Monday, 7 March 2011

HOW DO YOU DO... revolution

Isn’t it all cosy? Yes I’ll have another pillow, double fluffed. This life has been good to me, well me and my family, King Abdul, Prince Mustaffa, General Muhammad; they’re all finding their own way in this life. I feel honoured having the honour of divine control over our once proud now humbled nation. I thank God for the black gold under our sandy soil, without that, our lives could have been compromised. Look, look, there’s another cash camel coming back through the palace, hey don’t take any for yourself.

You get the jealousy sometimes, but once you lock them up or stone them they soon quieten down. It’s almost as if they never existed. More Jackson juice! I need these slave, assistants, y’know, this palace and my arse doesn’t clean itself. It can get right dusty in those dark corridors and windy cracks with lots of crusty faecal matter smeared around the hole; they really should take care of the toilets.

Geez Gods

What’s that? Who’s banging at the doors? What? There are peasants at my door; I hope they’ve come to profess more jewels into my lap of luxury. You say what? They want my what? Not completely happy, positively vivid, homemade flags, packed lunches, mobile toilets, aggrieved expressions. Madness, what about the new statue, people must be protecting my statue, what? No head or genitals. Well let’s find the perpetrators, no one can hide a six foot wide penis, call the police immediately! The police are singing while lighting candles. Well the army, get my army! "They are already here, they’re banging at your door.”

Who’s got the helicopter keys, and who told me the underground network of tunnels to the sea-pods were a little bit wacko?

Hey down here, yeah near the dirt, yeah us

So apparently we’re getting a little hacked off living under people and not receiving as many rights as other nations, I say we, not us, we’re quite content with those dictorial dispositions from our officially unelected officials, rights stripping and taxing us till we’re on our knees begging to be educated.

It’s the other nations in more obvious areas of conflict, where our nations go to fight; yep you guessed it, da da daaaaa, the Middle East. Never a dull moment in the Middle Eastenders, anyone would say they own our newspapers the amount of time’s they’re featured in them, oh that’s right, some do, beats Mad Murdoch.

So if you’re under a military despot who reaps some sort of pleasure from paying you in individually wrapped rice grains for you’re seemingly pointless but compulsory job as rice grain wrapper. When, after a 96 hour shift you return home to find your goat raped and a tax on walking’s in force which costs you roughly your lives wages per footstep and you’ve just been sauntering.

I think someone needs to revolt.

Super-fast Broadbam!

Well traditionally speaking revolts start when a person talks to similarly aggrieved people has some meeting for all to gather at Kindling and Co or wherever to bring down their crippling monopoly on twigs. But fuck that, this aint 1807 or 1936 or 1344 this is neue, new, neo. Our society doesn’t even need to get off its arse. We got Twitter, yes Twitter; the place where everyone documents what’s happening on, but nothing ever happens on it. This bongaloid of a noticeboard is where you start phase one. You need to use some sort of inflammatory statement that’s already been said but change a few words, something like “Friends, Egyptians and you over there, lend me your status update.“ Remember to use a hash tag. Twitter has basically reinvented that dusty key above the shift, left of enter in some sort of babble kite-mark. In the Charts # is now the third most popular non-letter non-number, thing. No 2 is your old favourite @ and at No 1 is & cos you can make a newly discovered smiley face with built in nose, look &)

Once you’ve gathered enough friends, revolutionaries and bored strangers, make them meet in some park or open space, squares are not so good cos you can get boxed in (har de har har). Let’s get ready to...

Rumble in my tumble.

Before you pop off grab an inspirational packed lunch, imagine you’re going on a week long school trip to Stonehenge and they are only serving genuine medieval cuisine. So definitely all of the big four: Snickers, Mars, Lion and Twix with some satellite sized crisp sandwiches orbiting a considerable Jaffa cake galaxy. If you live in a country without this I would recommend using Lays or Ruffles though they are not proper crisps due to them having only the flavours: paprika and salt. If you do not have Jaffa cakes, an orange in a choccy bun can do. Failing that, mud-covered sponge?

The thick of it

So you’re there, everyone’s chanting and sweating from all the chanting. There’s a real atmosphere here, it’s like Coldplay and U2 have just announced their not going to play. But all is not as it seems.

Jenga Risk

Oh no, the man who you’re trying to topple has found out you want to topple him and has sent in an anti toppling unit to topple you back. Now I know you might be running low on wotsit sandwiches. And a sweaty yeti is soaking you with his solidarity hugs, reporters from SBC wants to ask your opinion over and over again, the pen on your homemade banner doesn’t read COME TOGETHER and now reads COME TO HER which is making one women very nervous. Sticks and stones are been thrown at you by those scutty chip-butty neighbours of yours that get right royal shoes for watching 24hour Kingwatch. And your legs are proper tired. But stand strong, stand firm and stand a little a little bit closer to that big man who’ll deflect those rocks from your face. Start humming come on Eileen and imagine your names Eileen. What the…

Tanks, ok so he’s sent in tanks, turret armed, angry, tanks. And men with guns. Big bad sausage shaped smoking guns. You need to hide, grab some metal preferably carbon fibre or diamond coated metal and cower.

Cheeks of stone.

If you stand your ground and they don’t decide to carpet bomb their own people to the point there is no population, whatever they try, however tempting it is to succumb, stay and you should, maybe, if you double cross your fingers, win. What you win might be a robbed dry indebted war torn land with factions vying for control, or the spoils of a land free from tyranny.

Give war a chance

The Beatles said, “ we’re going to have a revolution” but it didn’t happen. We opened our minds then went back to a slightly different but inherently similar lifestyle. For all the dreams and ideals spouted in those “crazy” days, very little came true. Is that what a modern revolution is? A deep upheaval for ultimately a similar lifestyle but just with a few things you or I want that we don’t currently get. Or has even revolution become just another one of those words, like democracy and evil that’s social, political, geographic, religious, cultural or illusionary. That’s my ending, just a big.... HAS IT? With a ask your fucking selves question mark pinned onto the lack lustre betrayal of feeling like you’ve read something of worth to be found out, you have not.


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