Wednesday 17 April 2024

SHORT: Tell Your Children [2023]

TELL YOUR CHILDREN


“I believe that the children are the future
Teach them well and let them know
Things may be all shit right now…
But it gets worse when you’re old.”

- The Vandals

“Democracy is a system for ensuring
that the people get what they deserve,
and get it good and hard.”

- My mate Jamie

Tell your children, when they ask,
the true cause of their dismay this holiday season.
Tell them the truth about the last 14 years:
how it could so easily have been avoided
if the country they were born into
exhibited just a little more empathy,
self-awareness
or even basic intelligence.

Tell them about the Conservative Party,
and a project called Austerity.
A straight-up transfer of wealth from bottom to top
A policy whose architects were born into unimaginable wealth and privilege
but who decided to use those advantages to entrench further economic disparity.

Tell them the names George Osborne and David Cameron
Men apparently born to rule
who once torched banknotes in front of the homeless
and had the temerity to claim “we’re all in this together”
as if every last one of them is not isolated from the effects of their actions.
Merrily ensconced in a web of parachutes and safety nets
they so casually deny to others;
all hail the awful, gilded world of action without consequence.

Tell them about the 335,000 excess deaths attributed to this policy decision,
as documented in a recent academic study
in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health.
Tell them about millionaires in the Cabinet
who lecture us endlessly about “hard choices”
while signing away public services with the stroke of a pen.
A raft of “difficult decisions” which reveal so much about the people making them
yet say still more via the road not taken:
Choosing instead to lift the cap on bankers’ bonuses
and protect the interests of the gambling industry
rather than help those in genuine need.

Tell them about the so-called “Big Society”
and its interminable proliferation of food bank use in a nation of plenty.
Tell them how the Conservatives voted repeatedly to let children go hungry
and had to be shamed into corrective action by a Premier League footballer.
Tell them why their local community hub is crumbling
and staffed by volunteers;
About how former Education Secretary Michael Gove insisted
that children should be reading 50 books a year
while his government engaged in a systematic mission
to close down every public library in the country.

Tell them about Iain Duncan-Smith and the Department for Work and Pensions.
About the systematic hounding of those unable to sell their labour
About continual sanctions, online forms and hoops that must be jumped through:
the kind of bureaucratic labyrinth of which Kafka would be proud.
Tell them about a company called ATOS,
which turned the disabled into numbers on a Spreadsheet 
for the sake of private profit;
About the Poundland scandal, and enforced volunteering for less than the minimum wage.
Tell them about their co-option of the word “compassionate” so late in the game:
About the sheer effrontery of the notion of a “Compassionate Conservative”
A term bandied around like some deranged badge of honour
As if being compassionate should not be the fucking default.

Tell them about a concept called “Brexit”:
an internal party-political squabble transposed to national nightmare.
About “lower energy bills”, “more cash for the NHS”;
all lies told brazenly and fake promises broken.
An eight-year farce with no end in sight
Economic isolationism
with precisely zero benefits;
Its adherents slinking quietly away
like so many shuttered storefronts.
National sovereignty restored: a label on a pint glass
A lovely blue passport like back in the old days
God save the fucking King.
A nation finally brought to its knees, too proud or pig-headed to beg
for the teat of communal assistance;
Boy, we sure know how to stick it to those global elites.

Tell them about Theresa May and her “hostile environment”,
and about the 83 naturalised British citizens 
wrongfully deported as part of the Windrush Scandal.
Tell them about a “swarm” and “invasion” on our seas
About “vile people smugglers”
About boats found washed ashore with dozens of missing inhabitants
and an administration having to be actively dissuaded from installing wave machines
in coastal areas
to beat back the tide.
As if we haven’t been telling refugees for years now that our way of life is superior
or driven them slowly inwards towards our hallowed isle
through decades of armed conflict that we helped propagate.
But just remember who the real enemy is next time you go to the polls:
a five-year-old girl from Syria
and a single mum from the Sudan.

Tell them, then, about Priti Patel and Suella Braverman:
Children born to immigrant families
who couldn’t summon the common decency to extend the same opportunities to others.
People whose chronic lack of empathy was such that they made it their “dream”
to deport those seeking a better life.
A finer example for your child’s aspirations, you never could hope to set;
Dream big, kids,
for one day you too could rank among the world’s most irredeemable bastards.

Tell them about Awaab Ishak
A young boy in Rochdale whose short life lasted just 24 months
and who died of complications sustained from untreated mould in his Council flat.
Tell them about how the Secretary of Housing had the temerity and the gall
to call this situation “unacceptable”
As if the party he is a proud, paid-up member of -
a party in which a full quarter of its MPs are private landlords -
hadn’t voted for years against making rental properties fit for human habitation
or choked the social housing sector of vital funding.

Tell them, then, about a tower block in Grenfell
That seething, smouldering eyesore
A monument to corporate and legislative malfeasance
which is somehow still allowed to stand when 72 of its former inhabitants cannot.
Tell them about the design flaw baked into the system
which allows its subcontractors to play an endless round of pass-the-parcel,
one in which the music ultimately stops but there is no responsibility,
accountability
or - more accurately –
liability
to be found gift-wrapped at the centre.

Tell them about Boris Johnson
That lovable, philandering rogue turned “Man of the People”.
This buffoon, this charlatan, this posturing circus clown
with whom the average citizen
shares about as much in common as they do with
a garden-variety hog.
Tell them about one rule for them and another for the rest of us:
about parties which raged in Downing Street while the nation sat obediently in
forced isolation
Merrily taken for the fools we are
for allowing ourselves to believe that this man could ever be one of us.

Tell them names like Jacob Rees-Mogg and Nadine Dorries:
People who bemoaned the erosion of respect in public life
while blithely facilitating acts of state violence and cultural vandalism.
Tell them about David Amess,
the stick to beat your hypocrisy with:
Martyred and sanctified
But whose voting record exists in perpetuity for all the world to see.
A man who cared more for animals than he ever did about welfare recipients
or the less able-bodied
But who smiled a lot at local events, so that’s okay.
A “nice man”, all things considered;
Beatified in death like Thatcher before him.
But be sure to tell them all how now is “not the moment” to discuss these things
Because have you ever noticed
how now is never the moment.

Tell them about an imported “Culture War”
which saw those born into a gender which is not their own
used as a political punching-bag for the sake of scoring cheap points.
Tell them about fusty poets removed from the syllabus
About manufactured outrage
About reading lists “hijacked” by black authors
About university speakers “cancelled”;
All stories wilfully misconstrued to inflame those with a vested interest
in maintaining the status quo.
Tell them about how “freedom of speech” was supposedly under attack from
Gen-Z snowflakes
And how “virtue-signalling” applies to every act of rudimentary social conscience
bar, of course, the wearing of a poppy.

Tell them how all these measures
which, coincidentally, have a disproportionate effect on people of colour
were summarised in a report that claimed – perhaps somewhat audaciously -
that institutional racism is a myth.
Signed, sealed and delivered;
It’s life, Jim, but not as you know it
Hundreds upon thousands of citizens gaslit on a national scale
as they’re told they need to “change the narrative”;
As if the concept of racism itself has somehow been overstated
in spite of all lived experience
and basic evidence to the contrary.
Tory Blue, yet still white through and through.

Tell them about the ongoing criminalisation of protest
and the mindset of a government which hands out 10-year jail sentences
for vandalising statues of slave-owners
but refuses to prosecute or even sanction corporate tax evasion.
Tell them about Jeremy Corbyn and anti-Semitism,
and how isn’t it strange that Conservatives only seem to give a fuck about these issues
when it serves their own immediate political ends.
Tell them, then, about Prevent and Islamophobia
About the weaponisation of the term “woke”,
trotted out as a noun to belittle those who’ve finally become wise to their bullshit.
“Wokie” the new “darkie” -
the ultimate modern-day dog-whistle;
the unsayable made palatable for mass consumption.
Then tell your children, in light of all this,
how you expect them now to grow up and become
functioning members of an increasingly-multicultural society
without having ever been taught anything meaningful about history
or diversity
or tolerance.

Tell them about Liz Truss and Kwasi Kwarteng:
Farcical adherents to a 40-year-old discredited economic theory
which insists the wealth will one day “trickle down”.
Neoliberal ideologues whose comedic antics wrought disaster for millions
while delivering ridicule on a global scale.
The ultimate in bitter irony:
“Live by the markets, die by the markets”
A failed experiment turned national punchline
The final decimation of the dream of home ownership
The joke, as ever, merely on us
while predatory speculators grow ever-richer betting against the pound
and we’re all left to ponder how the only thing that ever “trickled down”
was the distinct feeling of getting pissed on from a great height
and being told to pretend like it’s raining.

Tell them about the much-vaunted promise of “strength and stability”
while delivering neither;
About refusing to allow ourselves to get “taken back to the 1970s” of high inflation,
strikes and social unrest
Before taking us right back to the 1970s of high inflation, strikes and social unrest.
Tell them about a prolonged cost-of-living crisis
and how taxpayer money was handed to energy companies already generating billions
in surplus revenue.
Tell them how they allowed essential commodities like water, transport and energy
to be run for private gain ahead of the national interest;
About a health service in ruins
and a mental health crisis become national psychosis.
I just checked in to see what condition my condition was in:
Anxiety, depression, burnout and fatigue the “New Normal”
in a country where we’re told that “No-one wants to work anymore”
Small wonder
in a world of zero-hours contracts, casualised labour and demonised collective action
Worker pitted against worker
Sector against sector
Mick Lynch, the “Christmas Grinch” for having the audacity to stand up and say:
“No more.”

Tell them about the myth of competence:
About names like Michael Gove, Grant Shapps and Jeremy Hunt
Men of infinite indistinction
Jacks-of-all-trades but masters of none
Shuffled from one cabinet post to another as a “safe pair of hands”
while everything they touch turns gradually to shit.
King Midas in reverse; a true emperor without clothing.
Tell them, then, about the Great Magic Trick:
the myth of “Levelling Up”
That infernal sleight-of-hand which deprives communities of basic sustenance
for the best part of a decade
That slashes funding
That starves vital services of the oxygen they so desperately need to survive
and then claims to ride in on a white horse as our noble saviour.
With one hand they taketh, and the other they give back:
bestowing so generously upon the grateful masses
that which was already theirs to begin with.
’Twas ever thus in the endless merry-go-round of a party
who do not believe in the idea of a State,
and whose figurehead and contemporary spiritual role-model once said:
“There is no such thing as society”.

Tell them about a party which supposedly did “so much for women”
by electing three grotesque incompetents to the nation’s highest office
Then tell them the names Zara Aleena, and Sabita Thanwani, and Sarah Everard
Victims of institutionalised assault, harassment and murder
and a police service perverted to the core by the perpetual need to be “tough on crime”.
Tell them all about these “shocking tragedies”, which strangely remain neither a shock
nor even much of a surprise
to the majority of women.
Tell them about the absence of consent education in your child’s classroom
and a wilful, singular failure to observe the basic relationship between cause and effect
because we all just need to “let children be children”.
About how phrases like ‘toxic masculinity’ are considered “unhelpful posturing”
rather than a vital social imperative.
Tell your children,
your sons in particular,
in the absence of meaningful government action
to respect and honour bodily autonomy and biological difference
while embracing commonality.
I will say it once more but now shout it with force:
FEMINISM
HELPS
MEN

Tell them all this while showing them Andrew Tate’s array of shiny fucking cars
and explain how they’ll likely never be rich, despite their best intentions.
Tell them about the myth of aspiration
The great lie of a meritocracy which seems to exist only for those
with the requisite means, motives, opportunities
or accident of birthright.
Tell them how this was part of their grand scheme all along:
the stick that follows the carrot to direct us all
straight down the nearest rabbit-hole.
Tell them about just existing
Day-to-day and week-to-week
Paycheque to paycheque
One casual wrist-flick of circumstance away from joining the ranks of the destitute.
It is exactly what they want
For they consider it a moral failing
to be poor and without means
in a system designed to keep us all locked firmly in our place.

Tell them, then, about a world in which the only art celebrated
is that with a proven commercial value.
About how anyone who belittles university degrees in “Mickey Mouse subjects”
should be stripped of the right to read a book, or listen to music,
or enjoy any form of visual entertainment
Since it is so often conveniently forgotten that your daily source of escape
represents another person’s dream, calling, or source of employment.

Tell them, yes, about a global pandemic and an illegal war waged by a lunatic dictator
But let them never be used as an excuse
- as they so often are nowadays –
for their own party’s political shortcomings.

Tell them about endless debates on BBC bias while an entire schedule is given over 
for
ten whole days
to rolling coverage of a monarch’s death
The speed of accession validated with not one dissenting voice allowed to speak in opposition
Because have you ever noticed
how now
is never
the moment.

Tell them
all these things. Tell them that basic numeracy is instilled at Primary School-age,
and how the majority of adults will never have a use for GCSE Maths beyond the age of 16.

Tell them about the slashing of alternative energy programmes,
then seeming somehow surprised
by the advent of a global energy crisis.

Tell them how they voted
en masse to allow water companies
to dump thousands of gallons of shit into our rivers and seas.

Tell them about tuition fees trebled and student debt multiplied;

About PPE procurement scandals and millions in missing taxpayer funds;

About peerages handed out like tombola prizes to cronies and oligarchs;

About endless attempts to force through boundary changes in a further bid to rig
the electoral map 
in their favour,
and the wholly superfluous introduction of voter ID to ensure just that.

Tell them about the distortion and sabotage of the referendum on voting reform
so that proportional representation remains off the table for at least another three decades.

Tell them about their stupid fucking “power stance” at Tory Party Conference.

But above all else, tell them this:
Tell them what it felt like to barely survive this cold, hard winter
To have lived freezing, broke and without hope
Tell them to remember this feeling
To hold it in their bones
and revisit it at the ballot-box for generations to come.
Tell them all these things, and remind them:
That
is what it felt like
to live
under a Conservative government. 

C.C. Jan 2023

Wednesday 14 February 2024

SHORT: Happy Valentine's Day (2024)

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

Roses are red;

Violets are blue;

J.K. Rowling is an appalling, transphobic witch who misappropriates the tenets of Second-Wave Feminism in a bid to mask the hatred that lies within her cold, dead heart;

Fuck her.

C.C. 14/02/24


Monday 5 February 2024

SHORT: The Pseudo-Ironic Sophie Ellis-Bextor Revival [2024]

THE PSEUDO-IRONIC SOPHIE ELLIS-BEXTOR REVIVAL

Yes, it finally came to pass - just like we all knew, deep-down, that it ultimately would. Five years on from the pseudo-ironic Craig David revival (“Met her on a Monday, shagged her on a Tuesday, syphilis on the Wednesday – I’m Craig David”) comes the inevitable return of ol’ coat-hanger face herself.

It was always going to happen. As if summoned by that half-arsed joke that did the rounds a few years back about a death in the hotel room of a famous French footballer - “there’s a murder on Zidane’s floor” - up lifts the rock, and out crawls the deathless double-barrelled hyphenate that is Sophie Ellis-Bextor, fresh from a series of timely kitchen disco-dance videos on Youtube.

You can just see it all unfold now in gory slow-motion on New Year’s Eve, 1.4 million streams deep into the festivities, as Kevin from Hartford loosens his top bottom and starts to shimmy from room to room, just like him out of Saltburn. “Look at me!”, he says. “LOOK AT ME! I’m that Scouse guy, dancing with his cock out!” Yes, Kevin – yes, you are. That’s you, that is. The accumulated throng of Amazon Prime subscribers yelps with delight, watching in wild amusement as our hero heads outside to try and find a mound of dirt to hump.

There’s a killer line to be had here somewhere, just like at the climax of the film itself – something, anything that would make it all satire, instead of a dead-eyed knock-off of Kind Hearts & Coronets. But alas, it never comes. I’ll be honest – I’m not entirely sure what it should be, but then again I’m not pretending to be an Oscar-winning screenwriter.

As for our intrepid heroine, it’s surely only a few dainty steps between here and the inevitable West End musical. After all, why not her? There’s gold in them thar hills. It’s all happening nowadays in Retro Popland: Steps are still touring, so why shouldn’t she? There’s potentially even an opening on the S Club bus, after him who used to fuck that other one opted to cark it rather than live life as a grown man reduced to singing ‘Bring It All Back’ every night. At the very least, maybe she can help make up the numbers now that 5ive are down to just 2wo. After all: “When the rainy days are dyin’, gotta keep on, keep on tryin’ – ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhh…!

* * * 

Six months later at a pseudo-ironic Disco-themed BBC Prom, things are all going swimmingly to plan. Bextor works her moment in the spotlight, gamely trotting out her repertoire of three songs while modelling a glittery skirt.  If this ain’t lovvvve… - come on everybody, you know this one! – Why does it feel like, why does it feel so good…?” No more matinee performances on Hits Radio tours for her, eternally sandwiched between some sad-eyed TikToker pedalling a plaintive acoustic cover of Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’ and whoever the fuck it was that did “Bluuuuue, da-ba-dee, da-ba-daaaaiiii, da-ba-dee…”. It’ll be off to Glastonbury next, bringing a little sunshine and sparkle to The Other Stage at 2:15pm on the Saturday before Edith Bowman reports back to the nation how amazing the whole thing was. “If you think you’re getting’ away, IIIIIIIIII will prove you wrong…

Twas ever thus in the twilight of humanity’s brief reign of terror here on planet Earth. Just out of her eyeline on stage-right, Orson, Alphabeat and The Hoosiers wait hungrily in the wings, looking to sup merrily from her post-show bathwater in the hope of ingesting some of the magic elixir. Meanwhile, Old Mother Culture yawns in the corner, teetering on an upcycled vintage rocking chair while sporting a pseudo-ironic retro-contemporary haircut that’s part raspberry and part mullet. She clutches her bumbag and shellsuit combo close while perusing a back-issue of Ms. magazine and wondering how much she can get for a piece of old rope on Depop. Meanwhile, the last surviving major record label salivates in anticipation of next year’s great pseudo-ironic Noughties comeback: the Fast Food Rockers. McDonald’s. McDonald’s. Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a Pizza Hut.

Three members of the audience are members of theaudience, the short-lived indie band fronted by Ellis-Bextor during her bored teenage years in an attempt to escape the shadow of Mummy’s Blue Peter badge. Originally formed as a £100 bet back in the Britpop era, one of them now works at Bextor’s local branch of Waitrose, and is frequently forced to endure the ignominy of having to do a price-check for his former bandmate whenever she comes in to pick up her weekly supply of quinoa. The three of them are hoping to recoup the 37p in Spotify royalties she owes them for 20 years’ worth of streams on their song ‘Pessimist Is Never Disappointed’, which she promised she’d get her accountant to send over last summer but never seemed to get around to. “Sophie! Sophie! Remember me…?”, shouts the guitarist.  “I’m the one who plucked you from a life of Bourgeois drudgery studying English and Drama at Queen Mary Westfield by selling my record collection to fund our first demo…!” Alas, his cries are drowned out by the shrill shrieking of a 32-year-old spectrasexual ambivert wearing Mickey Mouse ears and a pair of shiny angel wings – just like a Disney butterfly.

As the clock ticks ever-closer towards 14:59, Bextor contemplates the long ride home to the million-pound mansion full of quirky vintage crap that she shares with hubby Richard Jones, formerly of Brit School-educated performing Alps ski-lodge outfit The Feeling - a band whose infinitely disingenuous moniker betrayed the fact that their music contained a grotesque, plastic surfeit of literally anything but. He’s had a busy evening challenging a court summons he’s been sent for vandalising a ULEZ camera in protest at not being able to gallivant round the city in the couple’s tricked-out SUV. Thankfully, there’s just enough time left for the woman of the hour to dispense with the pièce de résistance, a joyous ode to disco homicide accompanied by the least-convincing swear of all time: “There’s a murder on the dancefloor… but you better not kill the groove! DJ! GONNA BURN THIS GOD DAMN HOUSE RIGHT DOWN…!

Needless to say, there are no calls for an encore – there is simply nowhere left to go, both literally and metaphorically. Leaving the stage to a volley of pseudo-ironic applause, she taps out the PIN-code on her complimentary iPhone and calls ahead to announce that she’s on her way back. Unfortunately, she gets the answering machine. It’s a track from The Feeling’s debut album Twelve Stops and Home, charmingly repurposed to suitably whimsical effect. “I love it when you call, I love it when you call… I love it when you call, but you never call at all. Whooooo…!

- BEEEEEP!

“Darling, it’s me. The peasantry were suitably appalling, but just letting you know that I’ll be home shortly. Please make sure Juanita’s put all our private-school brats to bed so that I don’t have to. By the way, can you also have her stick a pot of Camomile on to brew for when I get in? I think I might be pregnant with our 57th child. Goodbye, darling.”

Pausing for a moment to snort two lines of gak off a newly-pressed vinyl reissue of her seminal 2001 debut Read My Lips (available now from all good HMV stores, priced £59.99), she hits the intercom button on the deluxe-model limo she’s chartered using License-Fee payers’ money. “Take me home. Take me ho-o-ome!”, she says to the driver – but not before insisting that he winds down the front window and feeds her an After Eight.

As they speed away into the night, a song comes on the radio that I think I remember from way back when. I think I remember it sounding different, though. I think it used to be so much better. I think 

“So remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk;
City lights lay out before us,
And your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder…”

 

C.C. Jan 24