support. But, in the Tyranny of Positivity, your example will be a paralympian. What the Tyranny is seeking to do is undermine your right to grievance. Be brave, it’s saying, and don’t bother us. Everything, including the lightning that strikes you, the hunger that burns you, the disease that eats you, is YOUR responsibility. We, the fortunate, do not want to be made to feel bad about it. We are the fortunate, the blessed, and we need to convince ourselves we deserve our good fortune. How else do we get to blame you for your misfortune?

This is what enables the sneering at, the demonization of, people on benefits (personal tragedy becomes political opportunity). It is, the Tyranny states, their own fault, a character flaw. And so the Tyranny’s media encourages the low-paid, those on little more than the minimum wage indeed, to kick down, to enlarge and empower themselves by blaming social ills on those on benefits. Meanwhile, on a yacht somewhere, a billionaire tax-dodger quaffs champagne and awaits his Knighthood for services to the coffers of the party of the moment. He and his ilk – doing the business and buying the political process. Not selfish greedy exploiters – no, no! innovators, entrepreneurs, wealth and job creators. Fully deserving of tax breaks and political patronage. If the chips go down, we can always tax the poor and introduce austerity. We’re too big to fail, and you’re too small to care about.

Be positive by all means, but don’t blind yourself to what’s going on. You’re being liked because you’re shielding the fortunate from your misfortune. “After the accident, he/she (delete as appropriate) just got on with it.” They do so like people who just get on with it, don’t they? Far better than the negative, embittered types who reflect on the unfair distribution of luck in the world, and loudly proclaim it to anyone who’ll listen. You’re allowed to be envious enough to keep you on the work/consume treadmill, but not so much that it puts you on the path to revolution. The fortunate like to hear the sound of your applause. That’s what you’re here to do – applaud! Oh, and to clean up after their parties, banquets and balls while thinking yourselves fortunate for the modest remuneration offered for so doing. How amusing it must be to watch an awards ceremony on TV in which you had the honour of clearing the tables or cleaning the toilets.

Don’t be bitter. Be positive. Think positively. Just do it!  Don’t give way to the politics of envy. How glib and fatuous are the injunctions from the lips of the fortunate. The positivity mantra drowns the small voice of your grievance, the plaint of your unhappiness, the quiet moan of injustice heavily felt. Because, says the Tyranny, there is no grievance; you just have to be positive. Here! Read the guru’s latest books: Being Positive on an Empty Stomach and Breaking a Positive Sweat: Positivity for the Sweatshop Worker.

What you’re really being asked to do, of course, is shut up, stop with the complaining, make yourself invisible. Work (if you can get a job; die if you can’t), consume (to fill the corporate cash-tills), and praise and applaud those who prosper in a gamed system. The world isn’t fair, smirks the Tyranny. Deal with it! Smile, be positive, and call your exploitation opportunity.

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Marketing your novel.

This is not a vacuous (copy and paste type) post about marketing your novel (designed to attract eyeballs and comments). It’s more to do with the dreadful necessity of doing it (marketing, that is), and the feeling of unseemliness that accompanies the so doing.

First, you have to be (or have something) “out there”. I’m not going to reflect overly long on the kudos afforded by the fact of being “out there” in a loud, notice-me, capitalist world. It’s perhaps enough to remark that it might be making a virtue of necessity where artistic endeavour is concerned, since post-production you’re engaged in the game of getting noticed.

Picture me walking into a room of disparate people who share my plight. My name is John, and I have something “out there” – a novel to be (somewhat) more precise – a stylish, philosophically bleak work of detective fiction. One of my readers (and, like all rare things, I value them all) told me recently that they’d read a quarter of it and put it aside because it was too depressing. Clearly, it’s bleaker than I thought.

Okay, so let’s put together an entirely fictional marketing strategy. You persuade twenty people to buy the book (I managed that bit). They read it (mostly succeeded in that. Thank you, dear readers), and then… what? Well, they feed back to you, which is helpful and useful and generous and kind. Unfortunately, what you really want them to do is blog and tweet and Facebook and review (on books sites, preferably those from where they purchased your book). You need to be talked about on social media. I’ve entirely failed in this. I just don’t know those sorts of people, and it’s surely deeply unseemly to be nagging people who bought your book as a favour in the first place to spend time reviewing it. I mean, life is very busy. I do more blogging than anyone I know.

In short, then, to succeed from Nowhere, you have to become a needy, whining, attention-seeking wannabe prattling on about yourself and your work at every opportunity, constantly racking your brains to come up with ways to attract attention to yourself. Not very dignified, is it? That presumably is what agents and publishers spare you, allowing you to get on with the art and (mostly) skip the marketing, notice-me indignity of it all.

I’m writing my second novel (or was; I have 9,000 words of it), which is much more mainstream in terms of subject matter and, perhaps more importantly, style. This is what feedback does to you. Needed and necessary, ultimately it promotes conformity. Truly individual voices go unheard.

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The Immediate People.

The Immediate People are well-adapted. They know what’s what in the Game of Getting On – and the game of getting on is the only game that matters. Indeed, the Immediate People call it Life. They are trained this way.

Picture a group of smart children, who have their hands up at every opportunity – to impress Teacher, of course. They want praise, house points, good marks, exam results. They’re young, but already keenly aware that they prosper at the expense of other people. This, their parents have told them repeatedly, is how the world works. And Immediate People don’t ask if this is how it ought to work. Neither do they speculate unless it is to solve an immediate problem – usually for a teacher or a boss, someone, at any rate, with the power to reward.

Immediate People do not dream, not when they’re awake. And their slumbers are often haunted with anxieties about failure in the Game of Getting On. If they know History at all, it is a standard narrative that goes unquestioned unless the question is part of the tribal orthodoxy. Politics, too, is not something with which they will trouble or distract themselves. Unless, of course, it steps in the way of their getting on, which it rarely does. The Immediate People are happy so long as they’re getting on. They’re here to please money. They’re exactly what business wants and needs. They work (hard, of course), they earn, they get on, they consume. They are rarely, if ever, politically engaged. If they see news at all, it will be a mainstream bulletin from a mainstream outlet. As the newsreader serves the corporate agenda, the Immediate People will be checking their smart phones for messages from work. Injustice doesn’t matter. You can’t do much about it, anyway – and it isn’t happening to them. Ultimately, there is something rather frightening about the Immediate People’s lack of comprehension. You know they would keep their heads down as you were quietly taken away.

The Immediate People are responders, problem solvers, creative within the confines of a remit. They can be brilliant, sharply insightful, but always in the service of the remit, and the organization that sets the remit. Immediate People like to be busy, very busy, and become restless and fretful when they are not.

The corporate money-go-round courts the Immediate People, and they it. The money-go-round wants you busy, wants you engaged in solving their profit-making problems. The money-go-round loves the Immediate People. Because they don’t think, not in THAT way – because that way is undermining, and might even make the Game of Getting On seem absurd.

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Platform Blues.

It’s all about platform. Katie Price is more important than you and I. Why? Because she has a platform. Katie Price’s thoughts on the government would be listened to, noted down, and widely disseminated. Likewise her thoughts on religion and evolution. Katie Price matters. It doesn’t matter how wise or clever you or I are, how incisive our analysis, how breathtaking your insight, because… well, no-one’s listening; no-one cares; no-one, to adopt a Heselteeny, a shit gives. I don’t matter, and neither do you. You need an audience to matter. It is better to be thick and have an audience than to be bright without one. If you want to be heard, that is. If you don’t mind not being heard, then you can be as bright as you like. It doesn’t matter. Someone will know, sure; you’ll be paid for it somewhere, but you won’t matter as much as Katie Price. Fame is the name of the game. Imagine Simon Cowell holding forth on politics in an interview. That would be headline news. And the Bieber boy’s asinine antics, his every vacuous utterance, attracts the pens and microphones of the world’s media. Imagine if he held forth on quantum mechanics…

Okay. Elongated, Paxmanesque Okaaay. A question: do you buy the above sketchily sketched thesis? Here’s the bit I purchase – that you need a platform. You need a platform to be heard. That much should be, and is (I hope), obvious. The rest of the thesisette is, to say the least, speculative. Where lies the cause and effect? Wherefore are the whys? Dear Katie! How long would she hold her platform if she did, indeed, hold forth on the NHS? Ah, there, as Shakie might have remarked, is the rubbette. Maybe the roles are pre-decided, and the likes of Katie and Simon are just actors successful in the business (the getting on business) of auditioning for them. There probably isn’t a role for a busty babette to hold forth on the issues of the day. Imagine Katie, with a curious look on her botoxed face, remarking, “Isn’t it funny how we always have to be bombing someone. I mean, weird or what. Still, thinking about it, what else are you going to do with all that military hardware?” No, I don’t thinks so. Our Katie would simply stop being heard. The amplifiers know how to put people in their place.

Things only matter when other people say they matter, and they have to be persuaded that they matter. So – obviously – most of Africa doesn’t matter. Doesn’t get reported, no-one who matters talks about it, so it doesn’t matter. It only matters when a BT Ratter says it matters – when it’s celebrity endorsed. That’s the way of the world. It’s a struggle – possibly an impossible struggle – to be heard on one’s own terms, though independent media might fleetingly create the illusion that it’s not. It may be that once you’ve been heard, heard enough to guarantee that the next time you utter you’ll also be heard, that your message has already been corrupted. You’re heard because someone, some floating agenda, wants you to be heard, not because there was anything intrinsically valuable about your words or utterances. Every idea with currency has someone with an agenda giving it currency. Notice how no-one talks about Nationalization any more, not even Katie Price or Simon Cowell. It’s not an idea that anyone wants to be heard. Agenda has decided that that idea is buried, interred, unresurrectable. Mentioned, if at all, by political zombies uninterested in the important business of being elected. You can always speak the truth, so long as you don’t care about being heard. Why did America invade Iraq? Oh, yeah, oil. Not if you want to be heard, it isn’t. If you want to be heard, it was to promote democracy. Feel free to debate whether it went well or not, whether it was a good idea or not, whether it went wrong in the execution or not, but don’t, if you want to be heard, suggest it was anything other than the promotion of democracy. This is how we got America, the victim, in the Vietnam war.

No-one on mainstream media is ever going to suggest that Donald Rumsfeld or Dick Cheney are evil, though they most certainly are – either that or sociopathically deluded to an extent that makes the distinction in terms of outcomes and effects near meaningless. The BBC won’t be commissioning any programmes that suggest that the USA is the major problem in the world or the principal aggressor – that’s simply not going to happen. The bigger the platform, the less likely you are to hear the truth. When you have a big platform, you become risk-averse and mediocre. Protecting the platform becomes the name of the game, keeping the audience. Why risk alienating anyone, especially if you can be accused of abusing your privileged platform position if you do? A rogue voice might get through on a live broadcast, but you can be sure it won’t be repeated in subsequent bulletins. Didn’t happen; move on; now for some sleb news. “Tom Cruise is in town today to promote…” OMG!. And here’s some more click-bait to keep you stupid…

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