I never know quite what it is I’m trying to write about. The academic left in me used to write articles intended to be unintelligible. This was how I traveled the small world of academe, with its usually good and free-to-me food, and cynical, drunken, sometimes shagging company. I’m a really serious bastard, but don’t want anyone to learn from me by giving me any credibility. ‘Credibility’ is the shit through which the powerful rule us, the excrement of the manipulated statistics of modern mushroom theory. We know the old joke. They keep us in the dark and drop horse manure on us every now and then.
In recent years, my partner and I have discovered just how high the shit is piled. It’s like one of those moments in literature when you discover Holden Caulfield is not merely a stroppy, boring teenage cunt you are forced to read about to get to university by a frustrated spinster who thinks Catcher in the Rye will be light relief compared with reading books by long dead frustrated spinsters, but that the bent teenage get is really speaking to you from a loony-bin. You find this out by reading the York Notes, having long since discovered there’s no point having your own opinions. Originality is such that that you learn only to define it by getting your PhD (piled high and deep) in English Literature by ensuring you only ever read York Notes and thus never babble on about anything the other original cunts who dole them out consider dangerous. This isn’t me, should you be on that route, but my mate Spadge, as rough a rugby league arse beneath his daunting prose, as you’d care to meet. Education teaches you its own brand of lying. I did science. This and joining the police force were just about keeping me playing rugby league too.
What happened to me and Dale was the dumping of something much more dangerous than horse manure into our lives. The local council moved two utter shits into their property next door, the other half of our semi. More on them later. The ‘moment’ as above was the discovery that even more of the world was down the toilet than we’d thought. Crap as our scrote neighbours were (and are now elsewhere), they played only a small role in our ‘moment’. It was the discovery that police, Town Hall agencies and politicians prefer to beat up on victims rather than admit to their own failings and cowardice. In short, they are a bunch of shits. It’s like waking up in ‘Soviet Paradise’ from a dream of freedom.
You need to understand here, that coming across a cop or housing worker in trouble, old and knackered as we are, Dale and I would not walk on by. We wouldn’t cross the road though, to piss on our MP or local Councillors if they were on fire. Indeed, as you will discover later, they would be on fire if they lived next door to our neighbours. The solution might well be to gather all our nasty, violent and character assassinating stuffed shirts in one place and issue our former neighbours with petrol vouchers and empty milk bottles. I’ll finish the job with a sniper’s rifle (I’m not as good as I was, but these bastards don’t deserve a quick kill).
A word on language. We all fuck. It can be messy, wet and enjoyable. Orwell suggested somewhere (a character in 1984), that the only true and biological response in the face of News and Doublespeak is to fuck it off. The cold, ‘polite’ and vile voice of ‘dispassion’ is fucking us all to the degree of third-degree rectal scarring. This is not a time for ‘incredulity towards metanarratives’ and other piss no one can understand, but one in which to ‘oversimplify in the extreme’. Affecionados of postmodernism and Lyotard should remember one of his ripping yarns was about us being shafted by The Libidinal Economy. ‘Oversimplifying to the extreme’, a phrase preceding his definition of a moment of refreshing ideas, we need fucking straight talking. And we need to be able to do it without slimy lawyers and politicians degrading us as uncouth twats because we use our own language.
So what happened to us? First, let me say it is still happening to others. Our former neighbours are bang at it down the road. She’s due in court for arson and serious assault (not on us). There’s every sign cops and CPS will fuck up the case, adjourned several times since offences committed 18 and 12 months ago. A mate, currently a mature student, his partner and her kids, living in an adjoining police division are getting the same crap from their next-door drug dealer. Round the corner, racist attacks by young scum are being dealt with in the same bungling manner as in our seven years of terror. A decent, honest response officer tells us a nasty, racist-linked assault on our lad, witnessed independently, might be better left alone, because the force and worthless Town Hall agencies can’t protect him from the shit family, who will still be there even if they get convictions. The same stories are being told in police blogs such as Inspector Gadget (many more links to other blogs and books there). There is, in the minds of many, including police officers, a conspiracy to suppress the truth. We know, very personally, at as direct a level of any experiment I’ve ever conducted in laboratory, that even all this is not a true representation of just how shit it is.
I was away in the Middle East when all this started. Dale and I met late in life, just as other long-term relationships were going belly-up. Madness and nastiness were involved and she probably saved my life. Neither of us was well. Dealing close-up with madness takes its toll. We needed somewhere to live with her daughter and very lovely young lad. Broke, we risked taking a council house. It’s worth remembering what a broken-down piece of shit it was. Five grand and two broken backs later, we transformed it from health risk to livable. Many cops notice how the crap state we allow public housing to lapse to. A big question in this book will be ‘whose human rights are we protecting’? We only got out house because I had enough on a credit card to fix it. The general plan, having had to leave both our homes behind, would have been to save enough over a couple of years to buy another one. All of us already know you don’t want to risk living where scrotes might come along, and private housing is generally a better bet. Ours was a case of ‘needs must’.
Brown, the current hunk of priministerial meat, is tossing off in Parliament as I write. Some guilded shit Nulabour should have done 13 years ago, that is now just an admission of failure, covered as a lie about the promised land. When we moved in, Blair, the guy 25% of the population thinks should now be tried as a war criminal and who should twin himself with Kim Jong II, was on television spouting to a guy who had to move at great cost because of scrote. The bloke was explaining about scrote invasion. One lot moves in, blare music, start trading drugs, general fuck about being aggressive, use their kids to get benefits and as advanced skirmishers – we all know the rest. You complain, but no cunt does anything other than drop you further in the shit by identifying you to the scrote. No one else will move in now the advanced party is established. Their mates get any properties that come empty, which happens because decent people move about. Blair ‘understands’, though you can tell in the eyes of the bloke he knows the cunt don’t. Piss about new powers, fixed penalty tickets (where they, useless as they’d be?), ASBOs and just how hunky-dory it will all be. Just like slimed-granite Brown now. Not long after, Blair was pissing in his pants talking of frog-marching violent street-drunks to cash machines to pay instant fines. There’s a picture of this turkey, way back, in white Elvis leathers. The failed rock star who took us into illegal wars is how we should remember him. Clair Short is blowing him out at the Iraq Enquiry today, wasting her breath on dead, decided, polite ears pretending to be objective. Blair stopped meeting the public around then, shoving these quasi-legal shitbags between him and reality. These are times of deception and cops and others get light relief hidden in blogs. Holden Caulfield would be wanking.
To get an idea of the Middle East, put your arm our above your head and imagine your fingers getting burned. That’s the weather. So you’ll quickly be off for a cold one. Down the British Club, with some Belgians describing it as the ‘Brutish Claub’, you’ll find Brits who just have to tell you the White Cliffs of Dover look really good as you look back at them when you leave. No one in their right mind would want to go back to the thieving, scrote-centred, criminal shit-hole Britain has become. Sure, the cops here are armed, the place run by a mega-rich despot and you have to know your way round the wasta, but decent, hard-working go-getters like us have nothing to fear. And you don’t have to pay taxes to keep the idle drug-scrote in heroin cut with Vim.