An unfinished philosophical work I started in 07

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Craig High
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An unfinished philosophical work I started in 07

Postby Craig High » Wed May 23, 2012 11:14 am



I am hoping to provide a spot-light on the reasons why the human race may well be approaching the end times.... if it is not actually experiencing them already. I am hoping to do this through allegory, symbolism & through the kind of story telling that has provided our species with the unique place it has enjoyed on good old Mother Earth.
I am going to avoid both religious & scientific rationale since I see these two disciplines as the main bookends that have been the keenest genocide enthusiasts of all the forms of analysis human kind has attempted. There will, of course, be regular references to both science & religion but I am keen to avoid relying on either in an attempt to support my findings. I regard the arrogance inherent in both to be the epitome of human self-destructiveness.
So on to the series of observations that I hope will illuminate us as to why we cannot seem to control ourselves whilst at the same time seem obsessed with controlling the things around us.

My mate Terry is a biker. He has, at times, been affiliated to both The Hell's Angels & The Outcasts. In his youth he experienced an epiphany of the kind one would expect a man of his life-style to live through. Whilst cruising down a street in the East End of London at some point in the late Nineteen Seventies a uniformed member of The Metropolitan Police stepped out into the road in front of Terry's Chopper. The constable raised his hand & attempted to stop Terry as an obvious prelude to either an arrest or some form of prejudicial line of investigation.
When I heard the story in the year Two Thousand & Seven he told a room full of us that he felt it could have only gone two ways. One would be to stop which would almost certainly lead to the confiscation of his bike & an arrest leading to some form of incarceration {Hell's Angels are not great fans of the vehicle licensing system or the driving licence system}.
His other option? Well you can do the math for yourself.
An equally maverick & piratical lady in the room with us enquired of him what course of action he took. Referring to his bike he replied, “Well I opened her up didn't I.” The room exploded into laughter. Terry has a very very dead-pan delivery. The lady concerned was beside herself with hysterical glee & drew the spectacle into sharper relief when she enquired of Terry as to whether the constable had then been found lying on the road with a tire track along the length of his body whilst still holding his arm outstretched toward the sky as if in an attempt to stop it falling on his head. Terry said that the swerve he deftly executed saved both the copper & himself from a tragic situation.
It seems to me that Terry represented the unstoppable forces of nature & the copper represented the human race at its most arrogant & self destructive.

I'm not saying that our species would experience something of a reprieve if we all became Hell's Angels but I damn well know it wouldn't last five minutes if we all became police officers as they exist today. The streets would be littered with the corpses of people who just cannot mind their own business & who have the unhealthy desire to go through each other's pockets. But hey, hang on a minute, isn't that what happens when two tribes go to war? Everyone dons a uniform & within minutes the streets are littered with dead bodies because nobody can mind their own business?
It seems our desire to make order out of chaos is at the heart of our inability to appreciate the world as it is. If we, perhaps, merely try to find order within chaos we may not be as injurious to our own place within it.

The day after Terry told his story both he & I were at a close friend's funeral reception. A motley collection of bikers, anarchists, hippies, punks & travellers were collected in the communal gardens of a council estate off the Devon's Road near Bow. Some of the families represented at this crazy, dangerous & extremely humorous party had lived in the area for centuries. All the local residents had been warned that the afternoon would produce more noise & frivolity than that usually experienced between noon & early evening on a week day. Although the sound system Terry had provided was not “banging it out” a young upwardly mobile lady with an unusually “refined” accent stormed into the space & demanded that the music be turned down. She approached me first because I was wearing a Top Hat. This kind of head gear obviously still represents authority for some people regardless of the fact that it was a throwback to the nineteenth century. I assumed she had been the only person to have slipped through our net when agreeing to the noise levels with everyone who lived within earshot. “I'm awfully sorry. Didn't you know this was a wake for a close friend & long time resident of this estate?” I said this as politely as I could considering I'd had about twelve pints of lager since the previous afternoon. She looked at me angrily & said she did know it was a wake. You could have heard a pin drop as a good dozen cheeky chirpy Cockney characters all looked at her in disbelief. “Obviously one of the new “home owners” that are seeking to gentrify the area,” I said as I turned in disgust to my mate Smutley. “I think we should chop her fucking head off,” said Smutley obviously overtaken by grief at the interruption of a memorial to one of the most charitable “East Enders” anyone in the area had ever known. To my amazement she just stood glaring at us. “I've done some extremely stupid things in my time madam as you can probably guess by looking at me but wot you just done has got to be the single most stupid thing I have ever seen in my life.” I turned to Smutley.... “I would expect my four year old daughter to understand the importance of allowing people to “tear it up” at a wake let alone a full grown adult who had been forewarned.”
“Who's in charge here?” she demanded. Ah yes.... a popular question that often crops up during these “end times”.
I pointed to Terry. I think by now dear reader that a pattern is emerging.

Perhaps human stupidity is something that begins at birth. I used to think that the concept of “original sin” was very unfair. I mean what chance has anyone got if they are guilty before being proved innocent? Since becoming a father I am almost inclined to change my mind. When our daughter Lilith was born I was amazed at how addicted to her mother's milk she was. So as to reassure myself that she had not merely inherited her father's addictive behaviour I discussed this with many other parents. Thank god! All babies are like it. No, hang on, I should not revel in this finding. There is a much greater problem homing into view. WE'RE ALL BORN JUNKIES!
Our daughter sucked & sucked & sucked & sucked & sucked. She sucked so much that only at the point of overdose did she fall away from her mother's breasts & swoon in a mixture of euphoria & nausea.
One morning I awoke to find our three week old baby staring straight into my face. A split second later she spewed a torrent of warm milk straight into my eyes & blinded me for a whole ten seconds until I could wipe away both the milk & the shock. Again she had overdosed. Could this kind of irrational greed be the “original sin” that has then been overcomplicated by early religious texts? At her tender age our baby had certainly not learnt this behaviour through nurture. She could not have been subject to some outside influence to that extent & I certainly don't remember her mother or me impressing on her the importance of gluttony.
Science would probably point the finger at genetics. If this were true such behaviour would not be as uniform amongst every single human baby that is born. There would be variety. Some would swoon after feeding. Some would merely belch. Some would light a cigarette. No, it seems that need & greed have become hopelessly confused at a basic level at some point in our evolution & we spend the rest of our lives trying to get a handle on our compulsive behaviour.
What of “intelligent design” I hear some of you revisionists cry out. Well if it has any basis in reality it can't be that fucking intelligent can it! Junkie babies, suicidal law enforcement officers & insensitive yuppies who think they're going to live for ever. God should be served with an asbo if the “original mover” set these fuck ups in motion.
“Last orders please! Mother's milk can only be served between the years Two Million Three Thousand & Six Hundred B.C & Two Thousand & Seven A.D.”
Since when did the erroneous date of a fictional messiah's birth become the yardstick by which to gauge the longevity of the human race?

Instead of banging on about my own daughter's gluttony any more I'll pass my critical beam over my own. I distinctly remember my fifth birthday. The reason I remember it is because something awful happened. It has often struck me as odd that some of the most vivid memories from early childhood are often those surrounding the most unpleasant experiences. It seems that the collective subconsciousness is perpetually trying to learn from its mistakes. I am one of the only adults I know who remembers his first day at Primary School. My mother is another who does. This is because our experiences on that day were similarly traumatic. Most people I have asked concerning their first day at “school” do not remember it & therefore we can assume it went without incident.
My fifth birthday, like most memories, nay ALL memories, comes back to me as a single moment surrounded by assumptions as to how this moment was arrived at & what the outcome of it was.
It concerns jelly & ice-cream. I'm sure most of the excellent party that my parents had lovingly prepared for me was full of the joys of any party of its kind. If so then why do I get the strong impression that I blew it? The answer is simply this.... I sat in a hall, on a long table, with a row of children sitting either side of me & opposite me. I looked down at my plate of jelly & ice-cream. I looked at every other child's plate of jelly & ice-cream. I had been told again & again that this was my party. I had become obsessed with the idea that this was my party. I had been led to believe that on this day, apart from any other, I was the most important child in the room. On this day I was ruler of my world & anything I wanted I should certainly have a right to. Everybody had obviously lavished me with gifts. Other children were strangely reverential towards me. My ego had been inflated like a Zeppelin & I, alone, held the power to the fucking universe!
Why, then, had every other child in the room been given MY jelly & ice-cream? Surely everything was mine. The plates were mine. The table was mine. The building was mine. The street outside was mine. The country was mine. The whole goddam world was mine for just one single day in the year. So why had every other child in the room been given MY jelly & ice-cream? The paradox was too much for me. I remember it as if it had happened yesterday. I remember the anger brewing up inside me. I remember the feeling that absolute power had been replaced with absolute impotence. I could not stop what was happening. As I looked on in disbelief all of the desert that should have been mine was disappearing in front of my very eyes. THE GODDAM INJUSTICE OF IT ALL! I started screaming. Blood-curdling howls of indignation. Parents must have frozen. Instead of the despair spreading I remember other children looked at me with a sense of pity & disgust. They all assumed a dignity & poise that was beyond my primitive understanding. As my screaming turned to weeping I remember being shocked that nothing was being done to console me. I realised that I was oh so terribly terribly wrong. I could not have been more wrong. I had committed a crime of astral proportions. My ingratitude, my greed, my intolerance & my lack of control had made me the lowest, most miserable wretch in the room. My assumption that I had absolute power had fermented a level of greed that was unfathomable. Now I was undone. The crushing realisation that everyone is intrinsically equal had squashed me like an evil bug under the finger of god.
Can someone please tell me what the hell I would have done with all that jelly & ice-cream if I had got my way? What use is greed & it's partner in crime “ambition” when the goals are beyond the capacity for any single organism to enjoy them?
I have decided that power hungry political, religious, corporate & military leaders have settled on five as the mental age that dominates their ability to reason. In fact my fifth birthday party had been a bad blip that had thrown me back to the level of a two or three year old in the company of older & wiser kids. Therefore it is perhaps more accurate to say that two & three is more the mental age of company directors, despots, popes, priests & generals. Any attempt to further the common good is subordinated to their basic desire to have more than others. This is because they never accepted that they made a terrible mistake at what ever version of my jelly & ice-cream experience they suffered. The worst of them do not leave it there either. The very worst of them then spend the rest of their miserable lives trying to exact revenge on the human race for the fact that they fucked their own party up. Sick bastards! Don't bother reflecting on historic figures. Just look around you. All leaders are the same. Whether they be managers in the workplace or prime ministers & presidents. Anyone given the power to tell someone else what to do will have that “greed gene” tickled.
Hold on.... if I say “greed gene” a thousand dumb scientists will rabidly look for it. No.... not greed gene.... it's nurture not nature we're talking about you idiots & no, Satan is not responsible, we all are. The church & the laboratory can kiss my arse. They are both symptoms of the horrible fact that we just cannot take communal responsibility for the lousy state this planet is in.
“But hey”, I hear some of you fatalists cry out, “surely it's all just a product of human nature.” Well listen up.... human nature is anything we want it to be so do something about it!

Like so many concepts taken for granted by the human race “greed” is an umbrella term. As often posited in the annals of human history “greed” can take many forms. Some so diverse as to make one wonder if the same word applies to all. We have greed in terms of the appropriation of goods. This is the most common form of greed be it for food, drink, drugs, gold, diamonds or cars. This can be subdivided into two categories. Greed based around having more than one needs of a necessary good {food & drink are the obvious examples here} & greed based around non-essential goods {gold & diamonds are two obvious examples here}.
Other than greed for goods there is greed for land. This stands alone as a specific form of greed because of its impact on the development of human civilisation. We will cover this in the chapter entitled “Power”.
Then there is greed for something that someone else has. This form of greed will be dealt with later on in the chapter entitled “Competition”.
Then there is greed for power itself. Power is an abstract concept & can only really be expressed by the amount of control an individual has over the movement of goods & people. This will be dealt with in the chapter entitled “Power”.
So it seems that greed is the main underlying motive for just about all of society's ills. One could argue that my fifth birthday fuck up was more about status & control than it was about my appetite for jelly & ice-cream. I can't help thinking though that if it weren't for my excessive attraction for the gratification jelly & ice-cream brought me at that time in my life the other human failings would not have come into play. From my observation of my own daughter's attitude to her mother's milk it seems that greed is still the grand-daddy of all human vice.
Our very economic system, if stripped back to its underlying origins, is based on little more than greed. Capitalism means the accumulation of capital. The accumulation of capital implies building up a stock of something surplus to requirements. To put it simply, having more than you need of something. Early economic analysts have excused this as the result of preparing for times of dearth. A squirrel collects more nuts than he or she needs to prepare for the winter. This I can understand. What I cannot understand is the false sense of security that obesity, drug dependency or excessive financial wealth provides.

To explore the subject of greed further I'd now like to move on to the gentrification of Vale Crescent in Kingston Vale on the border of South West London. I spent my first twenty years living in that street. It was leafy, suburban, quiet & almost idyllic. Towards the end of my life there things changed dramatically. If we analyse these changes it might shed light on a more global problem. As the twelfth century gnostics used to put it, “as above so below”.
From Nineteen Sixty Four to Nineteen Eighty you could always be sure of a parking space outside any of the flats & houses in the street. Children would play on their bikes & go-carts with a minimum risk of injury at the hands of eager motorists. There was little or no chance of colliding with anybody's parked vehicle. To begin with there was one vehicle for every three homes. Then one car for every two houses. Even with the advent of one car per home by the mid-Nineteen Seventies all of them were parked in drive-ways or garages. Visitor's vehicles were either parked in drive-ways except one or two that were parked on the street.
At the back of the houses that were divided into four flats per building you had Wimbledon Common on one side & another row of houses next to the A3 by-pass on the other. Up until I was in my teens scores of youngsters played on the Common & these same youngsters could cross the by-pass either using a foot-bridge or walking across the main road using the four lane separation in the middle to stop if necessary. A little lad like myself could stand at the bus stop at the entrance to our street of an afternoon & wait three or four minutes before a vehicle passed in either direction.
Although there were one or two assaults & veiled reports of sex offenders on one or two occasions no one thought twice about letting their children play on Wimbledon Common. I remember I was around ten years old when both I & one or two friends of the same age started walking for miles to & from the windmill over the other side of this expanse of medieval woodland.
Obviously we were all victim to the problems of modern living & I would never dare fall foul of the middle-aged mistake of looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses. I find nostalgia to be one of the most irritating of human weaknesses. I do, however, wish to illustrate why I think greed is the underlying reason for the downfall of Vale Crescent as a relatively child-friendly environment in which to spend one's early years.
Gradually the cars built up. The families who lived on this street started to have less & less to do with one another & god knows they were pretty antisocial towards each other by the time I'd been born in the early sixties. My generation was the first to see television & overtime eating away at the gaps in the week where folk had once chatted over the garden fence.
By the early Nineteen Eighties material wealth increased for some while others lost their jobs for the first time in their family's history & thus had to move out of what was rapidly becoming an expensive area to live in. Most of those that remained sank into a state of paranoia & selfishness. The car became more important than the child & the house became an investment rather than a home. The lynch-pin of all of these social & demographic changes was the thirst for money.
This kind of greed is the worst junk habit of all. This kind of greed is worse than gluttony, alcoholism & even heroin addiction. This kind of greed has caused more death & destruction around the world than religion. In fact this kind of greed IS the new religion. Mammon.... the main god of the twenty & twenty first centuries.
From the early Nineteen Eighties to the year I write this, Two Thousand & Seven, Vale Crescent has become a property speculator's wet dream. Families rarely stay there for more than a couple of years as they use the buying & selling of houses to stock-pile cash in their endeavours to crawl up the property ladder. The property ladder as a term in itself did not exist when I was a child.... at least not amongst the working classes. Nine out of ten of the flats in Vale Crescent were rented not owned. Strange then that these rented properties were considered permanent homes whereas the owned properties years down the line are considered transitory.
The thing about greed is that it is self-perpetuating. Like all bad junk habits the more you've got the more you want. Those with the most money are those that want it the most. The more money you've got the more money you want. It is the practice of those most greedy amongst us to be forever looking towards the next acquisition & therefore not taking stock of the present state of affairs.
Thus modern society is afflicted with an obsession about the past & the future without taking enough interest in the present.
Thus by Nineteen Ninety Six, the year my parents left Vale Crescent, nine out of ten house-holds had two or more cars & an obsessive paranoia centred around the fear of mugging & theft. There was no room for kids to play in the street. All the trees that used to decorate the street with blossom every Spring had been cut down to provide extra parking spaces.
One evening my father plucked up the courage to ask a power dressed young lady why it was that she ran from her car to her front door every evening on returning from work. This neurotic behaviour had been playing on his mind. She hurriedly told him that the area was known for its muggers & that if he were new to the area he should bear this in mind. She neither knew that he lived two doors away or that he'd been living in the street for thirty six years. To his knowledge nobody had ever been mugged in all that time.
I returned there in the year Two Thousand & Five to visit an aunt & uncle who were the last family left that were renting their flat. To my horror there's was the only back garden left that had access to Wimbledon Common. All the other households had left the foliage directly outside of their gardens to overgrow to a point where the Common, which had been the main attraction to living in Vale Crescent, was now inaccessible. Madness!
On asking my aunt why this was she laughed & said that the new kind of resident that are buying these flats for £250 000 or more are not interested in the Common at all. Their only interest is access to the centre of London where they work. The added fear that the Common constantly held hidden dangers & should never be explored unaccompanied had added to the growing level of paranoia in the Crescent. What had once been an oasis of natural beauty right on the doorstep of Britain's biggest city had now become thought of as a haven for all manner of psychopaths with a mugger behind every tree. The reality, of course, is that there had only been one high profile murder in thirty years but media saturation of the incident had contributed to a feeling among many that Wimbledon Common was now out of bounds. The fact that you had more chance of being struck by lightening than being attacked with a meat cleaver meant nothing to these latter-day agoraphobics who moved from one box to another. Every day they leave the box that is their flat, drive in the box that is their car & then enter the box that is their work-place. Even the local pubs in Kingston Vale had been knocked down & replaced with “luxury flats”. Any sense of community that had survived post-war materialism had now been blown away.
One consolation is that there is obviously less litter on the Common. It must be said that reports of litter on Wimbledon Common had always been exaggerated in the first place. The real danger as a result of the lack of interest in this leafy wonderland is that it is now more vulnerable to greedy property speculators who obviously see any piece of land as a development opportunity.
The once animated by-pass that had cars zooming along it at ever decreasing intervals over a forty year period has now virtually ground to a halt during the so called “rush hour”. There is often a long traffic jam during the daylight hours & a constant stream of moving vehicles through the night. If it weren't for double glazing the noise pollution itself would be like living near an airport. As for exhaust fumes.... well I don't even want to go there. Put it this way, the trees where I live in South West Wales look a darn site more healthy than those on Wimbledon Common. All this because of greed.
One silver lining to this cloud of human stupidity though.... as a result of global warming & the decline of sparrows, starlings, finches, tits & wood pigeons there has recently been the introduction of parakeets as an indigenous bird to the Common. On looking out of my aunt & uncles back door it felt like some twisted science fiction film as I stood watching these luminous green & yellow tropical birds nesting in the poplar trees. Who would have thought that the eco-system of one of the most famous & ancient of Britain's Commons should be one of the first to visibly mutate as a result of twenty first century society.

Well what else can we say about greed? Plenty but I feel inclined to wrap this one up because much of this subject is self-evident. Yes we do understand at a young age that greed is a bad thing. Every child whether they be prince or pauper is told at some point to get their fingers out of the pie & ask politely before snatching. How is it then that many people almost unlearn by the time they are into adulthood? It's like we go through phases & they are not set or fixed. Most of these phases are dependant on peer pressure, status in society & the political views of our families, teachers & friends. I must leave this chapter on a sombre note. It would not be at all constructive to leave this subject in a jocular frame of mind.
The most hideous thing about greed is that it tips the scales whose equal balance is necessary to ensure the fair distribution of resources. It tips them sideways. How far is dependant on all the greedy acts {large or small} being added up & then converted to a set of weights that are then dumped on one side of nature's balancing pans. In order for someone to have too much someone else must have too little. This is a “natural law” that should never be underestimated. The one certainty in this world is that everything is interconnected. So when you aspire to that extreme wealth so that you can indulge your every desire & enjoy a few desires that you never thought of but which come with a life-style based around super-opulence someone else has to pay the price. It doesn't matter how philanthropic or charitable you become as a result of having too much wealth. Whether you like it or not the price that is paid because you simply must have that mansion, or yacht, or helicopter, or £2000 ball gown is a starving child.


Greed leads to the competition for resources. This is, however, a thorny subject because we obviously cannot centre it around the human species. For this leviathan of subjects it would do us well to observe other species as well as our own.
It is a commonly held belief that dinosaurs existed. Religious cranks believe that their remains have been put on earth by god to test our faith in the creation theory. HA HA HA HA! That's all I have to say about the creation theory. DON'T FUCK ME ABOUT! WHO DO YOU THINK I AM? UNCLE CUNT? I can't even deal with creation theoreticians in an intellectual manner. They give me the pox. It's the same sort of ignorance that insisted for millennia that the earth is flat. Humanity is forever outgrowing its own assumptions. This is all part of our species maturing into adulthood. Creation theorists are like pubescents who refuse to believe in the concept of sexual intercourse. They want to nestle their heads in the lap of their poor worn-out mothers & just cannot face the fact that all their mothers want them to do is to leave home. If god exists religious fundamentalists are over-working him.... the poor bastard. For a start god is more likely to be female so they're not only expecting too much but they're calling their mum daddy. This is probably because daddy fucked off years ago. The motherfucker impregnated the earth & then fucked off back to Sirius B. No wonder we've called it the Dogstar! There's no doubt about it. Religious fanatics are over demanding idiots who want constant reassurance that they're not alone. WELL TRY TALKING TO THE BLOKE NEXT DOOR INSTEAD OF BEING AN ANTI-SOCIAL TWAT!
So why did dinosaurs die out? It wasn't a meteor. It wasn't egg-stealing marsupials. It wasn't disease. It wasn't global warming or global cooling. It is interesting to note that we never blame the dinosaurs themselves. We almost need to believe it was beyond their control because the alternative reflects on our own threat of extinction. Dinosaurs died out because they goddam ate too much! Now I know what you're thinking. Surely this subject should have been discussed in the chapter on greed. Well that just shows you how interconnected the subjects of greed & competition are.
Picture this. Herbivorous dinosaurs by the end of the Cretaceous Period have become so successful at eating foliage that they are stripping the planet's resources like a swarm of over-sized locusts. Mother nature invents meaner & bigger predators to deal with it. They just can't eat enough to keep the scales balanced. A Tyrannosaurus falls to the ground. This hideously obese monster is just too fat to pick himself up. His brother waddles over to him. “Fuck me Albert are you alright?” “No Harry. I'm stuffed. If I eat another fucking Triceratops I'm gonna explode!” “But Albert. They ain't even fighting us any more. That last one was so fat it just rolled over & let you eat it.” “That's the problem Harry. I can't help meself. I can't possibly be hungry but I can't think of anything else to do with me time. All I wanna do is eat & eat & eat!” “We're fucked Albert.” “Quick Harry. I've got a plan!” “Wassat?” “Let's evolve into chickens!”
Yes folks.... the big discovery of Two Thousand & Seven is that collagen deposits found in Tyrannosaur bones have been matched up with the collagen found in chickens. What a bummer. The most impressive predator the world has ever seen has evolved into the most abused farm animal the world has ever seen. If they're not caged & separated from their parents at birth, kept beakless in agony in the dark, fed hormones to fatten them up before their years & slaughtered before they've even lived to adulthood they're treated as the most ridiculed & satirized object of comedy out of all the species we manipulate. Some religions would say that this is the most brutal example of Karma you could ever possibly imagine. Geneticists would disagree. Whilst they would admit that individually chickens are suffering in ways that make horror films look like family musicals they would argue that, taken as a whole species, chickens have proliferated extremely well in a world where extinction is a daily fact of life.
Strangely this revelation about the long distance nature of evolution leads us neatly on to a Cockadoodle Rex story that reveals the horrors of competition in a way that will make your blood curdle & your bones freeze. If you are faint at heart skip the next couple of pages because this story will burn its truth into your brain like a branding iron. The irony, however, is that it has nothing to do with suffering at the hands of a human at all!

Some time ago my mate Gypsy Phil Barrett told me one of the most disturbing tales I have ever heard. He lived around the corner from our council flat in a trailer & we have built up a relationship based on the fact that we both play instruments & sing plus have a long-term desire to share psychedelic experiences. He has rarely visited a city in his fifty four years on the planet. He has divided his time between the Canadian Rockies & the valleys of West Wales where he was brought up. I, on the other hand, have lived exclusively in London apart from odd blips into the British countryside until my wife, our daughter and myself moved to West Wales in 2003 when I was thirty nine going on forty. Gypsy Phil and myself delight in shocking each other with tales of human excess & the harsh realities of Mother Nature.
When Phil was a youth he looked after chickens.... much as he does now. His chickens are free range & co-exist with whatever human has the good fortune to make Phil's acquaintance. In his youth Phil & his hippie friends liked to stay up all night around camp-fires in the summer & play music.... much as they do now. One night, back in the day, they decided to brew up a big pot of mushroom & fruit brandy. The brandy was a fine quality liquor with an abnormally high percentage of alcohol in it. The mushrooms were Welsh liberty caps with a high level of psylocibin in them & the fruit was locally grown & organic. Yes folks organic fruit & veg is not a new-fangled idea. Phil never goes to supermarkets. He believes they are the devil's work.
Now a particular domestic issue among his chickens had been freaking out his sensitive hippie clan for some weeks & they weren't sure whether to intervene or let nature take its course. A massive alpha male cockerel had taken it upon himself to torment & bully a male runt. Instead of killing this undersized cockerel as many alpha males do this sadistic rooster had started to delight in shagging all the hens relentlessly after dragging the runt by its ruff, or leg, or tale-feathers to a spot where it could watch. In order to make sure the undersized little bird could not hop away during this spectacle of sporty copulation the alpha male would savagely peck & claw the wee foul to a point where it could hardly crawl let alone walk. As the runt lay whimpering, covered in its own blood, the alpha male would herd its unfortunate wives into the space prepared for it's egocentric shag frenzy. At any other time if the alpha male caught the runt even so much as looking at a hen he would torture it to the point where its screams could be heard two farms away. Sometimes it would do this just for fun.... or if it was bored.... or simply because it had woken up on the wrong side of the coop.
The hippies were in hell. They considered slaughtering the alpha male & roasting the bastard but something about the beast was keeping them at bay. Collectively these young flower children could do no more than turn away in horror when the chicken equivalent of the worst kind of school bully went to work on the wee fella. Phil's a big bastard himself & more an eco-warrior than a pacifist but even he had felt frozen by the inhumanity of the chicken drama that had unfolded.
Anyway Phil remembers little of the night they had the psychedelic punch. His memory of whatever divine revelation his clan experienced that night was swept away by what happened just before he crashed under a blanket next to the fire & what then transpired the next morning.
Everybody else was asleep just before Phil succumbed to the nether regions of his own subconsciousness. As his eyes fluttered shut he espied the alpha rooster swaggering up to the lip of the pot that still had at least half the brew left in it. It didn't come as a surprise to me that Phil had prepared too much. I've experienced this kind of demolition derby myself in his company. The alpha cockerel dipped his beak into the powerful tincture & gulped & gulped & gulped. “He must have been attracted by its fruity smell” said Phil looking concerned. “I was sure it was gonna O.D. & die as a result of the way it was drinking it down. I was so smashed I couldn't even stand up let alone pull the thing out of its state of gluttony. All I could do was watch in horror as he drank & drank & drank. The weird thing is that in my highly sensitized state I was sure the cockerel's ego had blinded him to the warning bells that must have been clanging in his head. I crashed out seconds after the brute had staggered off.”
Evidently they all awoke to find the intoxicated chicken hiding under a wheel-barrow. The sun-light was too much for him & he just sat moaning in extreme agony. Owing to his size & strength he had survived the alcohol, the psylocibin & the fruit. Phil thinks the mushrooms & the fruit would not have killed him but the alcohol should have. “I don't know what divine intervention had saved his sorry arse but I bet he wished he had of been killed because a few minutes later the runt skipped up to the wheel-barrow & looked underneath it.”
Now by this time the runt was not in good shape itself. Weeks of physical & mental torment had reduced the poor wee fella to little more than a bald two legged rodent. Still, revenge is a huge motivating force & by some amazing act of will the runt pulled the ailing alpha male out into the blinding light of a mid-summer morning. He then took three whole days to systematically kill the alpha rooster. Phil looked worried when he told me the story. It was almost as if this abhorrent tale should never have been witnessed by human or beast. By slowly pecking & clawing every inch of the larger male's body the runt slowly skinned, blinded & gouged his former tormentor. “I'm sure he could've killed the rooster more quickly but I swear it looked like the wee one was enjoying himself. I'm sure he looked like he was grinning. The screams were even louder than they had been when the situation was reversed. Me & my buddies hid around the corner of a barn at one point the site was so awful. The sound of it kept us up for two nights in a row. You could hear the mutilation three farms away! Still none of us felt that we should or even could intervene. The alpha male made noises that no cockerel in his condition should have had the energy to make. It was as if the sounds were coming up from hell itself!”
Eventually they found the giant cockerel dead. There was dried blood all over the farm-yard & none left in the corpse at all. “He would have made a sorry meal by that stage,” said Phil trying to lighten the conversation.
Seeing as the runt was now the only remaining cockerel in the flock Phil concluded his worrying tale by saying that the wee fella went on a fuck frenzy of unequalled proportions. He described the scene as the most frenzied activity he had ever seen & remember this is a man that has shared watering holes with grizzly bears. The little runt could barely climb up onto an average sized hen let alone some of the bigger ones. Phil said it was comical to watch to say the least. Any one of the hens could have killed him without so much as a second thought but they seemed far less bothered by his advances than they had by the brutish behaviour of the alpha male. He said they seemed to be encouraging the diminutive cock in his attempts to fertilise their eggs. By this stage the wee rooster didn't merely look like he was grinning but he looked like he was having some kind of voodoo fit.

Well that fucks certain right-wing theories about natural selection up the arse.... literally. The strong rule the weak? I don't think it's quite as simple as that. It certainly isn't as simple as that if you throw in a pot of psychedelic punch. It seems its a goddam game of chance out there! Intelligent design? Uncle Yuk Yuk's Circus more like. Maybe the Cathars were right. Maybe it isn't god who controls the world. Maybe it's the devil. All I can say is that it's a good job I think religion is a load of old bollocks.

So what does all this say about competition. Was all that pain necessary? All I know is that there has to be a better way & I'm not letting chickens off any more than I'm excusing humans. People who relish tales of unhinged violence & then revel in the conclusion that it's all perfectly natural are unhinged themselves.
My wife, Kiran, recently kicked up a fuss at some moron on TV that was extolling the virtues of rutting stags on some island off the coast of Scotland. “I've been everywhere in the world but nothing is as spectacular as the rutting stags on the island of....” Blah blah blah blah.
My missus went mental, “The little shit! You can see he's never been in a punch up! The horrible fucker obviously likes watching them though! Oh sorry, its alright, it's red deer, they're allowed. I bet he's the first to condemn violence on the terraces!”
I was rather shocked at her outburst. “Surely, my dear, it's natural for red deer to clack horns & try & kill each other for a shag.”
“Why?” she asked & then added “Maybe they've developed this behaviour because they are aware that they are diminishing in numbers and they're competeing for the little land that's left.”
I was staggered by her logic. Maybe she's right. It could be that red deer are not as slave to their instincts as many humans claim. It's possible that before we evolved into the hunter/gatherers we are today the red deer had little cause for rutting. Maybe their hormones have mutated in the last three million years during the time that humans started becoming the ascendant force on the planet. We, the great scientists, have come to the conclusion that the rutting season is merely the result of a chemical imperative. Maybe their competitive rutting became an annual compulsion long before the chemical changes evolved in their bodies that have since perpetuated it. Their violent behaviour developed which then led to the cyclical chemical change itself.
It seems African elephants have been experiencing a similar chemical mutation over the past few decades. No one can deny that they have been overtly stressed by the threat of extinction that humans have hung over their heads for some time now. I find it hard to believe that the rushes of adrenalin that have led to examples of extreme wrath catalogued recently by zoologists have nothing to do with the desperate plight they are in.
Again it may be a case of nurture not nature that causes their annual killing spree. Why should the arrogance of human analysis brand them as mere victims to instinct? The irony is that our species may be responsible for their behaviour in greater ways than we could ever possibly imagine. What an insult. We create the conditions under which they experience hormonal mutation & then we watch the carnage as a spectacle totally ignorant that we have an intrinsic part to play in it. Maybe Phil's chickens would be living in peace & harmony if humans hadn't evolved. Maybe chickens as we understand them might not even exist if humans hadn't evolved. Maybe this is how interconnected things really are.
What comes first? Behavioural changes or chemical ones? This could be the greatest “chicken & egg” question yet to be resolved. It's certainly the main cause for consideration when dealing with issues such as mental instability in humans. If environment is everything then the wide range of destructive pharmaceutical drugs that companies peddle through the psychiatric profession could prove not only redundant but actually part of the problem in the first place.

Just as addiction has become a function of biological normality as a result of millions of years of greedy behaviour so sport & warfare have become functions of societal normality as a result of competitive behaviour. I have always regarded my having played many kinds of sport as a child as a significant influence on my physical health as an adult. Since replacing sport with dance, masturbation & sexual intercourse by the end of my teens I have carried on enjoying a certain level of physical fitness. Long walking holidays in the Lake District & the rigours of manual work have also added to the reasons why, at the age of 43, I can still run for a bus with relatively little effort. Being an animated, neurotic kind of guy & having helped organise & physically facilitate many a gig, rave & festival {quite apart from playing thousands of gigs & enjoying weekly band rehearsals & jam sessions for over twenty three years now} I am fully aware of the reasons behind the fact that my “experimental” life-style has not finished me off at an earlier age. I won't rule out the part that luck has had to play in this but I have largely come to terms with the fact that physical indolence can be a killer.
Why is it then that conventional society seems to concentrate almost exclusively on competitive sport & gymnasium type activities as the only way to stay physically fit or, indeed, regain a level of fitness one enjoyed at an earlier stage in one's life? Send your theories to me by whatever route you can because it is a study I am extremely interested in. The reason for this is because I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that sport is merely a symbolic form of warfare if not an actual preparation for it.
Before we move on to this extremely controversial line of reasoning I'd like to discuss jogging. What the fuck is that all about? It seems to involve the body language of deeply distressed people.
Whilst waiting at Wapping Tube Station for a friend the day after mine & Terry the biker's mate's funeral in Two Thousand & Seven an upwardly mobile city “thruster” jogged by every three or four seconds. I hate to have to admit it but every time I saw one I cracked up with laughter. Now some may say that recovering from copious amounts of psylocibin mushrooms, marijuana & even larger quantities of alcohol, dressed as I was in a black drape jacket & top hat, I should have thought twice about judging the appearance of anybody else on that particular day. Well fuck that. These blobby businessmen & frigid looking office jockies looked like the rejects from some genetic experiment. In fact I was reading a copy of a free London newspaper at the time with the startling headlines “Fertility Hope As Sperm is Grown”. On April 12th Two Thousand & Seven scientists admitted for the first time that sperm cells have been created artificially from bone marrow. Pro-lifers are all for it. I thought they objected to playing god. Surely there's enough unwanted kids in the world for childless humans to adopt without going to these incredibly questionable lengths in order to perpetuate family blood-lines. It's back to our old friend competition again I suppose. “My blood-line must compete with other blood-lines or I will never achieve immortality!” What madness! If the kind of specimens I saw jogging in Wapping are anything to go by then by their own rationale they really ought to be considering adoption. The future of their blood-lines seems to be founded on a really sticky wicket if you ask me. Of course genetics isn't really to blame for the sorry state these humourless hypochondriacs have got themselves into. It's their highly competitive city business life-styles that are to blame. Whether adopted or not I feel sorry for any kids they may have. If my daughter ever caught me jogging in a luminous spandex all-in-one I'd want her to shoot me like a sick horse! It's weird that these wannabe body-nazis all seem so graceless. Let's face it there's nothing more comical than a lack of grace. Slapstick is built on it. When my mate Brayf turned up I just said “Get me to a pub. If I have to stand here & witness this insanity any more I might feel tempted to join in.”
I have never seen someone jogging with the same enhanced sexuality as someone dancing. Joggers seem to be in a state of asexual self-hatred. Their faces are pulled into a grimace revealing pain, frustration & denial. Denial of what? Why the ageing process of course. They are literally in competition with the dynamics involved in growing old. It's the same set of principles that drive the anti-wrinkling obsession of late twentieth & early twenty first century society. It's the most futile competition of all. Head to head with Father Time. Me? I like my wrinkles. They are the character marks that I have earned from the remarkable experiences I have had in my life. The experiences that caused my facial muscles to contort with mirth, sorrow, hysteria, enquiry, euphoria & glee. Why try & wipe them away with regulated doses of botulism? People under the demonic influence of botox treatment seem incapable of the full range of facial movements that make humans the multi-faceted, expressive life-forms they are. It's like some form of de-evolution. Maybe that's why botox “patients” seem lizard-like to me.
It's odd that fear of death fuels our competitive behaviour which ultimately leads to violence which, in turn, causes premature death all over the planet.

I'll tell you something about death. What you are about to read may or may not help to overcome any fear of it & perhaps help lessen that competitive streak inside us.

Death is infinite motion. Life is the absence of infinite motion. Therefore a separate & individual state of consciousness relies on the absence of infinite motion.
When you are born things become solid & this relies on the appearance that physical things which are experienced through the senses have stopped moving or move at a slow enough speed to be witnessed.
I chanced upon this idea when under the influence of two drugs whilst in a friends house in Bristol in Two Thousand & Five.
Everything started moving extremely fast after taking Salvia Divinorum whilst tripping on Psylocibin. In this state of impermanence I felt I was beginning to lose my identity.... my sense of self.
Musical fanfares, chattering, a wash of colourful electric shapes & an overriding feeling that I was going home to a place that I came from before I was born pulled me further & further away from the physical world.
I felt like the experience was converting me into this mass of information that seemed to travel away into infinity.
Never ending movement. Impermanence. A combined consciousness parade outside of the space/time continuum.
Association with the solid, physical world & my identity within it returned at the moment I longed to see my wife & child.
I realised I had achieved association with the physical world when I could touch & see the wooden floor under my hand. It then started spreading into existence around me but was still opaque & hard to perceive. I could see my friend Skip sitting on the edge of physical reality & this pulled me back fully. I enjoyed an extreme feeling of relief. Seeing him provided me with the room's spacial location in the universe. This meant I once again had a harbour in which to dock my identity & therefore grow fully as a separated, individual being.
The environment of his studio, his paintings & the sounds from his stereo helped, in combination, to send my soul into the place where all souls come from & where all souls end up.
Good, bad, up, down, left, right, in & out all disappeared as the totality of the universe was taking me away with it.... making me a part of it so that I was no longer a separate living thing. I was no longer able to perceive other separate living things in relation to my individuality.
What I witnessed seemed to be the combination of everything that had existed & everything that will exist.
Whilst on the same combination of drugs Skip experienced the accelerating growth of inorganic life spreading around his room. Richie {Skippy's house-mate who didn't do the Salvia & was not present during the experiment} said it sounded as though we'd taken some sort of cosmic “Baby Bio”.
In real time merely seconds passed for this whole process to be realised. The visions of the multicoloured totality were beautiful & disturbing at the same time. The experience was inspirational, life-affirming, but implied a level of separation anxiety.
I had been physically blown off of my chair {an involuntary movement through real space & time} as the room seemed to spin to the left. The dimensions of the room were quickly lost after this. I had physically slid side-ways against my will & ended up on the floor.
Information was hitting my brain so fast that I needed the maximum amount of concentration I could muster in order to identify what was going on & who I was in relationship to it.
Skippy said I was speaking in tongues with the odd word he could understand like “god”, “demons” & “whoa”. He was not sure if these sounds were as a result of his experiences or mine. If we had known all this was going to happen we would have filmed it & enlisted the help of a witness.
It seemed that the panic of not being able to hold on exacerbated the feeling of deconstruction.
I saw god. Not as a separate entity but as the entity we were all once part of & the entity we all become. It all seemed to make such obvious sense that I felt shocked & humoured that I had ever forgotten it.
I “saw” where art comes from. I “saw” where architecture & shapes in nature come from. I “saw” where music & sound comes from. I “saw” where physical sensation is pre-figured & prepared in. I “saw” where it all goes when it “dies” & its energy is transferred back into the outside whole.
Skip saw where architecture & ancient sculptural forms come from.
We both reattached ourselves to the reality of perpetual motion.
In previous out of body experiences I've had on strong psychedelic drugs “The light at the end of the tunnel” was the focal point for mythical beasts, angels, demons & other creatures. This seemed to be what happens when you walk into it. Whereas previous out of body experiences often ended with a flash of white light this seemed to be a way of side-stepping it & glimpsing the absolute that the light implies.
I wonder how many of the other trips I've done were in some way a process leading to this experience. I wonder if this experience is specific to me or an objective fact if these drugs are done in combination. The difference between people's experiences on these drugs may merely be in the way in which they describe it once back inside their bodies. Any other difference may simply be down to their personal tolerance levels to the drugs used.
Since Salvia is barely ten years old as a global experience {hitherto it has only been harvested by the Mazotec Indians in the small geographical area in Mexico where it is found} we may be dealing with the beginnings of a new era of human understanding. Post-industrial minds witnessing a fuller glimpse of the “overmind”.
Our society has started burning Salvia at higher temperatures than it has been burnt before. You are pretty sure of a “hit” if you use a lighter that burns hotter than the average naked flame when you smoke it. Some people still experience little or nothing even then. Smoking at a higher temperature may make the experience a lot more chaotic than reports of trips from the Indians suggest. Salvinorin A {the main active chemical in Salvia}, as a di-turpin, is the only hallucinogenic compound that affects the inside of brain cells & not the outside of brain cells {as with psylocibin, LSD, DMT, etc}. Therefore if taken in combination with an hallucinogen like psylocibin the whole of any particular brain cell may be affected & this implies a more extreme set of principles when assessing the architectural mutation effected. We may be some of the first people ever who have used Salvia as a combination drug. This makes my experiences particularly hard to cross-reference.
All I know is that until I secure a greater understanding of various scientific & cultural reference points concerning the visions I witnessed I can safely say this is not an experience to be taken lightly. I would not advise this experience be attempted in a social environment & I am close to thinking that it should not be attempted without someone with a good knowledge of first-aid on stand-by.... & I know that my close friends & associates have never heard me say anything like that about psychedelic drugs before. I've done both drugs since but not together. Frankly the thought of doing both together again fills me with the heebeejeebees. The only way I can think of describing the whole experience simply is that I died & came back.

So that's death for you. Or maybe it was all just a figment of my imagination. Personally I don't think my imagination alone would have been capable of instigating both the things I experienced or the revelation about the nature of mortality that I came away with.

So what of sport & war? Well I still love playing sport. Recently I have had both pool & table-tennis reintroduced into my life. Up to a certain level I accept it as a stimulating experience. Now I'm a dad I have been kicking a football around with my daughter. It causes us both a great deal of hilarity. I am under no illusion, however, as to the logical conclusion of sport's competitive line of human thinking be it show-jumping, boxing or chess. Combat.
I'm no stranger to that either.
Physical combat is the ultimate form of human competition. Between the ages of fourteen & twenty five I was involved in several incidents involving extreme violence. Most of them between the ages of fourteen & twenty. Since the age of twenty five I have been involved in five more. Where my head was kicked in I felt waves of terror & resignation & do not think any of those incidents were in any way useful to me as a developing human being. Where I met the violence out I neither feel the situations to have been necessary & I do not feel that I learnt anything from them. However justified or unavoidable any of these grisly experiences might have seemed to others I personally feel a sense of great regret that any of them happened at all. So much so that I will not provide any details here because to do so would automatically rationalise them & thus glorify them. Sure there was politics involved in some since I have been an active revolutionary since my adolescence. Sure self-defence was an aspect involved in some since I have lived on the fringes of society & this implies the exploration of environments that attract desperate people. Any attempt to explain myself, however, would, by its very nature fall into the category of a plea for forgiveness. The forgiveness of violence perpetuates it as an unavoidable fact of life. I do not believe it has to be an unavoidable fact of life. I believe that an individual has the right to use it in the defence of him or herself or in the defence of those around them but I think we can do better than to revel in “past glories”. For me there is nothing glorious about conflict & this is coming from a man who has been in a demonstration or riot or on a picket-line or involved in some form of direct action every year of his life since he was eighteen years of age. I continue to engage with my political enemies & avoid violence wherever possible but I yearn for the day when it ends. Now all we have to consider is whether or not that is possible.
When I was a kid me & my mates played “war”. We called it “war”. We had been fed a diet of toy weapons & propaganda surrounding battles throughout history. When I was about ten years of age I asked my father whether the British had always been the good guys. When he told me that, as far as he was concerned, the British had rarely been the good guys it blew my world apart. When he then went on to tell me that the British had invented the concept of the modern concentration camp during the Boer War it changed my life forever.
Imperialist propaganda continues. I firmly believe that it will only be when the concept of nation states is eradicated & people are treated as individuals rather than members of countries that we will even begin to see the path towards global peace. I think this is possible but what worries me is that on an environmental level we are running out of time.
I shall not be attending the Olympic fucking Games!


Seeing as we are dealing with The Seven Genocidal Traits what of The Seven Deadly Sins? Let's review them.

1. Greed.... well we have that one covered.

2. Lust.... hardly a sin.

3. Pride.... surely a main motivating force in any creative endeavour.

4. Wrath.... how can an endangered elephant be sinning?

5. Gluttony.... why this has been separated from greed heaven only knows.

6. Sloth.... maybe if the human race slowed down & did less we might have more time to consider our impact on the environment.

7. Envy.... all part of competition if you ask me.

So that's the old school view of human shortcomings done & dusted. Apart from one small factlet though. Any clergyman who has ever rammed these distinctions down their congregation's throat always seems to me to be suffering from heaps & heaps of arrogance.
What of the arrogance I'm displaying in making my own distinctions? I believe mine is less of a factor within our search for the truth. The reason why the clergyman is more arrogant than the layman is that he has the force of an institution behind him. It is the same with the police, the military & capitalist corporations. Institutions give individuals an overblown sense of their own importance. Those who become victims of institutions such as prison or reform school are made to undervalue their own importance.

Arrogance for most people begins within the confines of an institution. The institution of school. Human society at large can be represented using the environment of a classroom as a model. The teacher represents the minority who have the most power. They are normally to be found at the head of governments, corporations, religious orders & the law enforcement & military institutions. The weird kids represent the revolutionaries. These sit in the corners at the back of the classroom. Delinquents represent the hardened criminal element in society & these sit at the back in the middle. All the other generally conformist categories of citizen sit in the middle of the class-room generally doing what they are told. The famous & successful people sit at the front, arse-lick teacher & get ten out of ten every time because teacher is a friend of their dads. This is called nepotism & our society is riddled with it. Some of these are in the school football team because they have been reared to do that & nothing else. Try discussing the history of Cuba with them & they'll think you're talking about the last prostitute they tried to sleep with. The teacher doesn't want the revolutionaries to discuss Cuba because the revolutionaries know more about it than the teacher so teacher gives them three out of ten on a regular basis in order to undermine their legitimacy. All this does not stop them from wanting ten out of ten.
The question is why do the revolutionaries strive for good marks if the results are part of the very system they are keen to see overthrown? They strive for good marks because they know they would influence the class more than they do whilst in a state of partial obscurity. Full marks move them to the front of the class.
Since the revolutionaries sit at the back in the corners they can see what ALL of the class are doing & only the odd one or two of the arse-lickers & conformists who glance backwards {as a result of an odd sound or reflection in a window} are even aware the revolutionaries exist at all.
What happens if one of the revolutionaries make the front row because the teacher is so genuinely impressed with a piece of work they did? Everyone would know about it but most would not understand it &, at worst, many would envy them. Other front row kids {who have never known anything else} would either hang with them for the wrong reasons or compete against them using the power & influence they have.
The revolutionaries want to be contenders. They feel sure they could change the system before they got assimilated into it. They feel sure that if they made it to the front of the class they could turn their chair around, turn their backs to the teacher & only address the class thus breaking the bourgeois hegemony that maintains the system of inequality.
Most of the time the revolutionaries have no choice but to remain in the corners at the back. They are not in the middle of the back row. That's where hardened criminals sit. The revolutionaries are in the corners. Even the hardened criminals have trouble seeing them. The revolutionaries can see each other.
If you get a seat at the front & face the teacher it is impossible to relate to those behind you. Boundary breaking writers, artists, scientists & musicians start off in the corners at the back. The genius of their work relies on their observation of the whole class. If they are promoted to the front of the class their work becomes stagnant. This is as a result of no longer being able to see behind them. If they keep looking back the teacher orders them to face the front. They must do what the teacher says or lose their place at the front. Thus their art stagnates.
As the Anti-Fascist philosopher Wilhelm Reich put it in his book "Listen Little Man!" fame is a social disease & the more you have of it the more diseased
you are. Revolutionaries quite often seek infection. They try to martyr themselves on the cross of notoriety. Personally I think they have a lucky escape if the glow of celebrity never reaches them & their artistic integrity stays intact. The problem is most of them are never convinced of that.
It is only with the opportunity to lose one's originality & earn some cash that the revolutionary can turn around to the rest of the class & say “I GOT TEN OUT OF FUCKING TEN”, stand up in front of the teacher & rip the goddam test paper up, tell teacher to fuck off & walk out of the classroom thereby setting an example of revolt.
The outward appearance of revolutionaries may change but they will always proliferate as the mutation nature creates in order to prevent the status quo from having complete control over the hearts & minds of the classroom. Evolution depends on revolutionary upheaval.
The only other person who comes close to seeing what revolutionaries see is the teacher but even he or she can't concentrate on everyone because he or she has to acknowledge the insistence of the arse-lickers whilst at the same time keeping their eyes on the activities of the hardened criminals. The revolutionaries can watch with impunity without anyone objecting because most of the rest of the class don't even know they're there.
The teacher perpetuates the lies that dominate the lesson in order to keep the school structure intact. Where a teacher tries to deviate from this weighted set of principles he or she has to defend their actions from the full machinery of The State. Most are too scared of losing their position of power to seek answers outside of the ones already provided for them. Therefore those at the top are also enslaved by the proliferation of an unequal system. Inequality suits no one. Inequality feeds arrogance & blinds people to the realities of their own enslavement.
Arrogance is a seductive trait. It is learnt in the classroom. If the “ten out of ten” paradigm is dissolved we might begin to see an end to the levels of arrogance that infest our society. This means the abolition of exams, job interviews & award ceremonies. Merit should only be in the eye of the beholder & not made an objective fact by a system of control.

Arrogance causes the distinction between low & high art. Arrogance then flips these concepts around & insists that high art is low & low art is high.
Let me flip the motherfucker back.
Low art is produced by an artist who is being employed by someone with lots of money to do a piece which reinforces the belief systems of The State. High art is a work that comes from an original idea that seeks to change the belief systems of The State or reveal truths about the universe we live in. In my opinion Michaelangelo is low art. Coca Cola adverts are low art. The Rolling Stones are low art. Mozart is low art. The Spice Girls are low art. The music of Cliff Richards is low art. Tracey Emmin is low art.
In my opinion Samuel Becket is high art. William Burroughs is high art. The music of Crass is high art. Andre Breton is high art. The Jimi Hendrix Experience is high art. William Blake is high art. Bertolt Brecht is high art. Aboriginal sand painting is high art. The graffiti of Banksy is high art. The music of Hawkwind is high art.
Low art is produced by being employed by someone with money {like the Medici Family during the Italian Renaissance} to do a piece which reinforces the religious or political pecking order. High art is a work that comes from an original idea that seeks to shine a spotlight on the inequalities in society which its rulers would have us ignore.

This brings us neatly onto the subject of celebrity. I was in a fetish club in Nineteen Ninety Five. I was in the company of two very advanced teenage travellers who had impelled me to take them to this most shocking of events. Both myself & two other thirty something males escorted these two teenage girls, Steph & Claire, & revelled in the impact they had on the environment we were visiting. The two other guys were the bass player & guitarist of a band I was in at the time called “Whip The Minister”. Wolf, the guitarist, was half German & half Indian. Hence the name Wolf. His mother had been in the Hitler Youth in The Second World War & had actually met the appalling dictator himself. When she realised at the end of the war that she had been lied to she purposely married an Asian, bore a child, & then drank herself to death. As a consequence Wolf turned out to be a very strange young man & one hell of a guitarist! Conrad was the son of a military officer in a catering division. He was no less happy with his origins than Wolf was with his. Our band was notorious for it's excessive stage performances involving a crucified Jesus on wheels, flagellation, a “Detective Superintendent” smoking a ten foot spliff, High Priestesses, musicians in gas-masks & a male brass section in drag. Wolf & Conrad, themselves, had performed in mini-skirts, boots & make-up & they were not dressed down for this evening out. I was dressed in pvc, second world war military hat & knee-high boots. Our teenage “guests” were similarly dressed & couldn't help but turn heads down the tube station on the way to the club. They had previously been released from custody as a result of an anti-road protest in Greenwich in South East London involving an occupation of a tea clipper in dry dock called The Cutty Sark. You just could not get more Rock & Roll than the life-style we led at the time.... & continue to do so to this day. None of us had achieved the status of celebrity & neither did we yearn it. At some point in the evening one of our teenage charges spotted an extremely famous & well represented French fashion designer amongst the collected leather boys, dominatrices & rubber clad fetishists. “Jean Paul! It's Jean Paul!” she shouted with glee. His face lit up. Both he & his two butch minders slid towards her in order to accept the praise that she was obviously going to lavish on him. He stood before her glowing with expectation. She stuck her finger up at him & said “Fuck off!” with a grimace on her face. He looked crest-fallen. All around him people were grinning. Jean Paul was a well-known smart-arse. No one likes a smart-arse.
Another friend of mine was standing next to his ten year old son on a London tube station in the late Nineteen Eighties. A famous child's TV presenter was noticed sitting on a train as it pulled into the station. This presenter's novelty act usually involved hitting children with an inflatable mallet.
“It's Timmy, it's Timmy!” shouted my mates son. My mate held his son up so that his face was directly the other side of a window opposite the face of the TV presenter. “Tell him what you think of him son,” said my mate. His son glowered at the celebrity & shouted “Wanker!” Everyone in the carriage burst out laughing. Timmy looked distressed. Timmy was, at the time, a well known smart-arse. No one likes a smart-arse.
Another mate of mine was in a restaurant in Surrey a few years ago & espied Paul McCartney on a table near by. As she left she went over to his table & said, “Sorry Paul, can't stay & chat, I've got something really important on this evening. Nice to see you though.” She then walked out & noticed other diners grinning. Now you don't get dryer than that! Paul McCartney is a smart-arse. No one likes a smart-arse.

A band, Fuzznation, that I was in in nineteen ninety four pulled up in a box van at a sanitised service station halfway between London and the Forest of Dene. I had been circulating a hash pipe and folk were consequently stoned out of their heads. Gary the guitarist, Graham the guitarist, Wayne the drummer, myself and Jim the keyboardist were in a queue for a selection of chocolate milk, chocolate bars, chocolate biscuits, chocolate mousse and chocolate drinking yoghurt. Suddenly Gary shouted “Oi It’s Mick Fucking Jagger.”
I assumed he was ribbing Jim, four or five people ahead in the queue. Jim thought the same and shouted back “I ain’t fucking Mick Jagger. He’s a cunt.”
I then shouted to Jim “He is and you’re him mate.”
“No I’m fucking not.” protested Jim “If I end up like that sad wanker shoot me like a sick horse.”
Little did myself or Jim know that Gary had shouted because there in front of us, in the queue, was Mick Jagger. The real money-junkie bastard himself.
I have a love/hate relationship with the mega-billion dollar rock-band The Rolling Stones. As far as I was concerned they had written some decent mother-fucking tunes and had, at times, in the nineteen sixties, been full of rebellion. This, though, is why Mick Jagger irks me. He's been promoted to the front of the class & now has his back to the public. As far as I am concerned Jagger should know better than he obviously does. Jagger is a plaything of The Establishment who has hardly written a decent tune in twenty years. He is sitting on millions of pounds and helps restrict the redistribution of wealth & proliferates a system where the public is denied access to hundreds of thousands of acts that can't even make a living out of music. As far as I am concerned Sir Mick Jagger is now a parasite who is one of the few who monopolises musical culture and stifles the growth of new talent. On top of this I shudder to think of what nasty little concerns he has his money invested in. Instead of being part of The Solution Mick Jagger is now firmly part of The Problem.
As far as I was concerned back in nineteen ninety four Mick Jagger was a traitor to Rock and Roll. He was sucking Satan’s big veiny one for nothing more than cash.
Mick Jagger left the queue and hurried towards his stretch limo. Myself and Jim followed with carrier bags full of highly addictive chocolate products. Gary ran up to Jim & me and pointed out that it had been the real Mick Jagger in the queue.
He then pointed to where he was walking in front of us. As we left the building we saw that Jagger’s limo was parked dangerously close to our van. This millionaire, or possibly billionaire, rock star was now within spitting distance of the rest of Fuzznation who were, for all intents and purposes, a gang of working class, Anarchist, Dubwize Psychedelapunkaglammajazzabilly subversives who played their shit-kicking tunes from the fucking heart.

It hit me full in the face, bastards like Jagger are part of the reason why most musicians world-wide can’t even earn enough to feed themselves let alone get their music air-play on the radio or that capitalist brain control device, the idiot’s lantern that is television. But it was just as I was going to suggest to Jagger that he should come with us to a “Proper festival” {we were on our way to a gig we had booked at The Forest Fair in The Forest Of Dene on the Welsh border at the time} and WAKE FUCKING UP I realised that it was ridiculous to assume that he gave a shit.
I then thought of jumping up on his nice shiny bonnet, dropping my trousers and leaving a big, fat, hash-loosened turd in front of his narcissistic windscreen. At that moment an elderly gentleman and a small boy got out of the limo and went back in another door. I thought it must be
Jagger's dad and son. Whoever they were it threw me off kilter. By the time I had considered the ethics of this, in the light of this change of circumstances, the limo was pulling out of the car park as quick as it could. This wasn’t surprising after the chat in the consumer queue earlier.

I was chatting to a mate, Hippie Paul {a huge Rolling Stones fan}, about it a week later. “I’d thought about what to do for too long and then BANG he was off.” Paul (wise ‘erb selling Gooroooo) sat in the lotus position with his bones screaming with sciatica as his long, black beard dipped into a bowl of cereals. After a moment’s consideration he spoke….
“I know what you should have done.”
“What?” I asked, calmly.
“In the few seconds before Jagger made his getaway you should have run at the car and tapped on the window and, irrespective of whether he wound it down or not, shouted full on “YOU KILLED BRIAN!”

When we did our set at the festival it was on a large stage in a marquee that held four to five hundred people. Since the set was scheduled for about one in the afternoon there were only a couple of hundred people watching. The amount of people in the audience never bothers me. I, like all the musicians I have ever played with, give performances maximum effort no matter what the environment. Among a few hecklers was an extremely drunken jester and I pointed out to him that it was most unbecoming for a jester to shout out profanities in the manner that he did. This just made the jester worse which amused both the audience and the band. The band’s set went down really well and, while I was singing, one of the songs briefly reminded me of
Mick Jagger. It went like this....

“Those who pay the piper, Call the piper’s Tune,
That’s the situation, Sell-out bands consume,
Sod their self-indulgence, Empty lyrics suck,
We don’t need new Madonnas, They don’t give a fuck,
Screw your Paul McCartneys, Traitors to us all,
Michael Jackson’s plastic smile, Antithesis of cool,
Money-junkie bastards, Ego-tripping fools,
They have all forgotten, How to break the rules,
Puppets of authority, Repressive and mundane,
Whitney Houston fur clad cad, I hope you go insane.”

Arrogance is different from pride. On the way home from this festival we stopped at the lip of a massive cliff in a designated parking area at a beauty spot in The Forest of Dene. While I was sitting by our van in the sun a “crusty” traveller got out of another bus & walked up to me. “Fucking excellent gig man,” he said. “Cheers I said. Probably more by luck than judgement.” I replied with a grin on my face. He grinned back & then walked off.

Celebrity is a major problem in the first decade of the Twenty First Century. We now have “celebrity” as a major ambition for millions of our young. It is no longer important why someone is a celebrity. Celebrity has become an end in itself. This is dangerous. Wilhelm Reich correctly assessed society by pointing out that one can assess its collective health by how much its citizens idolised a minority of people within it. The more idolatry the less healthy. This unhealthy state of affairs, or affairs of state if you will, polarizes the population between a majority who have less self-confidence than they should & a minority who have more self-confidence than they should. The principle suggests another “natural law” implying that the more one gains in notoriety the more one strips others of their sense of self-esteem. This is obviously injurious to the concept of equality that is necessary if each individual is to develop their skills to an optimum level. The fall-out of this tipping of the scales is gross inefficiency & the appalling waste of human resources.

I have often speculated on whether it is an act of arrogance to get on a stage & perform with the hope of applause at the end of it. Is it arrogant for a baby to show their parents the turd they have just dropped into the potty & grin knowing that it makes their parents happy? Surely that is one of the first creative things we do. Does pride in such an accomplishment imply arrogance? I think not. Arrogance is when you believe that not everyone can achieve what you have achieved. This is nonsense. To grade achievement in order to create a hierarchy is one of the root genocidal traits. Arrogance makes idiots of us all. Humility implies an open mind.
“Yes.... what I did was fantastic. What fantastic things can you do? I damn well know that they are as fantastic as my own achievements.”
Rather this than “Yes.... what I did was fantastic. I bet you could never do anything like that!” What a horribly common playground mantra. It all starts with marks out of ten. Marks out of ten is the first mistake of socialisation.


Lying is either the result of purposeful deceit or it is the result of the imagination interfacing with the memory in order to tell a story for the recreation or elucidation of others. It is also the core reason why we are so piss poor at reversing the genocidal trends our civilisation has developed. We just cannot stick to the facts. Truths are quite often concealed to suit the opinions of those with the most power. This is not in the interests of our species as a whole.

Lies are rarely easy to spot because we are all inherently trusting. How such a worthy trait can leave us open to manipulation is a joke on a cosmic level. Hitler famously said that a big lie is as easy to perpetrate as a little lie. Let's face it he should know.
I have tried to stick to the truth as I understand it in this book. I did, however, lie earlier. In the introduction I said that my mate Smutley reacted to the impertinent Yuppie by suggesting that we cut her head off. He said nothing of the kind. Or did he? I have replayed that scenario over in my head so often with this amendment in it that I cannot now remember what he bloody said. If I ask him he will now no longer remember either. I'm actually beginning to think that he did say something of the kind but without film or an audio recording we will never know. I am favouring the version of the story in my head where he said something like.... “The bloody cheek of the woman!”
This is more his style than crying out for decapitation. I will ring him in a couple of minutes & let you know what he remembers of it. Or chooses to remember from it. This is my point. We do remember some things as they happened. Unfortunately our memories are quite often as much of a construct of the imagination as they are a record of what actually happened. Be very wary of any human being that either says “This is the absolute truth!” Be very wary of any human being that thinks what they are saying is the absolute truth. Basically be wary of everyone. Be especially wary of your own memories. This is not to say that we should be distrusting of people but it would certainly do for all of us to accept that most of the time we are interpreting facts with an unavoidable bias. Anybody who swears blind that something is an objective fact is either being deceitful or self-deluding.

However disturbing these revelations may seem there is a bright side to the hapless state of exaggeration our species seems to be in. We tell fucking good stories. They are the cornerstone of every creative endeavour we have achieved. Our imagination is the link with our godlike selves. To convince ourselves or others that our opinion is absolute fact is actually a departure from our godlike selves & can be more related to what we understand as demonic behaviour. It's not that the devil myth posits him as “The Prince of Lies”. It's more to do with the fact that demonic behaviour revolves around “his” inability to own up to lying. This is obviously a problem repeated in every workplace, school, ministerial office, aristocratic court & church every day of the week. In fact you are rewarded more if you don't own up than if you do.
Courtrooms are the last place where you will find the truth. They are not constructed in order to find out the truth. They are constructed in order to reward the most accomplished liar be they prosecution lawyer, defence lawyer, defendant, witness for the prosecution or witness for the defence. No wonder judges appear to be ga ga. They've been subjected to such high levels of humbug that it is surprising any of them can tell chalk from cheese. Their subsequently thin grasp on reality has sent many an innocent party to the gallows.

As long as things are taken as allegory you can't go far wrong. Anybody who quotes The Bible as fact is either a dangerous bigot or an idiot. Jesus, if he even existed, would not be amused. If he had travelled forward in time & saw what had been done in his name it would be like one of the more horrific science fiction stories in shows like The Twilight Zone or Hammer House of Horror. Imagine the scene. You step out of the time pod provided for you by some alien intelligence. You marvel at the leaps in technological progress. You stare wide-eyed at the city around you & flinch as cars hurtle past {or not according to the state of the traffic}. You wander into a church in order to examine the progress of spirituality. You are appalled that a few worshippers are kneeling in supplication before a gruesome effigy of a white man nailed to a cross. “Who is that?” you ask a passing priest. He looks at you suspiciously as a result of your ignorance and he can also detect your anger. He obviously knows nothing of your life-long political fight against the worship of false idols. Your mind is scrambled by the fact that even in this future world of scientific marvels humans are still clinging to fear & ignorance as a psychological crutch. “Why that's our lord Jesus Christ,” says the priest.
You walk up to the ivory figure & touch its leg with your hand. Your dark skin contrasts with its white marble shin. You look up at the painted blue eyes & the painted golden hair & shout “But it doesn't even look like me!”
The priest calls the cops. As they lead you out of the church you experience a pang of guilt for not thanking the aliens for supplying you with the translation box hanging from your neck. As with the albatross in The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner it has become a curse. You begin to wish you had never made this expedition & that you had not been able to understand what the priest had said. Without that box nobody would understand what you were saying because your language has long been extinct.

Religion is the embodiment of the human inability to stick to the facts. I do not get angry about it like I used to. We can't help it. The important thing is whether a ritual is a help or a hindrance to the development & survival of our species. Unfortunately most religious rituals are a hindrance because they are an anathema to evolution. They are, by their very nature, conservative. Political doctrine can also act in this way. Scientific “fact” can also act in this way. Remember we are forever outgrowing our own assumptions. That is an evolutionary fact. Hold on did I say “fact”? Shame on me. I should have said that this is my “opinion”.

Right I've just rung Smutley. He can't remember what he said to me as a result of the Yuppie complaining about the noise. He can remember the incident. He can remember his feeling of indignation. He agrees with me, though, that threatening to behead a woman doesn't seem like his style. When I wrote that in at the beginning of this book I did, however, intend to own up to it being a fabrication in the chapter entitled “Deciet”. This was in order to show how the printed word is a particularly strong method for making a flight of fancy look like an objective fact. Now bear in mind that our mate Phil Lock's funeral reception was only two weeks before this chapter was written so it just goes to show how quickly the memory shoves much of the detail from an experience so far down into the subconsciousness that it becomes almost totally irretrievable.
It seems that half-truths, untruths, exaggeration & complete ballyhoo is a biological reality much the same as greed seems to be. Much the same as competition seems to be.
I've been in court a few times as a defendant & I can assure you that the only way I avoided imprisonment was to exaggerate or, indeed, lie. This was because the police had invented such a preposterous set of accusations that I had to fight fire with fire. I had no choice. No. correction, I had a choice. The choice would have been matyrdom. Martydom would have damaged both myself & those closest to me. I have never understood Thomas Moore. That he was attempting to obey the tenets of The Catholic Church in a far more puritanical way than one would have expected even The Pope to behave seems foolish. So do I approve of the kind of inconsistency implicit in our inability to stick to the facts? In part. I must qualify this by saying that as with competition & greed it is the degree with which these traits hold sway in the Twenty First Century that concerns me.

We have the ability to extract the truth from our memories but it takes incredible chemical & phenominological conditions in order for this to happen. Not only are all our experiences logged in our subconsciousnesses but all our variations on the truth are also logged deep down in our minds. The trouble is that the original experiences are set deeper within our subconsciousnesses & thus harder to retrieve. It is almost as if they are gaurded by memory of the memory. You search for the memory & you find the most recently constructed variation of the memory. We have our own inbuilt version of the “Chinese Whispers” game. I apologies for this reference if its origins prove to be the racist legacy of the tyrranical British Empire. Maybe the game is a reference to some ancient oriental wisdom that revealed similar findings to the ones I am exploring in this chapter.

My first ever proper relationship was with a girl called Michele {with one “L”}. Her mate Sue and her did a lot of glue sniffing in their mid-teens. On one occasion around nineteen eighty on “Evostick”, the Rolls Royce of psycho-active solvents, they’d been sitting in a disused car in a scrap-yard watching the film “Breaking Glass” on the inside of the car’s wind-screen. They both shared a mutual hallucination where they displayed total recall for about one and a half hours which was the length of the film. When they told me about it I began to believe that folk actually store every second of information they experience in their memories. It’s all there. As I've already pointed out people can usually only recall things sporadically in an infinite number of possible permutations revolving around imaginative embellishments according to temporal subjectivity and linguistic relativism, set and setting and, of course, the company they are keeping.
Anyway Michele and Sue got out of the car in shock and proceeded to wander around Kingston in South West London. Along the busiest stretch of the one way system on a crowded Saturday afternoon they decided they were both pixies from opposing tribes and proceeded to throw each other about. Startled shoppers fled in all directions. A cop car pulled up. Two cops got out and asked what they thought they were doing. When they told him that they were two pixies from opposing tribes they got nicked.
When in the station, Sue, a black-bobbed Modette, thought she was a fruit machine and just sat on a bench in front of the police moving her left arm up and down in a mechanical motion. When any cops tried to interview her she just made clicking and whirring noises.
Michele, in all her blonde spiky-haired glory, said that she, herself, just sat there in hysterics in the police station until the cops told them to leave and stop taking the piss.

Now all of what I've just told you is as true as my memory of the story will allow. Michele told me the tale in nineteen eighty five & I haven't seen her since nineteen eighty six. It is possible however that the scrap yard, the pixies & the fruit machine were three different incidents on three different occassions in three different years. My “version” of her “version” of events is not a purposeful deciet & therefore I do not only excuse it but I don't think, in normal conversation, it is even worth questioning. If we included questioning of that nature in every day parlance we would all go bonkers. No, my concern is purposeful lies & the kind of attitude that endevours to convince others that one is incapable of deciet. This latter claim is a deciet in itself. That accepted it is amazing how many pillars of the establishment hold it to be true. Judges, doctors, police officers, military officers, politicians, the clergy of all religions & journalists. All of these professions, to name but a few, hold themselves up as positions that by their very nature, claim to be above deciet. This is ridiculous because the vast majority of civilians know that by their very nature these professions are riddled with deceit. Why do we, for the most part, turn a blind eye to it. We turn a blind eye to it because all of those positions carry the weight of institutional power. We turn a blind eye to it in order to avoid their attention. Such attention invariably leads to trouble. In our attempts to avoid personal trouble we are happy to watch our species hurtle lemming-like towards the cliff of genocide. Hang on, there's never been any record of even a single lemming ever hurling itself over a cliff. Another lie.
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