A Conspiracy of Trash

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Saturday 29 June 2013

THE CRYSTAL IMPERATIVE

After this delightful week’s news let me turn to a more heartwarming subject, what I would call the Crystal Imperative. This might sound like the title of some cheap novelette, the kind of crap they make into films or put on television for bored glassy-eyed people to watch while they’re eating cheap pizza or preparing a campaign for fingering their girlfriend on the sofa. No, it’s not that at all. What I have to tell you is much more exciting. It’s all about the connection that you and many other people have with Royalty when it comes to crystals.

Yes, you DO have a connection with Royalty where crystals and crystal healing is concerned. And not only with Royalty but with all the crowned heads of Europe together! Now isn’t that something. Yes, you have a historical connection with Kings and Emperors, Monarchs and Popes. From the Borgias to the Habsburgs… From Napoleon to the Czars. From Queen Victoria to our very own Elizabeth herself! But how can this be true I hear you saying? Well it is. You have a great thing in common. Those Kings and Emperors often possessing it even more powerfully than you! Indeed, they were perhaps the first to recognise its Spirit. What I wish to call the healing character of crystals, or more deeply perhaps, the crystal imperative.

Let me start at the beginning. Try and make it all simple so that you will understand! What is it that all the illustrious people mentioned above loved and still love today, just as much as so many of you who are into crystals and crystal healing love? What is it that you all have in common? Well SURPRISE, you all share the same love of crystals. It’s absolutely true! I mean, they all have their favourites just like you have yours. They got and still get the same pleasure in them, the same excitement, just like you do.

Let’s look at the situation in detail. They love Diamonds, Emeralds, Sapphires and Rubies just as much as you love Rose Quartz and Amethyst. They find healing properties in their crystals and minerals such as Lapis Lazuli just as much as you find the same healing powers in Sugilite,  Moldavite and Apophylite. Indeed, as I have recently shown, rulers like the Habsburgs may have understood and benefited from the same healing qualities of Sugilite placed in the Imperial Crown of the Holy Roman Emperor they wore for ceremonial occasions just as much you do wearing it in a much coveted pendant. It was just the same for these hereditary rulers as it is for crystal healing adepts and believers today! And to take the view a step further, Moldavite a precious green crystal with undoubted healing qualities was worn by the medieval rulers of Bohemia and Moravia who associated it with the Holy Grail. It was even earlier, since ancient times, associated with good fortune and fertility. You may wear it today, if you’re lucky to get hold of any, because of its exceptionally high vibration which clears blockages and aligns the chakras into a harmonious whole and use it to transfer in your journeys between lives, going back into those of your past and onwards into the future, and likewise, it helps sensitive people deal with suffering and their emotions. An interest in these spiritual qualities, along with those of Sugilite, you would undoubtedly share with some of eminent persons mentioned above.

However, apart from such important connections, of which many more undoubtedly exist, there can be no denying that all these crowned heads and rulers either had a passion for their own favourite crystal or perhaps even more than one. The monarchs and senior clergy of Spain for example, felt a very real spiritual affinity with emeralds which they obtained from various places in South and Central America. The British monarchy on the other hand had a great fondness for diamonds and sapphires collected specially for them from colonial territories such as South Africa, Burma and India. They certainly had a passion for those huge South African diamonds!  However it was not so much a case of where these crystals came from, more their spiritual rapport with them. They gave the same pleasure, promoted the same feeling of spiritual wellbeing for Queen Victoria and the monarchs who followed her as the healing, calming, loving, spiritual power of Rose Quartz does today for the many millions of adepts and followers who believe in crystal healing. Why should the spiritually healing effect of diamonds on Queen Victoria, one may ask, be any different to the specific healing effect say of Rose Quartz on the many who believe in its spiritual capacity today? Is it not all part of the same thing. Just because it’s diamonds on the one hand and quartz on the other really shouldn’t make any difference. I mean, should we cynically, snobbishly censor someone’s passion just because they are a Queen or an Empress and accept it in a Commoner, an actress like Liz Taylor whose fondness for diamonds was well known?

The problem lies with all the many cynics out there who might want to turn these higher spiritual questions into issues of value rather than accept that the spiritual confluence of healing runs with the same flow through everyone, no matter who they are. It is the healing capacity of crystals themselves that is the universal spiritual force that belongs to us all, that unites us, binds us into the one universal spiritual family. Why then politicize crystal healing when this power ultimately belongs to the higher realms of spiritual energy?  Napoleon may have loved rubies and the Borgias, sapphires, but is the healing relationship between them and their crystals any different to those that connect so many of us today to Apophyllite or Rose Quartz? We are entitled to ask this question now that this healing connection is so much better understood in our time when crystal healing has become as much a science as an art.

We know so much more today and can look back on the great Renaissance Popes, the Habsburgs, the later Crowned Heads of Europe from the spiritual wisdom of crystal healing in modern times. And taking it much further back why was Lapis Lazuli so beloved of the pharaohs? For one thing it is a protective stone that contacts spirit guardians, facilitates spiritual journeying and stimulates personal and spiritual power. This confirms everything we know about the pharaohs themselves, especially their relationship to the spiritual world after death and their journeying through it. Many were buried with their lapis lazuli treasures, their mummified casts bright with the dye from the stone. Is our wisdom today therefore any greater than theirs? Perhaps only in character.

In summary then it is clear that the great and the good of history no matter who they were also had their own personal affinity for crystals just as much as the many numberless folk of today. A correspondence of energy levels between crystals and kings just as much as the correspondence of energy levels between crystals and the great multitude of men and women who make up our world. Rose Quartz and Amethyst, Onyx and Obsidian have healing qualities and provide energy levels only for those who may need them and the same may be said for crystal forms such as Diamond, Ruby and Emerald, both the latter to be found as Beryl and Zoisite. Statistically it is understood that these have greater spiritual efficacy for those whose custom is to rule while the spiritual energy of Rose Quartz, for example, has a residual empathy for those involved in all the contradictions and problems of life. For the many rather than the few. That one set of crystals is rare and expensive and therefore available only to the few who can afford them is misleading. Even if they were available to the many it would not necessarily mean that they might be effective. On the contrary, the natural order of things would dictate otherwise, or else why would the rich and the powerful love and seek to possess only the most precious and expensive crystals. Answer, because only these work for them, not the more common semi-precious stuff so beloved of the crystal healing fraternity! In any case, these days it is the many who strive to possess the rare and precious Sugilite, those large brilliantly violet pieces which are beyond the dreams of princes.

This then is the Crystal Imperative. To strive for the healing energies to which we belong. To reach the converging spiritual confluence between our own personal need and the crystalline structures before us. And that is the task of crystal healing. To understand that convergence and fulfill it in all of us. It is, indeed, a CRYSTAL IMPERATIVE. Think of that when you consider buying a crystal!

THE WEEK’S NEWS

In the last week the British news media has been full of two things. Firstly the conduct of everyone’s favourite group of people, the police. Secondly Oxford Tory-Boy George Osborne’s swingeing benefit cuts attack on the poor and the unemployed on behalf of the former Labour Government which, together with the Financial Services Sector, were responsible for causing the current catastrophe in the British economy. Sorry all you strawberry and cream tennis sillies but I’ve left Wimbledon out of the equation.

The police of course have been up to far more than their usual criminal violence and general naughtiness of attacking and beating up striking miners, students and other workers, fitting up innocent people and sending them to jail, colluding with journalists to illegally hack into the mobile phones of celebrities and others, causing the deaths of innocent people in police stations, falsifying statements and lying about both the living and dead of the Hillsborough Tragedy and, of course, completely stuffing up the original investigation of the racist murder of black teenager Stephen Lawrence. Well, you may say, it’s hard to do any more than that. You’d have thought that after all they’ve been up to in recent decades they’d have stepped up to the plate and become shining examples of virtue but alas, sad to say, it just hasn’t happened. Various numbers of them are now exposed as spies and despicable ne’er do wells.

It’s one thing secretly investigating people and groups who are into violence, criminality, murder and mayhem; really bad people intent on causing serious harm such as drugs dealers, terrorists, gangs who exploit and molest children and the quite dangerous people who adulterate food. It’s quite another, however, to spy on people and infiltrate groups who are opposed to racism and fascism. Please note, I didn’t say spy on those who SUPPORT racism and fascism but those who OPPOSE it! No, the Metropolitan Police, already branded as ‘institutionally racist’ by a judicial report in recent times apropos their conduct in the Stephen Lawrence murder, then turned their attention to spying on and infiltrating anti-racist campaign groups in order to smear individuals and their work and similarly the family of the murdered teenager itself. A more despicable thing you could hardly contemplate yet there is worse! Infiltrating and spying on peace and other activist campaign groups wasn’t enough. They got into the lives of their supporters and in the cases of various women added sexual penetration and procreation to the list of their achievements. As has recently been shown, some of these very special boys in blue working under deep cover were already married with children while active on the job elsewhere. One of their victims has already said in televised interview that it was like she’d been raped by the State.

Good work if you can get it some might say but then who are the filthy people who would say such a thing? Spying on peace groups and their activists, on anti-racist groups and on groups campaigning for justice on behalf of victims, both white and black, of violence and intimidation in police stations is dirty in the extreme and stinks of fascism, and the police at senior level are under serious fire for permitting such conduct. To brand senior officers in this way, however, is unfair. They only facilitated such filthy conduct and let their juniors do all the work just like they did the dirty stuff throughout Nazi Europe 1933-1945. True, they may have liked doing it then and they may have enjoyed doing what they did now but the real responsibility surely lies with the politicians of whatever Government who asked them at senior level to do it. It almost certainly lies with various Home Secretaries for the periods involved and their Police Ministers. They were the people who secretly sanctioned such conduct starting from the top then down through the ranks to the doughboys. No-one is questioning the various politicians involved, only the conduct of the wretched police.

It’s just like the British Intelligence Services spying on the British and European domestic public. Why attack them alone for poking their filthy noses into our private lives when they’re only doing what Government politicians pay them to do… Trying to get their noses up everyone’s arse. Well it’s dirty work make no mistake and the kind of thing for which they are clearly eminently suitable. In any case, quite frankly, why should British people really mind when they are, after all, themselves the most spied upon people in Europe with CCTV cameras on just about every street corner in every village, city and town and down every drain-hole? They never really complained about that kind of filthy intrusion into their privacy so why complain about such invasiveness now? For a people who have, in a very general sense, such an apparently low sense of self-esteem and self-worth and who spend so much time complaining against each other and informing on so many of their neighbours to the police and who are also, by the way, generally uninterested in the human rights of others let alone their own, why on Earth should they be interested in the activities of a few cheesy coppers when the real dirtiness belongs much higher up.

And just one additional thing. Did Tony Blair’s New Labour Government or that of the Dark Lord who followed him use the police spying service to spy on or infiltrate the trades union movement and the Trades Union Congress itself?

NOW THERE IS A QUESTION!

So on to Gorgeous George Osborne and his Welfare Cuts. The main thing to understand in all this is not that he’s attacking the poorest, most deprived section of our society on behalf of the seriously dirty financial services sector who cheated and robbed the British public solely to benefit themselves. Oh no! He’s doing it because he knows he knows he CAN do it because he has the support of all three of the main political parties. They are all in it together so if you don’t like it too bad. You’ve got no other political party to turn to! They are all united together in making you pay for the economic crisis they caused!

AND WHILE THEY FIDDLE AND CHEAT ON THEIR PARLIAMENTARY EXPENSES CLAIMS YOU ARE THEIR VICTIM TWICE OVER!

Historically we can expect such conduct from the Conservatives. It’s okay! The poorest most needy sections of our society know what they’re about. There’s no shame in it. They’re just the filthy dogs who represent the large numbers of British people who don’t give a shit about anyone except themselves. No harm in that. We know you for what you are… The kind of people who take your dog into a public park where children are playing to have a shit and think it’s causing no harm… And furthermore you think you’ve got a right to do that kind of thing. Okay, we understand you, and furthermore you’re not the only ones to blame. Legions of working class dog owners do it along with the multitude of benefit loving cider-crusties. Okay, you are all understood! Much more difficult to understand are the other two parties, Lib-Dems and Labour.

But then how true is that really? The former were nothing more than a gaggle of opportunists who ditched their manufactured ideals that came from neither social class nor personal conviction as soon as they got near the smell of Government. Down the plug-hole went the silly ideas and with it their gobby youth movement. Okay, it’s quite understandable! These people, without any real social class behind them, were nothing more than a manufactured gang of pissy little chancers. You can excuse them. Just put a finger up to your temple and give it a twist. You know what I mean! Delusional and dangerous with it… But Labour? A Party that once had a mighty working class for its constituency! Well such a Party no longer exists! The middle class usurped it and it no longer represents anyone in Parliament except itself.  It just carries the name, Labour Party under what may best be described as false pretense. Why else would it support every cutback on the welfare and benefits payments to the poor, the real VICTIMS of the economic crises by Tory Chancellor George Osborne?

So the second major prong of news this week tells us that a large proportion of the electorate of this country are disenfranchised. In political terms they have nowhere to go. No political party they can turn to for help so the question is, which of these is the dirtiest? The one that always does the same thing, the one that goes sniffing after its arse or the one that still goes under its old name but no longer believes in what it used to believe anymore, in fact doesn’t even know what equality and justice is, let alone decency!

Friday 28 June 2013

GLASTONBURY!

AS GLASTONBURY IS UPON US AGAIN I TAKE PLEASURE REPRISING FOR YOUR INTEREST THREE POSTS CONNECTED WITH THE FESTIVAL.

ENJOY!

TOILETS AT POP FESTIVALS

Let me make myself clear from the start. This post is definitely not for the squeamish so be warned. Don’t read it unless you really want to. I’ll understand. Something for you to think about though! If you need a strong cast of mind and even stronger stomach to write about the subject, try to imagine what it must be like to experience it. But then countless millions of music lovers have! In fact it’s true to say that given the huge number of people who attend pop festivals every year, far more British citizens are acquainted with the inside of a stinking portaloo than the name of their equally odious Member of Parliament.

Okay, if you’ve got this far let me draw a picture for you. Imagine a rock festival with a hundred thousand revellers. Now think of the food that they’re eating. Tens of thousands of paper plates dolloped up with chili-con-carne ladled out of a gigantic drum like container onto a baked potato and topped with a spoonful of cream that hasn’t seen the inside of a fridge in memory. You’re feeling famished so you want something hot and spicy straight out of Mexico. Yum Yum! Alternatively it could be noodles with an oily stir fry or greasy chips or any other culinary treat mass produced for endless cider-heads that don’t care too much what they shove down their gobs as long as it’s filling.

That’s the food side of things. Get the picture? Now for the toilets. Portaloos. Rows of them often with multiple compartments. Six, ten or twelve. Each with a lock on the door so you think it’s all very private! Joke, joke! Go in the one at the end and you can hear the seriously vile character of what may be going on eight doors away let alone the horror of the one next to you, but get into one in the middle and you’ve got it in stereo! And for the love of God I’m not just talking about smell, of which hydrogen sulphide is only the basics. Oh no, I’m talking sound here! A whole symphony of effluent in its various forms hitting metal accompanied by the rich vibrant wind section of the London Philharmonic. And there you are, sitting and shitting and taking it in. Aren’t you the lucky one. You’re part of it all! And remember, these toilets are not always emptied on an everyday basis. If the organisers are doing things on the cheap or something goes wrong it may happen on alternate days or even not at all. Just consider what that creates!

So, take into account all the food, then consider that festival goers are not necessarily the world’s most hygienic people. Use a portaloo at night and you could easily park your posterior on something you didn’t expect. Use it by day and you’ll need to gird your loins to combat the stink. Do whatever you’ve got to now that the spicy whatever it is that you’ve guzzled has taken hold of your guts. You’ve got no choice anymore. It’s either you and your underwear or the horror of having picked the worst cubicle!

The portaloo panic at pop festivals usually strikes around midnight. Eat at eight so its four hours’ grace. Unless you went ‘organic’ that is and the green save the planet people who sold you that delicious looking vegetable dish forgot to mention where their fertiliser came from, in which case the problem’s more immediate. Generally speaking however, the queues for the loos build up around midnight and run on till two in the morning. The music’s stopped. The stages are empty. Crowds dispersed back to their tents and darkness all around because the people running the show are invariably too mean to have lighting. And then you see them! Like Aliens they come at night! Mostly! Hundreds and hundreds of solitary desperate looking figures clutching bog rolls. They’ve staggered out of their tents hoping above hope they can hold it in and now they’re trying to remember the way to the toilets. Many are carrying torches so innumerable beams of light penetrate the gloomy and often freezing night air. All thoughts of the stink ahead are banished in the serious need to get there and I’m talking pooing not pissing. As far as the latter’s concerned just about anywhere will do. I’ve seen countless desperados getting rid of their rough cider behind food stalls though the ladies are often a bit more discrete. Just a tad!

Twelve at night till two in the morning… Those magical hours! Queues at the cabins and up it piles. The cess-tanks below un-emptied from yesterday and already full. All that half cooked, part digested chillied up mincemeat pouring out of thirty thousand bum holes and you’ve got what passes for a very realistic aspect of our British way of life. The British at their best you might say. Well, it’s only sauce for the goose! What with politicians shitting all over the electorate and the bankers shitting on just about everyone, the festival habit is very much a part of it all.

I remember one of my own experiences only too well. Vile isn’t the word. It was a Steam Festival and there were no traders’ toilets i.e. toilets that only the traders could use not the hoi polio punters. They’re supposed to be cleaner because fewer people use them but that’s only a myth anyway. Traders at festivals invariably eat the same offerings as everyone else and are often too much in a hurry to be fastidious. Speaking for ourselves we often prefer to go hungry. It tends to sharpen you up but this time I succumbed to temptation.

It was a good looking burger frying with onions that did me in. I crawled out of our camper van around three a.m. after eating something that smelled good but turned out to be hatefully disagreeable and staggered up a slope and half way round a field to a row of Dr Who lookalike cabins. And there ahead of me were hundreds of other people waiting.

Definitely an oh-my-god situation. The smell hit me thirty yards off. I retched but somehow had to control it. I bit into one of my fingers but that didn’t help. What did was holding a finger each side of my nose and squeezing hard as I could. I’d reached the end of the queue and had to wait. Soon came the sounds, even with the main outside door closed you could hear that uncontrolled rush. I just couldn’t bear it. When I took my fingers away from my nose to block up my ears I felt gassed. Then everyone looking at everyone else in the dark. Their deepest innermost thoughts their own yet still everyone else’s! The plain bloody horror of it all. Standing there waiting your turn to do the same thing. Make the same noises. And everyone looking at you when you came out. Oh the shame of it all! Well at least the panic was over. I returned to the camper van and crawled into bed feeling all sticky and thinking only of our shower at home.

But that’s me. Maybe it’s not like that for most. Maybe festival goers in general love the disgusting food, the stink of the portaloos and the sounds their guts make. Maybe it’s all very normal for them. What they think of as the festival experience. Something that goes with the mud, the dirt, the filth and the squalor. All of which are complemented by festival food. That’s it really. Apart from the bands and the music that’s what pop festivals are all about… mud, filth, questionable food, ghastly toilets, drugs and stalls selling an endless variety of tat. And yet the worst parts of this are somehow elevated into virtues. Taken together they become the festival spirit. Things that make a festival a great experience! As individual characteristics they can be criticised, even condemned, but collectively they are romanticized into its essence. Its sights, sounds and smells! You forget the single awfulness of a thing like a grown woman pissing near her tent and think of it as a totality. In that way it becomes majestic! A fond memory you have six weeks after it’s over. You forget how horrid it was treading on fresh human poo and think about the cool people you met! You minimise the individual awful experiences and transmute them into a rosy construction.

Pop festival toilets and the experience of using them are things you have to turn into something else because they’re disgusting and you need to do away with the disgust. Rid yourself of it because you don’t want that memory. In short you fantasize it. Much the same way as the present Coalition Government of political jack the lads fantasize that robbing disabled people of their benefits, charging our youth who want to study at university extortionate fees, attacking the standard of living of elderly people and increasing child poverty is really for their own good and in some way helps them. Having said this however even such vile double-think pales into insignificance when set against the anal dance of the current leadership of the Labour Party that has now given itself over to the belief that the best way of opposing all the things they supposedly hate is to support those who perpetrate such moral injustices. The key word here, of course is supposedly.

Indeed, to step into any political debate about who should pay for the economic crises caused by a handful of arse holes is much the same as stepping into a filthy portaloo at a pop festival. And true there might be a difference but I’ll leave it to you to decide what it is.

MISTER TOASTY AND HIS YOUNG APPRENTICE

Mister Toasty was the name we gave to the tall, thin, garrulous old bastard who ran an early morning toasted cheese sandwich, tea and coffee stall at Glastonbury Festival on the same drag as our crystals, frogs on marble and gem trees pitch. He was up and busy at five in the morning for the countless festival-goers and traders alike, desperate to wet their whistle and crunch on anything molten and cheesy. But as much as anything else his stall was one of the first places lit up in the dark and served as somewhere for people to congregate after they’d staggered out of their tents and into the portaloos for a desperate shit. Then it was immediately over to Mister Toasty’s for something equally slidy.

His early morning queues were long despite having his wife, son and daughter in on the act along with a youthful additional helper. He did good business and must have made money because next to his Mercedes was a luxury trailer and we soon learned from those in the know that he had it all worked out. Bread and cheese slices, tea bags and coffee all bought for less than wholesale, the water free and the electricity for toasting there with the rent. With his family in on the job there was almost no cost for labour. Forget fresh milk! We were talking powder at best. With a low cost, fast turnaround necessity product the man was really a genius. Did all the high volume festivals April to October and spent the next six months sunning in Spain.

Approaching his stall you faced a high business-like counter with two or three queues feeding in. Behind it was a blackboard with prices, below which were various tables, some containing urns for boiling water, others piled high with paper plates and cups. The piece de resistance however was a fully automated toasted cheese sandwich making machine. A triumph of engineering ingenuity. Set on a long solid wooden table it consisted of a set of rollers onto which bread smeared with butter was laid. As the bread moved forward thin slices of cheese with a low melting point and high stringiness factor were laid on then another slice of bread stuck on top. This now passed between two thin metal burners with electric filaments above and below, and out the other side came a perfect toasted cheese sandwich. It may not have been homeboy cheddar and tasted plastic at best but oh what a joy to the famished!

The man had it nailed. No bacon, sausage or fry ups. This was a pour and smear rig with the rollers and heat doing the cheesing. Seventy pence for a tea or twenty more for coffee and two quid for the bread and the cheese. Sorry I meant toast! Not much more than ‘any spare change’ only when sold by the thousand it was Bill Gates eat your heart out.

What a joy to see it all work. At four in the morning countless figures wearing army surplus and boots falling around in the dark slamming portaloo doors and waiting for that magic moment of light when Toasty plugged into the electrics. Water up on the boil, crates of loaves dragged out of the trailer with the man himself taking charge of his tried and trusted regime like a fucking field marshal. It was actually a relief, a light in the dark to so many after a night of cider and spliffs. Teas and toasted cheese sandwiches guaranteed five-thirty a.m. just like a Glastonbury orgasm.

We didn’t put our own gear away at night. Just covered the stall with canvas tarpaulins held in place with powerful clamps while Louise or I stayed up watching and guarding, and boy, those nights were long. Then up came the lights of the toast stall on the other side of the drag like a welcome.

We soon walked over early morning. Mister Toasty knew who we were. The people who took all the big money doing the trees and the crystals! Yes, there he was with his wife who we’d christened Toastina and his sullen son the Toastevich. And there it all was. We could hear it. The roll, roll, roll of the rollers… The slap, slap, slapping on of the bread… And on, on, on went the slices of cheese… That could melt a heart made of lead! All of it going on at the back like a Hollywood Musical.

But what was this now? Serious ructions! Something rotten in the State of Danish Blue. Mr Toasty, warned by his wife of an infraction had turned on his trainee. Only one day gone and he’d apparently learned nothing. The youth was taken to one side. He’d been putting too much butter on the bread! This was only just short of being a capital offence. Everything in the toasted cheese sandwich making process had been worked out to perfection. There was no room for additions or additives. The butter had to be spread to an exact thickness or they’d be wasting huge sums of money. Mister Toasty had taken hold of the smearing knife. Now watch! Side run along the surface of the tub like so. Now, turn it across the bread running it smoothly at an angle of exactly thirty degrees. There, you see how it’s done. The Master himself had demonstrated. It was like so. And he didn’t want to have to tell him again! It was either the Toasty Way or the Highway.

The Young Apprentice took it heavily. His Master acknowledged. He was sure he would learn. End of the lesson. The Toastevich’s sullen eyes gleaming. The Apprentice would never last the harsh rigors of cheese application let alone tea making.

We purchased some tea, declining offers of free sandwiches, but wishing the Master all success. Early next morning however, Louise decided she’d try the coffee, though again declined a free offer, while I waited at the stall for some news. She’d been gone twenty minutes then returned to tell me all. Mister Toasty in high dudgeon. His Apprentice temporarily relegated to tea pouring duties for what was little short of insurrection! And so it would have been under the Articles of War had the toasted cheese rig been at sea. His sworn duty had been service at the end of the automated process where the sandwiches emerged through the burners, hot and lip smacking toasted before being wrapped up in cling-film. The wretched youth had apparently taken his eye off the machine and let them roll onto the floor. Dozens of them! All lying there in the sawdust!

Louise, who’d seen it all happen, could barely contain herself. The Toastina in an absolute rage. Was this how he showed his gratitude? Being chosen out of a hundred other applicants after he’d answered the card in the window? And not only being taken to Glastonbury, a privilege in itself, but also being paid. Was this the way young people showed gratitude these days to those who gave them a job? The cost of the sandwiches would be deducted from his wages. Now, could he remember how many tea bags went into an urn and how many cups of medium strong but definitely not strong tea could be made from a dozen tea bags?

Ah! No reply. Mister Toasty had waved a finger. So he’d forgotten all he’d been taught! And he’d seemed so promising a youth. It was all so simple. He was supposed to be good at mathematics at school wasn’t he? Well it could all be calculated by the inverse square law. Isaac Newton had done it. The more tea bags that went into the urn the less strong the tea got because you had to keep increasing the water. It was the same thing with buttering the bread. The more you put on the soggier it got until it became unreceptive to the cheese sitting on it. There, you see, Mister Toasty turned to his wife. The lad thought that making a toasted cheese sandwich was simple and easy when it was really full of complex technical problems that took years to understand. Which is why he needed to listen. Appreciate that what he was being taught came from someone with years of experience. Be invaluable for him throughout later life.

The young man had stayed silent, only nodding his head on occasion. There, he’d been given a good talking to. He could pour the tea for the next hour then go back to putting slices of cheese onto the bread. As Louise noted, this was extraordinary! Mister Toasty showing what might best be described as his softer side. It didn’t last. Half way through the morning we were startled to hear a high pitched voice shouting across the drag and next thing we knew the Young Apprentice appeared at our stall. He’d been banished! Sent away in disgrace! It hadn’t been his fault. The tea urn had fallen off the table after he’d put in the ladle to stir up the brew. It was only what he’d been told to do.

We commiserated. The best thing he could do was go back and apologise. Tell Mister Toasty he was sorry. Seen the error of his ways and that it would never happen again. The Apprentice smiled. Mister Toasty… He liked that!

We heard nothing more all day. By next morning all had been forgiven. The toasted cheese sandwich making process was running like clockwork with the Young Apprentice now back in charge of buttering the bread. This was a remarkable turnaround. The Apprentice fully back in favour at the head of the operation while the Toastina laid on the slices. The early morning clientele thronged. We heard it all later. The Apprentice had apparently contributed a brilliant new innovation into the process. Instead of the packets of cheese being left in the trailer fridge, he’d suggested that they be removed and placed close to the burners, thus ensuring that the slices were softened before being laid on the bread. This had resulted in a more rapid toasting process. The Apprentice, it seemed, had a genuine aptitude for the business and was beginning to take his duties altogether more seriously. Could it be that he might one day become a fully-fledged toasted cheese sandwich maker? Clearly the skill ran strong in him. He’d come close to falling off the edge into the dark side but now everything was different. His training was almost complete and with it would come his own personal knife for butter application.

Late Sunday morning with sales at our stall in full swing we looked up to see a wonderful sight. There, crossing the green, walking stick in hand and wearing his cape was Mister Toasty purposefully hobbling towards us accompanied on one side by the Toastina and on the other by his Apprentice. I bowed as he arrived saying we were honoured by his visit. It was of course to have a nose or maybe hope we might offer him something. I did! Would his wife like one of our beautiful amethyst miniatures? He could forget anything bigger! Wrapped and into a carrier bag it was passed to the youth. “Sales very brisk?” Mister Toasty enquired. Well he could see all the dosh flowing across the stall and was adding it up in his head. “Nothing like yours,” I said with the required deference. One junior Master to another more senior!

“The boy’s good,” he said briskly, giving his charge a wan toothless smile. “Though there’s nothing like a bit of experience.” And then, with a quick glance around, muttered, “you must be taking a shilling.” Nosy fucker, I thought. “Yeah, it’s been very good for us this year,” I said referring to the takings. “We’ll need a bodyguard to help us get it into the bank.” Like we take notes while you only do toasted cheese coinage!

It was the last we saw of him that year as he turned away and hobbled back to his stall, one of his arms on the Apprentice’s shoulder. Maybe he was lining him up for his pimply daughter, Louise and I joked later.

We didn’t see the Young Apprentice again. With the aptitude he shown for buttering bread he was a prime candidate for recruitment to the Financial Services Sector and was by now probably running a bank!

GLASTONBURY : FROG ON THE ROCKS


Apart from crystals, crystal pendants and slices of agate what other commodities do you think we sell in large numbers at the Glastonbury Festival? Could they be condoms, anti-vomiting agents, diarrhoea tablets or cigarette rolling papers? None of these but come to think of it they’re really worth considering if no-one else has got the licence. Okay, I’ll give you a clue. What’s the Festival famous for? Music? Well maybe. Drugs and filth? We’re getting closer but truth to tell it’s none of these. In the mind of the public Glastonbury is synonymous with mud. Heavy rain on the festival site end of June brings with it flooding, washed out tents and mud. The televised image of people wallowing in it, dancing in it and up to their elbows in it is only too typical. All that mud amid all that greenery! And what goes with mud and greenery, croak, croak, croak? Why it’s frogs!

Our best selling items at the Glastonbury Festival are frogs on marble. Little resin made frogs with big blue eyes and broad red lips glued onto pieces of polished marble or granite are the perfect complement to the oceans of greeny-grey sludge that covers most of the festival site after three days of downpour. People just love them. There they are, dozens of them sitting on our table, singly, in pairs or even three together mounted on a single piece of rock looking up at the kids like irresistible talismen. Mud, mud, mud, croak, croak, croak! Sunday mornings we can’t sell them fast enough.

They come from the wholesaler in boxes of three, same as the other resin animals we sell such as rabbits, squirrels and tortoises. One large, two small to a box. Buy them by the gross and they’re cheap. Around twenty pence each. All the small singles, whatever the animal, sell at two-fifty. The large on their own are three. Two small ones together are four pounds, a large and a small, four-fifty. All together as a family group the price is five. Not bad for our customers, the discount always appreciated. Of all the animals we sell, however, frogs outstrip everything else by at least ten to one. Here the positioning of the frogs on the rocks gives real scope for the imagination! We can put two small frogs together side by side facing each other. Very cute! Alternatively we can mount a big frog right behind a little frog, the suggestiveness of which everyone knows at a glance making the posture very much in demand. Another popular display is all three together, the large frog in the middle with a juvenile on each side facing inward or outward.

Given the serious demand and the fact that the frogs are often purchased as symbolic gifts of the Festival and its muddy experience, a great selling point is to customise each of the pieces on request. That means mounting them on pieces of rock just large enough to be written on. An example of this can be Glastonbury 2000. Equally popular is to have the name of the giver, Glastonbury and the date i.e. from John Glastonbury 2010 or even For Mum Glastonbury 2011. Most frogs sold however are kept by their purchasers so Glastonbury and the date are the most common inscriptions.

Each product is heavy and fifty together in a box weigh a ton so transportation is crucial. After making each piece we put them into strong cardboard boxes like those used for carrying bananas. Two full layers one on top of the other separated by a sheet of cardboard. Mercifully these boxes come with a space cut into each short side of the rectangle making it easy for two people to lift so that three or four days before we leave for the Festival our camper van floor is loaded with four boxes each side of the bedding area with six additional behind the driver and passenger seats. A serious weight with all that granite and marble so we need to make sure of the tyres!

Once we arrive we offload the whole lot stacking them up back of the stall, maybe a dozen or so pieces on one of the tables at any one time, most of them being frogs. Yes there’s definitely something about them, all sitting there in a bunch waiting to go to good homes. Simply irresistible if you’re wearing Wellington boots two sizes too big and you’ve already been trudging in filthy deep mud. Even irresistible if there’s no mud at all! They just sit there, on pink Italian marble, polished Aberdeen red granite or Norwegian black larvikite, glaring up at customers through baleful angry blue eyes with jaw to jaw bright red lips all merry with an insouciant smile. However you look at them, face on or from the side, they have a strange sinister demeanour. Almost like they could come alive at any moment, hop onto your cheese sandwich and let go something nasty all over it. And with such charm going for them they sell in hundreds. We just can’t make enough. Everyone loves them to pieces.

I’ve got one sitting in front of me at the computer and boy does it look malevolent! Almost like it knows what I’m typing and doesn’t like it one bit. It wants some fucking royalties out of this post make no mistake and if there’s no slugs to hand it’ll piss all over the keyboard!

You’d better not try that one on you slimy bastard or you’ll go outside on the ledge. You can try hopping off that onto the railings below!

No, seriously, I didn’t mean it! These frogs have been very good to us over the years and are favourably thought of in the highest quarters at Barclays. I’ve even thought of sending one to Chief Executive, Bob Diamond to put on his desk. Hi Bob, thought you might like to see how I get rid of my overdraft. In fact, would it be possible for the bank to lend me half a million so we could set up a factory unit in China. With a billion Chinese we could do serious business!

And what do you know all you banking cynics? You should be ashamed of yourselves. A week ago I got a letter from Barclays Head Office. Dear Valued Customer, it began. I can’t tell you how tearful it made me feel when I read it. Me! A Valued Customer! You could almost cut the sincerity. It was like having a conversation with Nick Clegg! Why, just imagine me being a liberal democrat voter; I wear stripy hooped green and black woollen stockings, pink sandals and a floral dress with water vole motifs on it and I believe in human rights for bluebottles and guess what? Someone at party headquarters phoned me up and told me I was a valued supporter, and furthermore, if I was a banking executive no worries about my million pound bonus.

In this day and age it’s so nice being made to feel that banks and politicians really care about you. It makes you feel you can trust them with any money you’ve got!

Okay, the idea of a German Ruhr size frog gluing assembly line in China on the backburner let me return to Glastonbury where two hundred and fifty thousand potential frog lovers come to chill out. A new approach to selling our frogs recently came to mind and was shown to have definite mileage. Why not, we thought, liven up their character by giving them a national identity? If a French guy or girl came to the stall we’d call a frog Henri, for a German we’d call it Fritz and for Italians Berlusconi! Most of our frog clientele however was English, particularly guys with blond dreadlocks or girls with ripped stockings. That said we needed names that fitted the type. George was out and you could forget Charles and Camilla. We needed cool. We needed iconic. Rooney was good and so too was Elton, but even better was Oggie. The punters just loved Oggie the Froggie!

By Saturday night the boxes were emptying and Sundays were always a landslide. A bit of bubble wrap then into a carrier. Customers lining up though customising took time. Non-stop activity with a gold marker pen. Me flogging the animals, Louise working flat out on the crystals, pendants and trees. We sometimes brought helpers. Young people we knew and counted on being reliable. Plenty of time to go to gigs, free admission onto the site, free food and a decent day’s pay. Sometimes our generosity paid off but not always. More than once on a Sunday, when help was needed the most, they’d fail to show up. Wander in mid-afternoon after unscheduled time in a tent with the drag end of a spliff stuck in an earring.

By late Sunday most of the boxes were empty and the frogs gone to good homes along with rabbits and squirrels. The slowest sellers were always the tortoises. By Monday tortoises were down to a quid. Nobody wanted the fuckers. It took an Attenborough program on the Galapagos to get a few moving and often not even then!

Frogs are always popular, tortoises are not, but at Glastonbury frogs are seriously popular. Why is that? There’s a simple answer. Glastonbury people are froggie people. Frogs, one way or another are full of character. Tortoises aren’t! Frogs are a like it or lump it species of being and if you don’t like it fuck off! They’re opinionated. When they croak they’re probably saying up yours or go fuck yourself. Tortoises are like dipping a knife in water. They’re yes we agree with whatever you say types. They’re well we really haven’t got any opinion right now but if you let us think about it for a few months maybe we’ll give you a call. In the meantime put some more lettuce in the bowl and a few pieces of cabbage.

Frogs are purposeful, tortoises don’t have any ambition. Now saying this you might think that things should be the other way round. You know, Glastonbury types being laid back unwashed hippies with a going nowhere philosophy as maximum cool. But in that you’d be wrong. Glastonbury people are keen to convey that appearance but to stick it on them as a generalisation is a major mistake. They’re mighty purposeful about their likes and dislikes and they know what they want. The laid back image is only an image, a device to convey cool but actually they’re more often full of something one way or another. Whether it’s shit or sound common sense is a matter for debate.

Tortoises on the other hand are full of nothing. They lack character and they lack oomph. They’re definitely not get up and go types. Frogs on the other hand are. They’re we’re out of here characters. Don’t like it and they’re off, same as Glastonbury types. Our Glastonbury frogs are on the rocks all right but the people who buy them know they’re only sitting there for their own convenience. They’re on that bit of rock because it’s where they want to be. They’re free spirits really like the people who buy them. They can hop off or piss off whenever they fancy and because they and their purchasers are genuine free spirits they can both do their thing whenever they like. Buying a frog on marble means two free spirits getting together in a kind of art-deco alliance. We know, and so do the two billionaire Russian oligarchs who approached us recently to set up a frog manufacturing facility in Eastern Siberia. One of them we understand owns a football club somewhere in England.

 

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Friday 21 June 2013

THE HABSBURG HEGEMONY AND SUGILITE

Now I want to talk about the HABSBURG HEGEMONY.

The what? I tell you it’s about the Habsburg Hegemony, or the domination of Central European royalty and history by the Habsburg family for 800 years. Well actually, the post is entitled…

 

                                   THE HABSBURG HEGEMONY AND SUGILITE

The Habsburgs, bless their little purple cotton socks, ruled much of Europe for a very long time, going back one way or another to the 10th century, with lands that eventually extended from Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, large parts of France including Burgundy and Lorraine, Germany, Poland, Spain, Portugal, Croatia and the Balkans along with sizeable areas of Italy, the Low Countries…what is now Holland and Belgium, and elsewhere. They occupied the throne of the Holy Roman Empire for example from the mid-15th to the mid-18th centuries! They were a kind of extended family with uncles and aunts controlling territories with titles of margraves, counts, dukes, archdukes, kings and emperors with palaces all over the place stuffed with crowns, orbs, sceptres and jewels. You name it they had it! And that wasn’t the half of it. Through family connections they doubled it up with the influence they had. Napoleon didn’t like them one bit and set about doing them over from the end of the 18th to beginning of the 19th centuries. But then they recovered, even after the little Frenchman dissolved their Holy Roman Empire and Garibaldi kicked them out of Italy, with good old Archduke Maximilian shot for good measure in Mexico. What did for the House of Habsburg finally was Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria-Hungary siding with Germany in the First World War, losing and having most of what remained of his little Empire broken up into modern day Republics. The real question here is what started off the final collapse and why?

As every schoolboy knows, it all kicked off in Sarajevo in 1914 when a couple of Serbian nationalists decided to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand which they did along with his wife. One thing led to another with Europe forming into two blocs and before you knew where you were there were trenches in every direction from the Mediterranean to the North Pole! So a guy in a car gets killed by a couple of radicals and its 30 million plus dead. Simple it seems looked at through the well-trodden lens of history. An established tale with a well-known formula for war only it all seems too pat. Like the story was being rehearsed. For a lot of people the whole thing doesn’t add up and many have felt quite frankly that there had to be something more to it than that. One side joining another then another and its bang-bang. Indeed, many people now think that there definitely was something more going on and I am now able to say they were right.  A strange discovery has been made only recently. A connection so intriguing, so mysterious, that only now, after much patient research can the truth be revealed. One that can at last be brought to the attention of a wider public in what can only be described as THE HABSBURGS AND THE SUGILITE CONNECTION.

The first thing one needs to consider and indeed wonder at is how this family dominated Europe for so long with a gene pool the size of a pea pod. They were all interconnected through a series of dynastic intra-family marriages where genetic disorders and other disabilities were passed on with such stunning regularity that it led to the wholesale extinction of family lines such as that in Spain. Something you could tell at a glance just by looking at the portraits of the monarchs while most of the Austrian line vanished in the 18th century.

Well they did most of it through intermarriage and conquest. A kind of family based territorial looting operation. Taking over one place after another with armies and arms, acquiring wealth along the way then sucking it dry.

It was all most charmingly dynastic! The display of title and power across vast regions run by lesser lords amid a vast sea of peasants locked down by religion and feudal obligation with all the symbols of that power displayed in thrones, crowns and jewels. A crystallization of that power, indeed, yet as will soon be made evident, in more ways than one that in a sense is still pertinent today if you consider the symbolic significance and potency that The British Crown Jewels, on display for all to see in The Tower of London, still have today. I refer here though to only one sense of that significance. For the Crown Jewels of the Habsburgs there was another. I refer in particular to the Imperial Crown of the Holy Roman Empire.

From 1438 The Holy Roman Empire centred in Germany was ruled by the House of Habsburg and contained a vast Treasury including the Crown, all of which are now on display at The Imperial Treasury in the Hofburg Palace, Vienna. Interestingly, they were originally kept at Nuremburg then removed because of the advance of Napoleon but returned in l938, exactly 500 years after the Habsburgs took over, by that keen disciple of the occult, Adolf Hitler. Nuremburg as is well known being the scene of his Nazi political rallies. So the Imperial Holy Roman Crown of the Habsburgs had its seat of symbolic power in Germany, left there for Vienna for a while, was returned to Nuremburg by Hitler, disappeared during the Second World War, was found by American troops and eventually returned to Vienna. That’s the known history, but what of its power?

Symbolic? Undoubtedly! And yet something far more. Over many decades admirers of the Imperial Crown have marveled at its many magnificent jewels but, it should be said, merely as tourists. Passive bystanders as it were. Recently however there has been a very different kind of interest altogether! From the end of the 1980’s and throughout the 90’s certain observers with a keen knowledge of crystals and crystal healing have sensed a strange personal magnetic empathy with the artifact. As though in some way they felt drawn to it. Though this was known it was never seriously considered until recent times when a few prominent adepts of healing individually turned their attention to the object. It was then noted on closer examination of some of the jewels that what at first appeared to be an odd kind of transparency was nothing of the kind but had far more of a dense opaque quality and was strangely purple, not even resembling amethyst of emerald at all. Modern knowledge soon clarified the confusion. Though unable to conduct any close examination of the stones or undertake any kind of chemical analysis, it nonetheless became clear, as much through sensing than anything else, that some of the material under consideration was undoubtedly Sugilite.

This was a huge surprise to those in the healing profession who had the experience, if not a shock, and was kept from the Austrian authorities to whom such knowledge would have been meaningless, also bringing possible scorn! The discovery of Sugilite and its exceedingly significant powers has been of great benefit for crystal healing but it has only come in recent decades. The Palace authorities in Vienna wouldn’t have had a clue about its importance and the fact, as mentioned in a previous post, that it had an energy level equivalent to the 12th power. In short, the discovery of the mineral in the Imperial Crown of the Habsburgs was kept very much in the shadows. The real questions now are as follows. Firstly how on Earth did the mineral find its way into the Crown? Secondly, were the Habsburgs in any way sensitive to its energy levels and powers, and thirdly and much more intriguingly, was there anyone else likely to have had that knowledge?

To answer the last question first. Obviously, at any time in the past such as prior to the First or Second World Wars no-one could have known of Sugilite as the mineral had only been ‘discovered’ in Japan during the 1970’s by Professor Sugi. However, having said that could the Habsburgs or anyone else for that matter have seen it and been aware of its remarkable powers? Thought that it was something quite different to any of the known run of the mill gemstones?

To return to the first question. How did the mineral find its way into the Imperial Holy Roman Crown? This is a real problem. The mineral itself is extremely rare. It’s source of ‘origin’ was Japan and only recently a fresh find was made in the Cape Province of South Africa, both locations quite outside the possibility of discovery for Medieval Central Europeans. So where else it is likely to have come from and how did it get into the Crown when guys like the Habsburgs liked traditional jewels. The bigger the better! The answer, though seemingly improbable, may not be so hard to find. The Habsburgs were the richest most powerful family in Europe. Their wealth was enormous and their contacts universal. They had the best jewelers making stuff for them all over the place. There might have been a tiny source of the material somewhere in Europe or in any of their overseas territories. If any had been found, however small the source, its novelty would have aroused great curiosity. Would have been drawn to the attention of the Ruler, might have found its way in the Crown as a kind of MUST HAVE piece of stone. As a kind of talisman for example, much as greenish mineral Moldavite had been for Medieval Monarchs as a kind of Grail Talisman.

The idea of such a strange violet coloured mineral finding its way into the Crown of the Holy Roman Emperor may not be altogether far-fetched. A more interesting consideration is what effect it might have had on the Habsburg Rulers themselves? Could they have in any way understood its vast energy levels, its very own tremendous power? This to my mind is particularly intriguing. The symbolic significance of the Crown was well known to a whole succession of Habsburg Emperors who only used it for crucially important ceremonies such as Coronations. Even so, their domination of European politics from 1438 till 1806 through it says much. Without necessarily being into crystal healing they somehow must have sensed its spiritual power. Regarded it as not merely a symbol but something more. Something with special qualities. Today they would have understood better and been adepts of the power of Sugilite. Back then they must have surely known that the purple stones in their Crown contained some kind of force that gave them the power of understanding. An ability to rule and command.

This Crown then was part of the regalia that remained in Austro-Hungarian Emperor Franz Joseph’s Imperial Hofburg Palace during the early years of the 20th century and was due to be passed to his son, the Archduke Ferdinand when the old man, already well into his 80’s, was dead. Ferdinand would receive not only the symbol of that power but the actual power that went with it. Something the Serbian assassins certainly knew. They were fanatics. Theirs was the struggle of Serbian nationalism. For a Serbia free from the age old domination of Austria. The power of the Imperial Crown was everything they hated. They or their colleagues had certainly seen it. Something out of a German Holy Roman past and being slavophiles themselves everything they despised. There was its mesmerizing power, locked away in an Imperial Palace that had dominated slavophile Eastern Europe for centuries but what to do? Destroy the well-guarded Crown or kill the man who would wear it?

They too must have sensed its power. Its majesty, the authority of its gems at the apex of everything they reviled. Destroying it there in the Palace wasn’t entirely impossible. They might well have considered it but then there was also the man, the hereditary ruler. They knew of the turbulence their actions might cause. Kill the man, destroy the Crown! Destroy the Crown and break up the Empire. Free Serbia. It was never going to happen. The Archduke was killed and the assassination drove Austria’s politicians and old Franz Joseph into the arms of the Kaiser. After the War another Austrian got hold of the crown and began building an Empire, only one that didn’t last either. Even so, those pieces of Sugilite have been at the centre of European power for 500 years. They were deliberately put into the Crown and that’s where they’ll stay, waiting for someone else with ambition to sense their power.

If you visit Vienna on holiday go take a look at the Hofburg Palace. The authorities won’t let you get anywhere near the Imperial Crown but if you are in any way into crystal healing you’ll get the message. And if you’re wearing a Sugilite pendant, watch out. These might not be the crystals that started the First World War, not directly that is, but there’s an undoubted causal relationship. All things have a cause and effect, all things some place of their own in history. Crystal healing adepts see things their own way and their ideas are often just as new, just as exciting as those of accountants who design tax avoidance packages for Google, Amazon, Starbucks and Vodaphone.


If you found this post thought-provoking, why not try some of my e-books, published on Amazon. Samples are free and the full downloads less than £1! One of them, WITH MALICE, is a powerful novel which deal with the above topic. Another, A CONSPIRACY OF TRASH, is a black satire giving the lowdown of the English Literary Profession and what you need to do to get a book published!

STEALING YOUR MONEY: THE GREAT BUILDING SOCIETY ROBBERY

In recent days bondholders at the Britannia Building Society owned by the Co-operative Bank have received a very nasty shock. The outfit they put their money into wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. It was bust even when the bank took it over, something the bank already knew, stuffed with sub-prime mortgage liabilities hanging over it from the American sub-prime fiasco, but it still didn’t stop them taking people’s saving and handing out bond certificates. The latter, as anyone with any sense in their head knows, is a posh looking piece of paper with words and numbers on it. Savings, as anyone with any sense in their head knows, are banknotes that you’ve worked hard for. Physical cash, legal coin of the realm that you’ve worked hard for and handed over for the single posh piece of paper. And to put it into its real nasty perspective, that money you had before you handed it over was legally yours, but the second you handed it over to the Britannia Building Society or any Building Society for that matter, and put your signature on the form for a bond, that money became legally theirs. It wasn’t your money anymore to do what you liked with. It was theirs. They were now the legal owners of your cash.

And if you didn’t know that already you’d better know now! That’s because in the case of the Britannia Building Society and the Co-operative Bank that owns it, they’re going to do things with the money you gave them to literally fuck you over. That is, take away part of it for keeps. Well it is legally theirs now, not yours and they can do what they like don’t you know? Now anyone who says this is theft would be wrong. It might look like theft, it might smell like theft and it might even taste like theft, but legally it isn’t, and there’s the joke really, because according to the financial rules and regulations governing institutions within the financial services sector what they choose to do with what you thought was your money has the whole weight of the law behind it so there, they’re just doing things with it in their best interests. And yours? Well that’s another thing altogether!

All this is particularly important right now because of the dirty big hole that opened up right at the heart of the Cooperative Bank the minute they bought the junk status Britannia. It caused the collapse of their intentions to buy a large chunk of Lloyds Bank branches basically because with the weight of the junk building society round their necks they quite simply didn’t have a pot to piss in. If they’d bought part of Lloyds they’d instantly drown, not buying Lloyds they were still in the shit, in a financial black hole as they say in the City, and still had to get out. In short they had to get the money from somewhere and the somewhere was you, the bondholders.

The only thing that needed doing was cooking up some kind of package. With excellent financial advice coming from the smart city boys, accountants, economic advisers and all, you know, people who know how to get hold of money, they didn’t need to look far. In fact no further than Cyprus. Easy peasie, just trim off people’s deposits. In this case the combined value of all their Britannia Building Society Bonds. First stage, the Cooperative Bank takes over the bonds. Second stage, converts itself into a bank with a stock market listing . Third stage, issues shares to the former bondholders for part of the value of what their bond used to be worth. In the case of the Britannia conversion just two-thirds the value. So, you lucky bondholders, at the stroke of a pen you’ve been fleeced of 33% of your dosh!

Now if I were a jack-the-lad in the City I’d call it real juicy!

And while you’re shaking with fury and rage Britannia bondholders, you might think that help is at hand. Fear not, the Liberal Democrats, those tireless campaigners against bankers bonuses and every kind of financial impropriety under the sun are already riding to the rescue. That the good Nick Clegg and the honorable Vince Cable know your pain. Know your suffering.  Are already figuring out ways they can help! They won’t have this sort of thing happen. They’re already planning some kind of action! They’ll talk to the Chancellor if necessary so don’t be dismayed. Yes, and you’re bound to hear words from Ed Miliband and his friend, that bold champion of all savers Ed Balls. They’ll have none of it either.

And with such fantasies running round your head maybe it’ll help you sleep easier but then maybe it won’t. To hope of anything decent or honorable from the Liberal Democrats is a delusion, plain and simple. These people genuinely can’t help themselves. Either make promises they know they can’t keep or else do what’s best and stay silent and in the case of the Britannia bondholders swindle so far not even a peep or a bit of cheap mouth. As for what used to be Labour, are you just mad? Labour helping bondholders and savers! I mean even the thought’s got to be some kind of joke. Don’t forget, this is the Party that started it all. Think Labour and you’ve got a Government that facilitated tax evasion, Inland Revenue impropriety, Libor rate swindling, money laundering banks, gigantic bankers bonuses for failure while at the same time hateful financial constraint imposed on disabled people, the sick and the poor, with Ed Miliband part of it all. You’ll never hear a word from this gang about the way you’ve been had because these were the rascals who started it all. It’s a bit like asking Jack Straw and his Iranian Ayatollah friends for a loaf of Jewish rye bread!

No, bondholders, you’re out on your own with no-one to help and remember the disease is contagious. Like some kind of financial Black Death. Yesterday Cyprus, today the UK! Soon the bells will be ringing and the savers start coughing it up for the finance executives. Who was it who said, ‘my word is my bond!’ Well how much is the word of any of these people worth these days, especially when they know that the institution they work for is the actual owner of money deposited by investors and savers? Well actually it’s worth nothing. Some of them are probably already working out what bonuses they’ll get for legally fleecing their depositors. What an absolutely brilliant way of making money and it’s all legal. Just invest some excuse why we need all their money right now and give them green shield stamps for the value or promise to pay it back to their great grandchildren in a hundred years’ time, say in some nice bits of paper.

Stealing? Who called it stealing? How dare you say such dirty words!
 
If you found this post thought-provoking, why not try some of my e-books, published on Amazon. Samples are free and the full downloads less than £1! One of them, WITH MALICE, is a powerful novel which deal with the above topic. Another, A CONSPIRACY OF TRASH, is a black satire giving the lowdown of the English Literary Profession and what you need to do to get a book published!

Saturday 15 June 2013

BRITAIN’S FAVOURITE PASTIME

There are many possible candidates for this award, from bonking, eating junk food and allowing yourself to become hideously fat, and last but by no means least, the national obsession among British teenagers for drunkenness and lewd behaviour in Spanish holiday resorts.

To begin without trawling the obvious, an interesting possibility I have in mind for Britain’s favourite pastime is the current obsession across the working class underclass spectrum that also takes in large numbers of the lower middle class and is equally applicable to both sexes is a passion for being tattooed? This is now a flourishing obsession. One which in less than a decade and a half has become an established feature of the British way of life. The adornment of the human body with grafted signs, inscriptions, sayings and pictorial representation, while being a matter of personal choice has fast become something of a ‘must have’ personal fetish. It’s not so much a form of individual artistic expression as a statement about who we are. What we see as attractive and meaningful to us that we want to communicate to others. Tell them about what kind of people we are. This is evident from the fact that it is often arms, lower limbs, upper torso and heads that are most often adorned though it is sometimes the case that a rose is to be found neatly centered above the anal crack of large numbers of women. Most popular among fat under-class women I’ve been reliably informed.

In the latter case I’m hard put to it to understand exactly what impression they seek to convey for the money expended. They can’t see it themselves and only those drunk enough might gain sight of this artistic addition to the said area. In other words why spend money if no one can see it, or could it be that they themselves have sufficient intelligence to enjoy the laconic connection?

No, the penchant for being tattooed has become a runaway train and the question is why? Many of these things are seriously expensive, costing thousands, So what do they express. Obviously something meaningful, but is that something a recent or long term aspect of personal character? And above all, why now, in the last fifteen years? Interestingly enough the rise of the fetish coincides perfectly with the appearance of a new social class on the British scene. Margaret Thatcher’s time in office saw a de-industrialization  of British society and fundamental changes in the structure of the working class, a large part of which became unemployed and socially depressed. This led to the formation of a gathering substrata below it which today is best described as an underclass, with its own well defined characteristics in culture, appearance and habit. In tandem with the emergence and growth of this class has come its expression of self-identity, not simply in speech but more perhaps in appearance. Specifically in the tattoo. The tattoo is a necessary expression of identity in a new social class that needed one. This identity crisis has now extended outwards into the old working class which now, having lost much of its tradition, seeks some other kind of identity to replace it Especially in the case of its youth.

It is logical that the great socio-economic changes within British society over the last thirty years have created a great psychological change in the character of its people most strongly affected. Old traditions have been lost, new identifying mechanisms have been required. The rise of tattooing has perfectly fitted this psychological necessity, this need for identity.

Though a mass phenomenon and one of Britain’s most popular pastimes, it’s not the subject of this post, merely a psychological pointer to what I intend talking about. I mention it here because issues of psychology and their roots in recent profound changes in our society provide an important background for introducing the altogether more serious issue I have in mind. One that’s also psychological in character. That is, the view held by many that one of Britain’s newest and perhaps most disturbingly ugly favourite pastimes is lying. Lying as a way of externalizing personal neuroses. By this I don’t necessarily mean children’s tall stories though they in themselves, given the circumstance, can have consequences that turn out to be deadly. No, by lying I specifically mean going to the police and making statements about the conduct of others whether verbal or physical or in some cases both that are untrue. That are in fact lies.

What I am saying here is this. That in the last two decades, a favourite pastime among British people has been going to the police and making lying, malicious allegations to them about the conduct of others they know to be innocent of such with the sole intention of causing them harm. I’m saying that such behaviour is turning into an avalanche of evil intent and that its consequences, on an individual basis, are often damaging and destructive in the extreme. Such false allegation, such malicious evil intent, while not as common as watching a game of football on Saturday, is fast approaching a tipping point where it becomes part of our everyday way of life and shocking as it may seem, the statistics are there to prove it. It’s become a disgusting nasty psychological scab on the face of Britain.

At its heart lies a curious circumstance. A connection that provides a kind of take off point for its emergence like some kind of social bacillus into the bloodstream of British society. In 1994 Tory Home Secretary Michael Howard’s Criminal Justice Bill proposed a major and fundamental change to the British Criminal Justice System that was to have profound consequences for the relationship between the public and the police. When it became law the police no longer required independent verification of the facts of any allegation i.e. confirmation by an independent witness before they could arrest or charge. This could now be done solely on the basis of the individual making the allegation. In short the police could now arrest or charge on a basis of unconfirmed or uncorroborated allegation. This is an absolutely key change in the administration of British Criminal Justice and police conduct and has, astonishingly, been little remarked on by media commentators. With Michael Howard’s proposals the police power of arrest became extended beyond the bluest ever hoped for horizon. And coincidentally, from this time on a new kind of social behaviour emerged. Tentatively at first but soon gathering pace. That of going to the police and making false allegations.

It became all too easy. Just go to the police and make a formal complaint that a neighbor, or work colleague, or someone you’d  overheard saying something you didn’t like, or someone who’d you’d thought had been rude to you, say in  a supermarket… Someone! Anyone! It doesn’t even have to be someone you know… Just taken a dislike to! Just think up something to say, go to the police and make a statement, then the police could arrest that third party if they wished or at least take them down to the Station. There! Now you felt better! That would definitely teach them a lesson! 

And if you really wanted to teach them a lesson, give them trouble they’d never forget, or better still put them in court, what better than to make an allegation about sexual misconduct! The police would be duty bound to investigate, arrest, take the matter to the Crown Prosecution Service. It wasn’t a malicious evil thing you were doing, making it all up, just making sure a nasty person like that knew trouble and fear. Got what they deserved…

It wasn’t long before the police knew they were onto a good thing, with little to check their power of arrest, and in the case of allegations for sexual misconduct the easiest nick in the world. On the other side, that of the genuine innocent victims of false allegation neurosis, especially those sexual in character, the damage and harm was immense. In the years following the passing into law of Michael Howard’s proposals, malicious allegation became a weapon in the hands of countless neurotics and among this number can be counted children as well as adults! During the 1990s allegations made by pupils against schoolteachers reached epidemic proportions as those with grudges had little more to do than go to someone in authority and have some unfortunate victim summoned in by the head with suspension the least of their worries. Police involvement, dismissal and ruination of reputation and career was more often the outcome of refusing to back down under pupil threat or provocation. Teachers unions have extensive statistics of this rise of malicious allegation within schools and countless well documented cases of uncontrolled juvenile behaviour backed up by violent parental demand. Prior to the 1960’s teaching was a respected profession. From the 1980’s secondary education became an abominable hothouse of pupil-parent control with teachers turned into endless victims of false allegation and malice.

Outside education the bearers of Britain’s collective neuroses post 1994 were now on a roll. False, malicious allegation has now become something of a national sport and interestingly enough, of the many countries in Europe, it is only in Britain that such deeply vicious behaviour has reached epidemic proportions. Such allegations are by no means always sexual in character. They can be about what may be considered threatening language or behaviour. Something entirely inconsequential like a complaint about the behaviour of someone’s dog in a public place. To neurotics such a triviality may be sufficient for it as threatening or aggressive. In short any perfectly decent and innocent person may suddenly be seen as dangerous. Someone to complain about in turn. Someone to lie about, make up a story about and often, if the person is known or easily identifiable, go to the police with a concocted allegation of threatening behaviour when the real issue is that for some reason you didn’t like the way you were spoken to. You felt angry and demeaned. Determined to hit back!

In recent times a deadly and dangerous fragility in interpersonal relationships has become part of the British social scene. Part of the British psychology. People experiencing serious economic pressure for example such as fears about job loss may only too often transfer their anxiety into a variety of other spheres of life such as family, potentially magnifying their psychological character. Anxiety and fear are indeed well known catalysts for the creation of neuroses so it is perhaps no surprise that the recent decade of economic instability has gone hand in hand with the rise of plain bad social behaviour and malicious, false allegation.

It’s not too great a problem in France. It doesn’t sit well with the relaxed amiable French character, and likewise in Italy malicious allegation is almost unheard of. As a widespread phenomenon it’s almost unheard of in Germany and throughout Holland, Denmark and Scandinavia.

Perhaps people who feel under threat have a greater tendency to lash out but such conduct first requires a cause then a release mechanism. Economic anxieties and family dislocation certainly provide reason, a psychological petri dish for the incubation of neuroses… the trigger for an explosion of anger or rage on the other hand may be just about anything! Its intensity perhaps depending on the period of incubation itself. These are factors unknown to the unselfconscious victim of the neurosis, because they are indeed a victim, but they are certainly unknown to the recipient of any such anger or rage, the many perfectly innocent individuals against whom false allegations are made. The terrified, frightened and only too outraged victims of lies, spite and malice.

It’s an absolute farce that most people in Britain believe the charming little folk tale of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ where criminal justice in this country is concerned. Only the legal profession, the judiciary, the police and the Crown Prosecution Service would have you believe such a lie. In practical terms the notion of innocence DOES NOT EXIST anywhere in the British criminal justice system. Once an individual is charged by the police for committing a crime they can either by found GUILTY or NOT GUILTY in a court of law. However being found not guilty is most definitely NOT THE SAME as being regarded as innocent by the Crown Prosecution Service and the judiciary. Technically, you are only NOT GUILTY and in some circumstances the judge in the case may still regard you as guilty and indicate as much in court as recently happened in a high profile case despite the fact that the accused had been found not guilty by a jury minutes earlier

I mention these circumstances to point out that while the burden of any malicious allegation proceeded with by the police falls entirely on its victim, the person against whom the allegation is made, the weight of justice is also entirely against them as the Criminal Justice System, indeed the State, DOES NOT REGARD THEM AS INNOCENT. Indeed, no innocent person once charged with a crime by the State can ever be innocent in law! The other side of the coin to this is that both the police and Crown Prosecution Service are duty bound and heavily committed to act on behalf of the accuser, the person making the false allegations. This commitment indeed goes far beyond a call of duty as many people have learned to their cost after being found NOT GUILTY. Subsequently seeking to bring a private legal action against the person who’d made the false allegation/s against them they’ve discovered to their astonishment that the CPS acts to protect their witness by refusing to allow any private legal action against them. Indeed they only too often tell the real victim that they will allow no private case to be made and should the NOT GUILTY victim proceed with it they will take it over and ensure that it is abandoned. This is a particularly sinister development as there are documented records of the police and CPS using their witnesses, complainants, bringers of false allegations - call them what you will – on other occasions, subsequently AGAINST OTHER PEOPLE, knowing that the first case they brought using that witness was thrown out of court!

What they do in fact is try again using the same witness with a different set of malicious allegations against another person which, in a case that I am aware of, also failed. The woman in question bringing a second set of false allegations of sexual misconduct was again protected by the CPS who likewise refused another NOT GUILTY individual permission to proceed with a private case. Such protection of clearly malicious, neurotic individuals by the Criminal Justice System in this country is an absolute scandal

For victims of false allegation then this is a straightforward double whammy. And there’s the joke really. Only the person making the false allegation is innocent! Unfortunately, the joke goes a lot further. You pay in your rates for the nice policeman to conduct an attack on you on behalf of the lovely sick person making the allegation/s and you pay for the Crown Prosecution Service in your taxes to prosecute you on the basis of false allegation and try and put you in prison! I bet you never thought you were so generous!

Malicious, false allegation has been around quite a while so it may help a little if we went back to the Bible. Hello there, has anyone out there heard of THE TEN COMMANDMENTS? Yes, I know it’s a bit silly to talk about them these days but for some people like the victims of malicious allegation one of them is rather important.

THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS… is exactly about this kind of thing. Right up there with killing, adultery, stealing and wanting things that belong to other people. Very much a microcosm of the way British society is today with a bit of football thrown in. However, bearing false witness is extra special. Telling lies about people to cause them harm, and great harm it often is, is a hateful un-human thing. In fact it’s beyond evil because this intention to do harm is deliberate. Harm done in a premeditated way for self-satisfaction and pleasure. However such activity has alas gone a stage further. That of the neurotic telling the unfortunate person they regard as a transgressor that they might go to the police and make a complaint. This leaves a threat hanging over them so that they are now fearful, wondering what on earth they have done. The accuser knows this. Whoever they are they have the ability to malign given to them by the police, a power they are often only too conscious of along with its devastating flip side, the fear of a victim. This transfer of power is significant. In practical terms it is the empowerment of a neurotic to do harm and they are all too often aware of it. They take on a fearful aspect to their intended victim rather like the power of a snake in the animal kingdom.

For decent innocent people well aware of its malevolence, perhaps because they have already experienced it themselves, heard stories from friends or taken the trouble to investigate, its effect, particularly in cases involving sexual misconduct from minor allegations say of indecent exposure up to the most serious of molestation of a minor to rape, the consequences to a man, if innocent, and his family, can be utterly devastating. Prior to allegations involving celebrities in recent times such main line allegations and accusations were relatively rare across the board. Far more common was the lower order stuff from exposure to bottom pinching in crowded trains. Women especially were reluctant to pursue genuine complaint because a certain ‘masculine culture’ pervaded the police and their procedures. This has led to unfortunate consequences. The pendulum has swung back the other way and rightly, but for the sake of equity and justice for genuine victims this should have stayed balanced at the center not taken a 180 degree turn. In recent years a vast slough of serious allegations of celebrity sexual misconduct has dominated the media. Major ‘cultural’ figures have been shown to be serial offenders whose relationship with the police has come under considerable scrutiny along with monstrous cases of child grooming by Asian gangs. Left below the horizon in such high profile reportage are the many genuine low profile cases many of which the police may not be inclined to take up.

Alas, one of the effects of this recent publicity frenzy has been to mask the much wider problem in our society of false, malicious allegation and the equal devastation it has caused so many families. It all rides along together with the many social, economic and cultural changes of recent decades; economic depression and family break up… the rise of an underclass… strange modes of fetishistic personal expression from body piercing to the ubiquitous tattoo… rampant unchecked illicit financial activity...  Everything set in a society in which old traditions and certainties are in meltdown, in which values established over generations are breaking down or under threat, in which norms of conduct and behaviour are challenged or in flux, but above all else, where your place in an order of things with which you were familiar isn’t the same anymore. Nothing the same anymore and you and your place in it under threat. And along with it all the problems and challenges of mass immigration.

Psychologically you’re no longer empowered by the old certainties. You’re now in a world of potential  hurts. In a perfect breeding ground for endless anxiety. Of fears real and imagined. Of neuroses that you can’t get a grip on. You need to hold onto something. Regain a sense of who you are by not letting others get to you by what they say or do. You need to hit back. Show them who you are and what you can do. Yes you’ll teach them what’s what! That you’re someone who won’t be messed with! Teach them a lesson they’ll never forget. Put them back in their place. Teach them what it means to know insecurity and fear. It’ll make you feel strong again. Make you feel that you’re someone!

Interestingly enough, Hitler’s early years in power from 1933 onward saw a staggering rise in malicious and false allegation made by hundreds of thousands of ordinary Germans against one another. Many political many sexual in nature. They called it ‘informing’. Files containing statements made to the Nazi police still exist as a documented record of a febrile society where neuroses ran wild in a people who felt they’d lost their place in the world, made up stories and lies and maliciously informed on their neighbours. Countless numbers of people lied about and informed on died in the Camps.

To find your place in shifting sands you need to be special and you need to be strong. Special enough to recognise your own neuroses and not allow yourself to become a victim of them, and on the other side strong enough to fight malicious allegation all the way to the end and not let it damage you. Just remember the nature of the crime you are fighting and the grim fact that it is state sponsored!  

Finally, at the conclusion of this post, let me say that I hope I have made clear the profound psychological connection between the parallel rise of tattooing as a vehicle for the externalization of neuroses as a compulsive means of self-expression and that of malicious allegation as a neurotic form of empowerment. The psychological locus of such neuroses originate in the times in which we live and may remain with us and evolve into much darker forms in the coming decades.

 
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