CHAPTER 11 – Stirrings
“Watching television is like taking black spray paint to your third eye.”
As God sculpted her strategy, Jesus wandered around The Place, holding a tablet at his chest, some nine feet above the floor. He was reading Raw Spirit, a guide to single malt by Iain Banks.
Change was in the air. Angels whispered quietly in the corridors. God had installed a cross-trainer beneath her screens. She now exercised while watching Earth. Her spirits were lifted by the attendance at each briefing of the Firm’s newest member, Mahatma Gandhi, to bring himself up to speed.
Gandhi was beside himself over the state of Britain’s National Health Service (NHS), which appeared to be terminally ill. As part of the public sector pillage, more than 400 of the most ‘profitable’ NHS arms had already been privatised, but still operated under the NHS logo. “For the British, it must feel as if an irreplaceable friend is slowly dying,” mooted Mahatma. “This privatisation mania threatens to eventually remove the British state itself,” he warned.
At one of God’s briefings, Buddha emphasised that he taught a meditation by which people could heal themselves, were the NHS to collapse. “It involves creating a blue ball of energy in your mind and transferring it to the afflicted areas of your body,” he said. “We can make this work for anybody unable to afford private treatment.”
Sal, for his part, was deeply preoccupied by Britain’s dying tradition of dissent. Was a major truth teller hiding, in waiting? A British Julian Assange, poised to replace state and media obfuscations with transparency? John Lennon was dead. Johnny Rotten advertised butter.
While the rich gorged, like carrion crow, upon the poor and disadvantaged, voters overdosed on armchair entertainment. British political activism had clearly shrivelled. The likes of the Suffragettes, who fought tooth and nail for the female vote, or the Levellers, an English Civil War movement, were nowhere to be seen. Sal had noticed how protest was increasingly portrayed by Disney media as an irritant in need of control.
In mid-Essex, in the county town of Chelmsford, a £712 quarterly gas bill dropped through a letterbox. Dan Fawkes, also a big Iain Banks fan, was the recipient.
That morning Dan had been reading Gene Roddenbury’s conception of an ideal society. Roddenbury, the creator of Star Trek, painted a world where nobody hated Mondays. A realm with no poverty, money, unemployment or famine. From the very first episode, in 1966, this was Star Trek’s unseen background.
Dan found the ideas to be a welcome distraction from his job, of freelance reporting on finance and oil market developments.
Cursing at the gas bill, Dan saw it as a perfect example of privatisation’s disgraceful absurdities, which had commenced under Maggie. Going through his e-mails that morning, he had laughed out loud at one announcement by Bank of America Merrill Lynch analysts. They predicted that “trash is the next big investment”. The story neatly summed up his working world, where he was a conscript, rather than a volunteer.
A distressing report in the 17 April edition of a North Yorkshire newspaper indicated where his interest was settling. An inquest heard that Nicholas Peter Barker, a 51-year-old former farm labourer, had shot himself in the head in December 2012 after learning that ATOS was stopping his benefits.
Dan wondered again about reincarnation. He had recently written down the details of a dream: The others were gone. There was no time, no physicality, only knowledge that a choice would create itself. It had been a dance beyond exhilaration, weaving in and out of each other. I was drawn to a blond girl, on a spring evening. The dance accelerated, bringing visions of a park near the coastline. Dimensional options began to collapse. Then a familiar heaviness as I existed across two sets of genitals, squeezed across a motorcycle bound for Spain. And warmth, lingering, wet, before pressure, and harsh hospital light.
In Yorkshire, the deceased’s former wife, Linda Barker, explained that a brain haemorrhage had long paralysed one side of Mr Barker’s body, leaving him reliant on state benefits. Coroner Michael Oakley said that the death had been deliberate. “The main factor worrying him was that his benefits had been stopped,” was the verdict.
It was a matter of record that the chief driver of the benefit cuts, British Chancellor George Osborne, had a £4 million trust fund, and had claimed up to £100,000 in expenses to cover mortgage interest payments on land and a farmhouse he owned in Cheshire.
In the face of such hubris, Dan regularly berated himself for not possessing the courage of a John Pilger or a Naomi Klein: real journalists who held power to account at every opportunity. While he avoided churning out the PR that much journalism now comprised, he nonetheless reported expediently, for money, on a world that sucked its poorest down a black hole.
His reverie was interrupted by Mary entering the room. Their conversation the previous morning had been memorable. “Dan, I don’t know any easy way to tell you this,” she had said. “Last night I met..…..Satan.”
“Wow! Two of us with unbelievable stories!” he grinned. “While you were out, the tooth fairy dropped by, whipped out her dentures and popped my dick in her mouth.”
Dan enjoyed conversations with Mary more than any other part of the relationship, which stretched back three decades. 15 minutes would disappear as they zipped, rapid-fire, from subject to subject.
However improbable, Satan was at least a squillion times more interesting than investing in trash. As Mary had recounted her London adventure, describing her mixture of shock and awe when Satan had whipped up his sweater and shown his tail, wound around his waist, Dan’s rising interest wrestled with his credulity.
Mary told her husband how Sal had asked her to “join his team”. She had asked him to be more specific. His words were unequivocal. “First of all, get over whatever nonsense you may have heard about me not getting on with God. Same for Jesus. Our gang are all friends.”
Satan had paused momentarily, to sip another brimming glass. “God’s experiment is in big trouble. Particularly here in Britain. We are recruiting a few with good hearts and independent minds to help change this.”
As he listened, Dan dwelled on the six words. “God’s experiment is in big trouble.”
Their 25-year old daughter Rose had read about the Cypriot government’s seizure of local bank customers’ deposits. Rose had two accounts with UK banks. “Is my money safe dad?” she had asked last night. He had prevaricated.
Dan wondered again about a Dickensian children’s ward featured in the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics. Was he glimpsing the past or the future?
He remembered with shame how he had cut his journalistic teeth on the UK’s Private Finance Initiative (PFI), suggesting in his early business articles that it could become a new British financial export. He later discovered that rebuilding Calderdale Royal Hospital in Yorkshire, via the PFI, would end up costing £773 million, around twelve times the project’s £65 million capital cost. The epic scale of this theft by banks and investors was crippling the UK’s public sector hospitals. It went largely unreported.
Work had become a lonely business. Watergate-style journalism was finished. In early 2012, Dan had been shocked at how little interest his peer journalists showed when he learned that Barack Obama was quietly threatened with impeachment. “Telling the truth is great, but probably leads to you living out of dustbins,” said one of his oldest journalist friends. No major newspaper carried the story, in which a bipartisan group of lawmakers claimed that US military action in Libya was illegal, as it had been undertaken without congressional approval. Without mainstream media distribution, the story shrivelled and disappeared.
But the genie was out of the bottle. His father had long advised that if Dan saw 95 people walking one way, to tag on loosely to four heading in the other direction. “Walk in the empty land. Work out who you are”. Dan started to follow his guts and his goose-bumps, finding that other stories were suppressed by national media.
Listening to Miles Davis and Nick Cave, Dan did his own research. He found that by 2012, the largest media conglomerate in the world, the Walt Disney Company, had tentacles embracing television, radio, music, publishing, and online media. And that five companies controlled most US prime time viewing, as a result of US President Bill Clinton’s deregulation. Dan wondered about creating a nickname. How about ‘the Disney media’?
He discovered Gore Vidal’s comment that “when you control opinion, as corporate America controls opinion in the United States by owning the media, you can make the masses believe almost anything you want.”
Now Mary had a text about a further meeting, a few weeks ahead. “Satan says they have checked you on their ‘files’,” she told Dan. “They want to use your journalistic skills,” she said. “It seems that you are one of these oddballs that try and stick to the facts.”
The rendezvous was to be a Leigh-On-Sea pub, the Crooked Billet. Dan welcomed the distraction, however mind-bogglingly surreal. Or terrifying. His guts said huge personal change was necessary, as the level of insanity in the wider world intensified.
Dan and Mary took their regular early evening walk, passing front rooms dominated by the ever-flickering images. Humans sat mesmerised, invisibly strapped in their seats.
They covered several miles, to work up a thirst. The ‘Walnut Tree’ pub, in the tiny hamlet of Broads Green, was like the land that time forgot, its ancient public bar occupied on this occasion by a drunken group of both sexes who cursed and propositioned each other in equal measures.
Dan sat with Mary, his favourite-ever companion, nursing a pint of hand-pulled Timothy Taylor’s ‘Landlord’ beer. Listening in. A conversation that was already ferociously competitive spiralled into a near-riot when Margaret Thatcher was mentioned. The oldest of the group reckoned he wouldn’t even feed Maggie’s bones to his dog, who sat by the door. “The witch is dead,” he told a female who had become tearful yesterday morning, when watching the London funeral. She threw an ashtray at him, followed by half a glass of wine.
Dan chipped in, unable to resist. Amid the wave of nationalism drenching Maggie’s funeral, the best journalists had re-excavated her strong support for Saddam Hussein. He told the group how, in the months running up to Iraq’s 1990 invasion of Kuwait, with Saddam’s past use of poison gas well documented, Thatcher’s government had sold Iraq three tonnes of sodium cyanide and sodium sulphide. Maggie’s memoirs gave no mention of this, he said. “However, the 1992-93 Scott Inquiry into arms-to-Iraq uncovered how Baghdad had received UK arms for over a decade,” he recalled.
The reaction was disappointing. He could see more than half of the group turn off, losing interest without any dressing of celebrity, sex or other flippancies to coat the hard, murderous facts.
The quietest of the group sat with Mary and Dan after his friends had stumbled home. Now in his 70s, he had lived for five years in Yorkshire. He observed that the typical bluntness to be found in that county was equally evident in Essex.
He moaned about the press coverage of Maggie’s funeral, arguing that it was possible to tell who ran the world by working out which people were criticised the least. “Nothing happens by chance either, whatever the bloody papers say.” He told Dan and Mary that his wife possessed a reliable psychic gift. She was predicting “something big” to happen in the next month in Essex. “It’ll be headlines all round the world, my Clarissa says.”
Before leaving the pub, the man spoke of a local boy who had gone missing one evening over two decades ago. The 13-year-old, who lived two doors away, had returned, a couple of weeks later, but had never been the same, and was unable to hold down employment or a partner as an adult. “The lad wouldn’t ever talk about it.” The man’s wife was adamant the boy had been abused and traumatised in London, by very rich people.
Walking back, Mary spoke of her growing resolve. “I don’t have the faintest what we’re getting into, my love, but our children will have every right to despise us if we stay quiet and do nothing. I’m feeling more alive than for some time.”
Once, her last sentence would have put sex firmly in Dan’s sights, but he was preoccupied. It was hard to think of anything but meeting Satan.
Back in the Chelmsford suburbs, televisions glared their phosphorescent welcomes out at the road.
14 thoughts on “214. OUT OF ESSEX”
Loving these posts. Each one makes us stop, and think. ❤️
Well that is so nice to hear Rosie. Thank you. I lose myself totally in the rewrites, and so the odd positive comment is like coming up from the depths to breathe clean air.
Incidentally, I have thought hard about your advocacy of Twitter and FB as promotion tools, and having a separate website. My inclination is to finish the rewrites first, so that I know what I have in the locker. And then start a promotional effort.
I love Bill Hicks and enjoyed the quote above.
Which you then underlined with this description: “Humans sat mesmerised, invisibly strapped in their seats.”
And then, of course, this, an understandable yet extremely rare marital cock-blocker: “Once, her last sentence would have put sex firmly in Dan’s sights, but he was preoccupied. It was hard to think of anything but meeting Satan.”
Re: Obama and Libya: I didn’t remember this, but hubby did. He recalls that Kucinich was pushing it. In looking up Mr. K, I had to think, “Who cares what that guy thought?” He seems a little crazy. And was a race baiter before he revamped his brand. The Huff Post says what was right about it but why it ultimately failed, although I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir, and I know your story’s not about Obama but about ALL of them and the steady heel that presses down on our collective necks, but here’s the link anyway: https://tinyurl.com/y67z8ts5
The thing that really amuses me is how outraged everyone is here that Russia interfered in our elections. It’s like, “How dare they! Only we’re allowed to interfere in people’s elections and overthrow governments and install puppets and assassinate leaders. Who do they think they are?” 🙂
Thanks Seliza……..I’m certain that it is publicly stated CIA policy to interfere in elections around the world to produce an ‘optimal’ result for US interests. And so maybe what goes around, comes around? And did Russia interfere to any genuinely notable extent? Is there any proof, above and beyond media drivel? The Cambridge Analytica story is worth a look, for sure, though.
As for interfering militarily in other countries, my take would be that there has to be some kind of moral authority to do so. The West has none, because it sells armaments to almost anyone who will buy. End of.
The US and France, primarily, destroyed Libya, sending the place back to the dark ages. Whatever Gaddafi’s crimes, his citizens had standards of living, education and welfare that were among the best in the continent. Now slaves are sold in open markets. So much for the ‘Peace President’….no better or worse than his sleazy predecessors and mad successor.
Btw, are you West Coast-based? Judging by the time of your comment, it seemed likely. ❤️
Yeah, L.A., unfortunately. Born and abandoned in San Francisco. Raised in L.A. Lived in NYC for seven years and found my husband there. I know you didn’t ask any of this. Just a little back story. 🙂
I could never hold my end up with you in a conversation about politics and the goings-on of the world, especially with your journalistic background. But I enjoy the insights you provide, helping to widen my (sheltered) American view a little more. And then I get to impress hubby now and then with a factoid (he’s quite the politico himself) that he may or may not have known, lol.
I really hope you have success with your book, because along with it being inventive, wry, hilarious, and beautifully written, it’s also extremely informative! You have to find some maverick publisher, tho, I think, ’cause no one wants to hear the actual truth, right? But they’re out there. Unless you’re going to self-publish, which may be more difficult procedure-wise, but ultimately you’d have full control over every aspect of your book. 🙂
It makes a difference to hear encouragement, so big thanks Seliza.
Not sure about the publishing side yet – it feels like the correct idea will come along, in the same way as the book kind of writes and then rewrites itself. Maybe a new website when its done, and a Twitter campaign. Just notions at present.
I’ve a UK mate in Long Beach, who I’ve never visited. Envy you the sunshine! Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?
It’s unfortunate ’cause L.A is a beautiful place that shouldn’t be this difficult to live in. It’s full of narcissists because of show business, and the fact that you can’t get anywhere without a car doesn’t help. People are used to driving alone, one person to a car, for hours on end to get to work, then get back home, so they don’t know how to deal with other people (like in NYC, you’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder or crammed into a subway car, so if you’re rude to someone, you’ll have to deal with them face-to-face) but in a car you can scream and honk and give the finger and then speed away or more probably you’ll just keep driving and driving,dying a little bit every day, alone, surrounded by metal, and that’s how you spend 85% of your life. I found NYC refreshing, even the blizzards, but was forced back to the West Coast due to office closures. (What else?)
Eeeek. Long Beach can be rough. I hope your buddy’s in an area he likes.
How does HE like California?
Yeah, I do think of traffic when LA comes to mind. Have only ever visited DC, nowhere else in the US. Have some cousins in New Jersey that have come over here in recent years. Good people. Re Long Beach, Neil keeps the house on but has moved up to a new housing development at the top end of one of the valleys. He always saw America as an opportunity to make money and get laid. LA just happened to be where he was originally based, and he stayed on. He’s good with people, wherever he goes.
I changed a bunch of my settings so I would start getting posts from people once a week instead of daily, and now I feel like I can hold insanity off for at least another few years! 🙂
I was literally drowning alive in people’s posts. How do you guys think of so much to write about?
But now I don’t see any more of the Essex posts. Is there any way to access them on one page or see a list in here….? When I go to one chapter, it seems like they’re all wonky and out of order. Where do they stand now? I’m not sure where I left off, Kev. Help, lol……..!
Hi Stace, I’m not so clever as regards the tech behind blogs. I’m on the basic wordpress programme, which has no index. So yoiu come in at http://www.thebiscuitfactoryonline.com and see the latest effort. Then you have to scroll back to see anything else. Chatted to a web designer last night in the pub, and solicited a promise to help me build an OOE website next year.
Wrote blog 245 in the week but then pulled it as I wasn’t happy with the content. About to write number 246. Am a bit stuck with the book at present.
Being prolific? Writing gives me almost more pleasure than anytghing else. When we’re in the wet, dark depths of a British winter, what else is there? Once it’s warm again, the flow will fade.
Hope that helps 🙂
I’m not the fastest reader Kev but I’m really enjoying this. Thought provoking 👍
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Thanks John – always hugely flattered if anyone reads it, let alone enjoys it……I wrote it for myself really, but have enjoyed trying to improve it second time around. With current commitments, your reading speed will probably be enough for you to catch up, as I don’t seem to have any spare time now! 🙂 🙂
Good for you mate (I mean good that you’re busy) You know it’s a great piece of work Kev.
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Thanks matey….nice of you to say so 🙂