The eyes have it (Part 2)

"For those with eyes who choose to see, this nation is afraid of thee."

Brother B 'Counting Backwards To Zero'

There's a famous anecdote on social policy which goes as follows:

NERO was Emperor and the mob had been rioting uncontrolled in the streets of Rome for two weeks. The economy of the world's greatest empire was disintegrating.

The cost of maintaining Rome’s War Machine in addition to the heavy subsidies that had to be paid to the many nations dependent on Rome for support meant that the impoverished government had neither the funds nor the power to stop the riots.

In this tense situation, the Head of Shipping rushed by chariot to talk to the First Tribune.

"The merchant fleet is in Egypt awaiting loading,” he announced. “The ships can be loaded either with food for the starving people or with the special sand used in the Gladiator Stadiums. Which do you want?"

"Are you crazy?" screamed the Tribune. "Things here are out of control. The emperor's mental, the army's about to mutiny and the people are dying of hunger. For the gods' sake, get the sand! We have to get their minds off their troubles!"

Ignoring Western crimes and unconscionable iniquities is a staple of the corporate Western media. Its job is to keep us distracted and fearful enough to avoid asking awkward questions - anyone remember the tanks around Heathrow Airport?

Last summer in a Facebook conversation with a friend I posed a question, swiftly followed by an adroit observation: "Damn! What's with these Somali fishermen pirates? They're a bit intense." Further digging revealed that these fishermen police the waters of Somalia protecting the coastline from poaching (Western vessels steal an estimated GB£300 million in seafood annually from the region) and the dumping of nuclear and other toxic waste. These violations are, and have consistently been, routinely ignored by both the UN and maritime authorities. Thus, with the unswerving support of the population, the fishermen have taken matters into their own hands - a kind of Aqua Robin Hood and his Watery Men. So next time Bob and Lynne Everyman from Marple, holidaying in their luxury Bowrider Motor Yacht just off Puntland, Somalia get kidnapped and their captors demand a ransom of GB£1 million, you now know the reason why, because if you read the mainstream press you wouldn't.

During a night raid on December 27 last year, US-led troops dragged a group of 10 Afghan children from their beds and shot them dead. Afghan government officials said that eight of the dead were schoolchildren, and that a number of them had been handcuffed before being killed. UK news media obsessed with telling us about Jordan 'n Pete, Judy Finnegan's alleged drink problem, Wayne Bridge and John Terry, Ashley Cole, Gordon Brown's bullying and Tiger Woods' porn star texts reverted to type and managed to avoid mentioning it at all.

Assadullah Wafa, a former governor of Helmand province, led the investigation:

“I spoke to the local headmaster. It’s impossible they were al-Qaeda. They were children, they were civilians, they were innocent. I condemn this attack.”

The Western myth or ideology is that, whilst there may well be “mistakes”, the aims of the government are benevolent. But children are a legitimate target: the inhuman spawn of the enemy which hates us for our freedoms. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, some lives are worth more than others. How else to explain the military's indiscriminate use of depleted uranium? The word "depleted" is of course pure PR spin. It makes it sound like the 'nuclear' aspect of the weaponry is insignificant. It isn’t though. It’s Uranium. U. R. A. N. I. U. M. We're conducting Nuclear War. Some facts:

Depleted uranium (DU) weaponry meets the definition of weapons of mass destruction in two out of three categories under U.S. Federal Code Title 50 Chapter 40 Section 2302.

Since 1991, the U.S. has released the radioactive atomicity equivalent of at least 400,000 Nagasaki bombs into the global atmosphere. The global atmosphere is permanently contaminated, with radioactive pollution having a half-life of 2.5 billion years.

DU on the battlefield has three effects on living systems: it is a heavy metal "chemical" poison, a "radioactive" poison and has a "particulate" effect due to the very tiny size of the particles that are 0.1 microns and smaller.

In some studies of soldiers who had normal babies before military manoeuvres in Iraq, 67 percent of their post-war babies are born with severe birth defects – missing brains, eyes, organs, legs and arms, and blood diseases.

In southern Iraq, scientists are reporting five times higher levels of gamma radiation in the air, which increases the radioactive body burden daily of inhabitants.

Two weeks ago, whilst we all cried for Becks and his missing this Summer's World Cup, a night raid carried out by US troops led to the deaths of two pregnant women, a teenage girl and two local officials. This is an atrocity which Nato tried to cover up and has gone unreported in the western media.

General elections in Britain are a time for us to talk in reverential tones about democracy and the importance of genuflecting before the altar that is the ballot box. The media will endeavour to persuade us to vote whilst insisting on us taking the views of the two main political parties seriously, heaping scorn on those who point out the futility of trying to choose between different cheeks of the same unwiped arse. The media will spew endlessly that this, like all other elections which have come before, is the fulcrum point at which we decide the fate of the nation, but in fact it merely highlights that the media are the ulcerated sphincter.

My eye's much better, thanks.

The eyes have it (Part 1)

Dammit! I forgot to mention my eye problems. From time to time my eyes erupt and they look and feel as if a humongous mutant wasp bearing the talons of an eagle has become entangled in my eyelashes and is repeatedly attacking my cornea as a means of escape.

And that's what's been kicking off for the past couple of weeks preventing me from physically confronting the luminescence of my Mac. Which is kind of okay because this has been acting as a very effective counter-irritant to my left foot, but then I need a counter-irritant to counteract the counter-irritant - if you get my meaning.

As it was my birthday recently (Pretty average thanks. I spent the evening in rehearsal) I travelled to the Trafford Centre primarily to distract myself from the physical pain and to redeem the value of a Boots Gift Card received as a present. I'm not much for venturing out in public. To me there's nothing worse than the tide of humanity lapping at my elegantly shod feet as I attempt to go about my daily business. As a shy egomaniac, I only get on with crowds when they're applauding me or screaming my name, otherwise they're a scary monster which keeps me confined to my quarters. But a heady mix of agony and the thought of all the Original Astral All Over Moisturiser I'd be able to purchase drove me to the Catacombs of Conspicuous Consumption.

The first thing that struck me was the sea of females sporting jeggings and Ugg (tm) boots. And, most peculiarly, there were middle-aged women dragging around their daughters and their daughters' daughters who were dressed exactly the same. Three generations of sartorial vapidity. We've regressed so far as a species, we're all dressing alike and in the home Fathers jostle their Sons for precious X-Box time as they attempt to live a perpetual adolescence. Back in the day you knew you were grown up because they gave you a suit on the NHS at the age of 16. Fact!

These days the last, exclusive, ring-fenced province of the child in fashion is the baby grow, or romper suit if you prefer, and I saw Snoop Dogg wearing one of those in a video once. So give it a couple of years and everyone will be hitting the streets in designer nappies:

"Gimme your Pampers or I'll stab you up, innit?"

"They're Huggies."

"Huggies, Pampers, Asda's own, wha'ever, yeah? Don't backchat me, Bigfoot or I'll bus' you up."

A lot more fun is to be had in The Concourse, a charmingly dilapidated shopping centre over in Skelmersdale - or Skem as the locals prefer and, get this, they refer to their Superstore as The Asda - where I've been working lately. Perhaps I’m just ultra-sensitive, but I found the spectacle of a group of 14 year olds at half-term smoking, drinking super strength Kestrel and luxuriating in their world-class surliness a tad unsettling at first. Now, this represents part of its allure. That, the pie shops and the lovely fella in the newsagents who kindly enquires if I want a "Chewy?" whenever I walk past his establishment. You don't get that at the Trafford Centre.

My foot related health considerations run a distant second to the brouhaha surrounding David Beckham at present. It's funny how our lives have followed such a similar path, although I doubt he's thinking, "I haven't heard from this consultant for a while, think I'll go to the Trafford Centre and gawp at the human detritus to see if that makes me feel better."

He inhabits a different world, one in which I imagine Victoria has compliant vulva delivered to their house like pizza in a wifely effort to keep him amused.

"Vic, this one's all dry and dessicated!"

"Easy hun, there's a juicy Hawaiian coming in a minute."

In praise of Pussy

I may watch the Oscars tonight. It all depends on how much Pussy I can get a hold of. Plus I'm really into the taste so just one isn't enough. Personally, I tend to get through a couple at a time.

God, bless ya!

I'm only talking about the energy drink!

I manfully strode into my local corner shop yesterday and, as I browsed through the myriad of drinks in the open display fridge, the owner chirped up "I've got some of that new Pussy, if you're interested."

I paused...

"Ex-Cuse! Me?!?"

"It's just to the right, sir. Pussy."

Sure enough, bold as you like on the shelf of a refrigerator in my corner shop: Pussy. I delicately examined the vessel, gently fingering the light moisture on its surface, my mind awhirl as I moistened my lips, and shot out, "What does it taste like?"

"No idea. I never touch any of that stuff. It keeps you awake," he replied.

Aroused and intrigued I bought 7 cans. I've been sucking down its sensual effervescence in enthusiastic gulps ever since. Being an obsessive I also visited the website to read the manufacturer's mission statement:

Pussy is spontaneous, entertaining, optimistic and fun. It’s a starting point. A moment when something happens and when things begin – Pussy starts conversations. It believes in having a good time as often as possible.

So, as you make your way to bed tonight imagine me with the taste of Pussy on my tongue as I follow Oscar proceedings from the red carpet to the ceremony itself.

The big winner tonight will undoubtedly be The Hurt Locker. I'd heard nothing but good things about this movie and so, as a contrarian, was absolutely convinced even before I watched the recently released DVD that it would be yet more propaganda for US military intervention overseas. It is, but it's far worse than that.

As there is no contextual exposition Iraq and Iraqis are reduced to mere background noise as we exclusively explore the Hell of War through the eyes of the American Crusader. The only pain is that experienced by the soldiers. A bi-product of this wilful myopia is the crude fetishisation of their male bonding which reaches a climax when the central characters take off their shirts and wrestle. Kathryn Bigelow, the director, might as well have had them oiled, naked and going at it by candlelight. That would have been entertaining.

But it was ever thus and will remain so. Heinrich Goebbels contended that films were a "scientific means of influencing the masses," and a powerful tool for shaping attitudes. He stressed that, "a government must not neglect them." Under Nazi rule, over a thousand movies were either approved or commissioned by the Reich. Goebbel's ministry punctuated popular films with reiterative motifs and symbols evoking a fervour in the German public: "heroism," "sacrifice," "mass murder," "hatred for Germany." Sixty years later and the same themes are played out in the same manner in our cineplexes, the subtext: "hatred for America."

Black Hawk Down espoused this world view whilst neglecting to reference the hundreds massacred by American troops.

300 ostensibly a movie about taut male flesh and ludicrous abs cast Sparta as the protector of Enlightenment and the principles of reason, freedom, and liberty from the "Asiatic hordes": reinforcing the western indoctrination that we are the good guys and that our ideals are better than the ideals of our enemies.

Apocalypto is about how the Mayan culture, prior to the European Conquest, was so inhuman and barbaric that it was necessary for the Mayans to be 'civilised' by the Europeans. Christianity was the best thing that ever happened to these savages. The human sacrifice referenced in the film was actually part of the propaganda promoted by the Spanish conqueror Cortez, a man who himself revelled in butchery and extermination.

Hollywood seeks to turn reality on its head in its use of images which places all guilt for death and destruction in the lap of the West's enemies. It's Bum Syrup. Utter Bum Syrup.

I'd like to see them turn that into an energy drink.

No. Really.