By Connor Kelly
The Endless Parade
Police in Northern Ireland have been “thwarting” 4 out of 5 attacks by dissident republicans. Very good at the ‘oul thwarting, the PSNI. Smiting and Foiling, I hear, are their specialties. Of course, we can only take their word for it. How else would we know? The police also say that a “hardcore of veteran militants are directing hundreds of activists in their campaign of violence.” Hundreds, no less! By God, there could be a dissident on every street! And so the scare-mongering continues, the stoking of the sectarian bonfire in the run up to their election. Sinn Fein, the party that lost the war – yes, they lost – and declared victory by surrendering, are now roundly condemning the “mindless” acts of violence perpetrated by their erstwhile comrades. Although I would probably agree with McGuinness in his disapproval of the current “wave” of terrorism, it is hard not to sniff just a whiff of hypocrisy when this is coming out of the gob of a former Officer in Command of the IRA. But they have perfected this art, the Shinners. The Janus of Irish politics, their South face, socialist and against the cuts, their North face, neo-liberal and implementing them – the heirs to Pearse and Connolly in all their opportunist glory.
The Draconian Underwear Party
Meanwhile the DUP, ever spouting lunacy, has declared that all good unionists must vote for them in order to prevent Sinn Fein from becoming the largest party in the North. As Eamonn McCann rightly says, Arlene Foster is “wrapping herself in the orange flag” in order to win this election. For all the endless clichéd drivel about “moving forward,” from “the dark days of the past,” Stormont seems to exist in a kind of Limbo that can neither move forward or backwards or indeed, engage fruitfully with reality. Instead, it simply trundles round in circles, in an endless, hate-filled parade. A vote for the N.I. establishment in this coming election is a vote for more of the same. Perhaps, just perhaps, we have the opportunity this time round to change direction, and abolish this Limbo once and for all.
They Mean To Destroy Us All – U.S. Election 16
But none of that matters. The rapture is upon us. The righteous minority are ascending as I write to the gates of that great Valhalla in the sky. Is there a more apocalyptic culture than America’s? Surely not one that’s survived long enough to tell the tale. But when you look at the ongoing U.S. election campaign you might be led to believe that they want more, they want the real thing. Not content with creating apocalyptic cults that don’t quite pull it off, they have decided that they will make an apocalyptic cult out of their election. That way, with the cult leader’s finger actually on the button, the end of all is surely guaranteed. And it promises to be one helluva show! Roll on October, and the Electric Kool Aid Acid Test.
In Culture – Invasion of the Hallouminati
Meanwhile, as the planet continues to burn, and civilisation enters its final phase, the middle classes continue to bath gleefully in their own historically irrelevant self-importance. Not being content with merely existing in a state of total irony and kitsch aesthetic, the Hallouminati have decided to vomit their state of being all over us by singing songs about it. Goji-Berry Sunset, went the refrain of one song I heard on BBC Radio 6 yesterday, another contained almost the entire recipe to a kale smoothie. I vomited in my cornflakes. What colour was a goji-berry sunset? The colour of death, that’s what. Cloud-singers, in repellently honeyed melodies spew forth their pseudo-concern for humanity and the planet, with a naivety that would be cutesy if they weren’t given so much air-time.
Why can no one see the evils of the world in the way that they do? Are they all alone in their despair? The fact that there are thousands of people across the country and millions across the world, in a much worse position than they are, but who are nonetheless actively resisting in myriad ways doesn’t seem to be a thought that crosses their minds. But woe is the life of a Hallouminati acolyte. What a terrible injustice that they can’t get ethical, organic, and free range cannabis from their local dealer, who also, incidentally, hates them.
For the purposes of gauging the general mood towards the Hallouminati, I interviewed professional everyman, Normal Bates, and asked him what he thought:
“I explicitly call for the DJs who play this shit to be lined up and shot. Following that, all of the cloud-singers, the Hallouminati shite-peddlers and mindfully knitting do-gooders shall first be strung live from the nearest lampposts, where their ultimate nightmare will be brought to them in real time. The zombie masses of the working classes, one and all, will dance naked below engorging ourselves merrily on the cheapest and greasiest mouthfuls we can find – all of it made from the innards of cats and pigeons. Their inane middle-class vanities shall be cast onto the grand bonfire – constructed out of the rigermortised corpses of their shallow and pointless hopes and dreams. And we shall dance round it with tins of special-brew wetting ourselves and screaming vulgarities. There will be those, yes, who while strung from the lamppost will attempt to reason with us, claiming, “love, peace, I know where you’re coming from, man,” etc., but they will be the first to go. They will be consumed by their own dread – no organic free-range face cream can save them now, no ethical Tibetan scarf or manicured beard will be spared – their own terror will turn those very beards white. There will be no need to murder them for they will murder themselves, in time. But nevertheless we shall scream, “Burn! Burn! Burn!” in their faces, just to speed the process up a little. In this fashion, the Hallouminati will be destroyed.”
“And what political, cultural or social purpose would this serve in the long run?” I asked.
“None. None whatsoever, but we would feel the better for it.”
Before I could further question him Norman disappeared, being a hallucination.