Today The Pensive Quill features guest writer Mick Hall who blogs atOrgansied Rage. Here he takes issue with the ongoing internment of the Irish republican political prisoner Marian Price.
After the British Viceroy in Ireland Owen Paterson revoked her licence last year, Irish republican Marian Price has now been held without trialfor over a year. Never mind from day one this decision was surrounded in controversy as the British government were unable to provide the license claiming it has been lost. This is not a small matter as her lawyers claim it no longer stands having been revoked, expressing his concern Daniel Holder, Deputy Director of the Committee on the Administration of Justice (CAJ) had this to say about Marian Prices case:
The case of Marian Price is particularly striking, as on the same day a Judge released her on bail in May 2011, a government Minister returned her to prison. There are other due process issues in relation to this case, not least the fact she was given a pardon under the Royal Prerogative of Mercy. The NIO claims this document only related to Marian Price’s fixed term and not life sentence for which a licence applied. Her family contest that the pardon related to both, and hence believe that the NIO had no licence to revoke. It would seem a relatively simple matter for the NIO to produce the document to settle the matter. However, apparently the pardon and all copies of it have gone ‘missing.’ Given that it could possibly change a decision as to whether a person is deprived of their liberty, one would think an investigation would have taken place as to how and when the information disappeared. CAJ has been told that the NIO have decided not to investigate this on the grounds that the pardon is ‘not relevant’ to this case.
Whatever the truth of this, the charges on which Marian was first arrested have now been dismissed, as the British judicial system in Ireland failed to submit the necessary papers that would have allowed the judge hearing the case to consider its merits. Judge McElholm reached the conclusion the prosecution had long enough to produce the necessary papers to the defence, yet failed to do so and threw out the case against Ms Price and her co defendants.
Yet still the Tory Viceroy Owen Paterson refuses to release Marian from prison. She remains imprisoned without charge or trial, which is internment by most civilised people's standards. To make matters worse she has been held in solitary confinement since she was first arrested and imprisoned, first at the top security Maghaberry jail and since February this year in Hydebank prison.
Understandably aged 57, solitary confinement without a tariff; and a lack of exercise have taken its toll on Marian, according to her husband Jerry McGlinchey his wife's health has deteriorated rapidly since she arrived in Hydebank:
Marian is so ill that she had to be taken to a recent visit in a wheelchair. Her hair is falling out, she has lost a lot of weight, and her arthritis has got worse. She is suffering from severe depression after a year in solitary without any release date. The doctors in Hydebank have told us she's not fit to be in jail, according to them she should either be in hospital or at home.
To oppose her continued imprisonment and call for her release does not mean one is a supporter of Marian’s political beliefs, nor the organisation she belonged to at the time of her arrest. Her detention is a travesty of justice and harks back to the dark days of British rule in Ireland. You cannot have one law for some and a different law for political opponents. Such is the road to hell. If the history of the British in Ireland proves one thing, for justice to succeed it must be conducted before a judge and jury and in open court for all to see, not behind closed doors on the signature of a British politician's pen.
If the British governments representatives in the six counties believed Marian Price had committed a crime they should have processed the charges in the appropriate time period and left it for court of law to decide. This they failed to do as was clearly demonstrated by Judge McElholm when he threw out the case last week.
It is high time Marian Price was released from prison, she would not be going any where but home, if at a later date the judicial authorities in the six counties conclude they have a viable case against her, all they need do is knock on her door, something they had no difficulty doing a year ago.
To keep this sick and ageing woman in jail any longer is a judicial obscenity which reeks of bad law. Marian Price should be released immediately.
“Our genitals exist as a source of permanent access to pleasure.” Michel Houellebecq
So as we sail past Goa in the Indian Ocean and its hot on deck Olive and Pui are giving me a bit of a rub down, chattering away to each other the way women do on such occasions, though I’m fecked if I understand a word they are saying I
LONDON HUMAN RIGHTS BRITISH OCCUPIED IRELAND
“Our genitals exist as a source of permanent access to pleasure.” Michel Houellebecq
So as we sail past Goa in the Indian Ocean and its hot on deck Olive and Pui are giving me a bit of a rub down, chattering away to each other the way women do on such occasions, though I’m fecked if I understand a word they are saying I enjoy listening, the babble is always re-assuring. Its one of those better moments between the sexes and somehow three seems a good number albeit mostly always temporary. A lot of westerners assume particularly women that Asians are easier to deal with than women from other cultures.
They think for example fiery Latin types would be more trouble than what they see as submissive Asians. Bollix ! they are all trouble. Anyway I seem to have a bit more clarity, while having a lazy massage and later some sex for hours in such circumstance.
I can't say what made me fall in love with Asia, a woman's voice that drugged me or the intensity of some of its colors, taste, even rain. We are going to find nothing like that in the filthy rain of London Olympics. They say whatever you're looking for you will find in Asia that you will understand a lot in a few minutes but the rest must be lived. Smell:is the first thing that will hit you promising everything decadent in exchange for your soul. With the heat your shirt is straightaway a rag and you can hardly remember your name but as evening closes in as it is now on deck there's a breeze and the sea is beautiful and only pleasure matters.
For some it was the pipe of opium, others the touch of a woman who might whisper she loves you. Then it happens all over again as you knew it would. Nothing is ever the same again and losing that magic is the beginning of death. I behave badly, I have every intention of behaving badly this massage with Olive and Pui is exactly the kind of situation where we all behave badly. Certain western feminists will criticize me but more often than not these two 'submissive ladies' will be sitting on my face, quite aggressively I might add as they will with one another. The Ying and the Yang of it is deceptive, its not always what it seems. They say there is a ghost in every house and if you can make peace with it will stay quiet not so the beast in us all. Scratch me and I'll want to scratch back, under this thin veneer of civility lies a savage. What about you?
Something else is always needed with me to fill the existential void. Sex, sailing and motorbikes are the answer for me at least for a good while.So with this trip to London for the Olympic protest I will be spending a couple of weeks on the boat. Olive, Richard, Pui and me. I'm an anti-social bastard at the best of times so it's best for everybody if I either make myself scarce or make sure I enjoy myself. Sailing like a good motorbike spin clears the system. After a few of days fighting a headwind its nice to relax on deck. Sure a state of enlightened celibacy and subjugated primal urges is a nice change sometimes for the needs of literature? But if only life was that simple, the primal urges always seem persist. I'll be honest, I have tried a wank now and then but it's not anything like feeling warm moist flesh around my hard-on, is it bhoys? Single handed sailing, blowing with the wind is great but a long time without a decent blowjob or oral sex puts me in the doldrums.
Michel Houellebecq's quote above “Our genitals exist as a source of permanent access to pleasure.” is basically true I believe, even though he is something of a shit-stirrer, giving offence for it’s own sake. His take on ‘The Possibility of an Island’ is I believe very relevant to contemporary Ireland with the the death of Catholicism and the ensuing vacuum its a relevant voice crying out against spiritual and moral decadence of British occupied Ireland and indeed the whole island. I’m flip flopping a lot on Ireland recently and in 4 or 5 minds about all of it as I believe is current Irish realpolitik. This Olympic Protest on the Thames is also about pushing the old envelope and stirring things up. These arrogant British Tories need a good kick in the arse from time to time and the Irish are the ones to do it. Anyway, what do they expect, interning without trial, Irish political prisoners of conscience, in their own land and torturing them as they have done with Marian Price for more than a year now in solitary confinement
Frankly I am disgusted with humanity recently, particularly these arrogant rich British Tories in this new-age of multiculturalism..These are strange times for many living fragmented lives, connected only by TV and the Internet with an absence of humanity and Government infiltrated human rights groups. "Do you actually have a point of view on this Richard or are you busy playing with yourself again?" I titter.
"Who me sir?" "Yes you Richard, what's it with the Sir all of a sudden?. Have you been paying attention, Richard?" " Well yes and no, I mean there is no conclusion because what your saying is a conclusion in a way isn’t it? he says out of the side of his mouth. "You sound tired and weak to me Richard, have you got any feelings in you at all man ? Where are you off to after this trip then? Who are you really, Richard? What’s going on in your head, really? Or are you just thinking about your next meaningless, ephemeral sexual encounter or is there more to you, than meets the eye?" I berate him. "Look Paddy I'm English and I am 60 years old, and my mind was a seething mass of great ideas and unrealized dreams when I was young." "Leave the condescending Paddy out Richard, what has English or Irish for that matter got to do with it. My name is Bernie and it does seem strange to me that you were actually young once and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!.".
Phuck I'm beginning to sound like one of those Camus's novels again or 'The Outsider', voted the most significant "watershed" book for men which was very influential when I was young and vulnerable.'The Outsider' was written when he was living in a sleeping bag on Hampstead Heath in London Like us Irish strangers in a strange land, social outcasts, amazing he or us survived. Wilson's 'The Outsider' is about other outsiders, famous writers and artists who saw things differently. Basically he was saying it's alright to be eccentric and you are not alone. This was great news at the time. It became a guide for the young, bohemian, artists or James Dean types.
As the people such as Richard and much of Ireland grow colder, deeper understanding is required instead of constantly turning to my computer or TV. Spend evenings with Olive and Pui even if its sometime just sex or physical is better than just loading a new programme,: "Are you lonely, are you lost? The voice console can say." Press submit. "Hallo, I know you have been feeling tired. I bring you love with deeper understanding. Hallo, you're unhappy, aren't you. I bring you love and deeper understanding." When family found me, I was really lonely and lost without my little black box as I pick up the phone and go, Submit. "Hallo, I know that you've been feeling tired. I bring you love and deeper understanding. Hallo, I know you're unhappy. I bring you love and deeper understanding." I turn to my computer as a friend. I really do need deeper understanding. Got me deeper understanding. from a new podcast by rswipe. Imagine what more than a year in solitary British confinement without trial is like, after a hunger strike of 200 days being force-fed or have we entirely lost the bit of nature in us and our humanity ? "No respect Richard." I say. 'Exactly Bernie" he says "The world has gone mad." I do tend to go on a bit, don't I ?
“The hills are feckin alive.” Sings Richard “Very nice Dickie, could've used you when the wind dropped last night. Olive had the boat bobbin at anchor last night after the storm. Poor woman stretched, jib ripped, boom bent and a bilge full of engine oil. Still happy to be among our own kind again but to get to London for the Thames Olympic protest we must press on to Somalia.
LONDON HUMAN RIGHTS BRITISH OCCUPIED IRELAND
“The hills are feckin alive.” Sings Richard “Very nice Dickie, could've used you when the wind dropped last night. Olive had the boat bobbin at anchor last night after the storm. Poor woman stretched, jib ripped, boom bent and a bilge full of engine oil. Still happy to be among our own kind again but to get to London for the Thames Olympic protest we must press on to Somalia. We'll be movin around a bit, it would help if you spoke Urdu as we pass India on the way and we've got to get a Somali class in later, to understand what them pirates are on about. Maybe I’m losing my sanity but I can’t stand being around people too long anymore. I find it confusing, what with half the time I don’t know if I’m in Manila or Ceylon or Goa or bloody Mogadishu. Mind you writing addles my brain especially this rubbish, that’s why.
Manila is where I met Olive and where she is from. It was mostly our base but we often went over to Macau, Hong Kong and Jakarta where we did a bit of business. If Manila got too hectic we would ramble over to Langkawi. We've been lucky this trip so far, what with the monsoons and no typhoons, Colombo coming up on the right was always good for a few laughs. I've forgotten who the Yanks were bombing last time I was there. Basically Britain still wants whites only in a lot of these places but they don't have the clout anymore and the Yanks have taken over from them. “It’s a bloody mess." Richard says.”There’s a lot of them shouldn’t be allowed to breed at all. If you ask me some of them should be castrated or shot.” You've got to be joking Richard, its their bloody country you know.” I tell him. "There you go with your Irish republican stuff again." he complains." Now Richard you wouldn't want your wife to hear you talking like that, would you/" That shuts him up for a while. Tell you what why don't you let the women make a nice sandwich for you between them. Pui told me she wanted to study medicine. ‘Why not?’ I asked. "I no good. I very bad stupid girl." "Some attitude!" I said. "Just because you wore a veil in Jakarta and like sex, doesn’t mean you can’t be a doctor."
So the time has finally come to up anchor and rejoin the western world again. These distractions and side-trips are all very well but life and times are moving on and we have to go for it. For the immediate future anyway. So we are heading to Somalia but a week of Olive has left me knackered. She can’t get enough and she always wants to play with it some more, after she’s drained me dry. What does she think I am ? a machine ?. I’m a bit long in the tooth for all that nonsense and she's getting on my nerves rabbiting on about reality shows.She finally fell asleep and I was back to Pui's arms. She forgave me as usual and said no more about it after I pumped her bilge out. Next thing I hear Richard in the bridge, shouting down the phone at somebody. Sounds like he’s having a bit of trouble with his bank. He’s pissed off because they put him on hold for 30 minutes when he called the wrong number in Bangladesh and then he gets into an argument with somebody in Mumbai, who transfers him to Goa, who serenade him with the Sound of Music. Eventually he puts the phone to his arse and lets rip a colossal fart.
“Yes but not right now, Pui I think I’ll go and get Olive to help you out, besides I want to give you both a shagging." Talk about feckin strength and femininity! These bloody women are insatiable, I don’t mind too much but they have to help me out and give me a breather now and then while I watch. Which reminds me of my first sandwich in my misspent youth, when the lads and I went over to Dublin for a dirty weekend. We usually took to the races too. One time we had been on the piss all day and we took a group of young wans back to the Shelbourne There was the park outside and I ended up under some bushes, with a couple of women from Galway called Maureen and Cathleen, where my friends stumbled across us later as we all had a great laugh. We were also gripped by Bono and his band, who were just making a name for themselves. It wasn't just his music, he had dedicated himself to relieving world suffering.
When we heard he was giving all his money away to Africa, we were touched. Course he knew a lot of politicians and he could handle the media. But now I hear the faint sound of coconut shells? Can it be St. Bozo riding back from Rome with bottles of Holy Water and a hard drive of pardons with dispensations from his mate the Pope? But wasn't he in Washington with his pal Bill Gates of Microsoft a few days ago, discussing tax free donations. Can their advisers be trusted? What if Bill and Bono are targeted by unscrupulous opportunists? Of course what they really need is someone reliable like me to ensure their money goes to the right people. I’ve had a bit of business experience including a few non-profit operations. So if you’re listening Bono and Bill feel free to contact me. I'll take all your money problems off your hands.
Suddenly, as my mind drifts I am back on one of those old tea clippers, those big beggars with sails as big as Croke Park, with the wind from the stern quarter.Every stitch of canvas is up, ropes and spars. How did they do it you may ask? How did they make their way through so much rope, wood and cordage? Here is a few reference points: 1, bowsprit; 2, bobstays, three pairs; 3, spritsail-gaffs, projectinig at each side of the bowsprit- the ropes at the extremities are jib-guys and flying jib-guys; 4, jib-boom; 5, martingale-stay, and below it the flying-jib martingale; 6, back-ropes; 7, flying jib-boom; 8, fore-stay, flying jib-stay and halyards; 9, fore-top-gallant-stay, jib-stay and halyards; 10, two fore-topmast-stays and fore-topmast staysail halyards; 11, the foretop bowlines, stopped into the top and two fore-stays; 12, two fore-tacks; 13, fore-truck; 14, fore-royal mast, yard and lift; 15, top-gallant mast, yard and lift; 16, fore-top mast, topsail-yard, lift and reef-tackle; 17, foretop, fore-lift, and topsail-sheet; 18, foremast and fore-shrouds, nine-pairs; 19, fore-sheets; 20, fore-gaff; 21, fore-topmast backstays and topsail tye; 22, top-gallant backstays; 23, fore-braces and main-stay; 24, fore-topgallant braces and main-topgallant stay; 25, standing parts, or fore topsail-braces, and main topmast-stays; 26, hauling parts of fore-topsail-braces and main-top-bowlines; 27, fore parts of fore-braces; 28, mainstays; 29, main-tacks; 30, main-truck; 31, main-braces; 32, mizzen-stay and mizzen-braces; 33, main-topgallant braces and mizzen-topgallant-braces; 34, standing parts of main topsail braces and mizzen topmast stay; 35, mizzen topsail braces; 36, hauling parts of main-topsail-braces, mizzen-top-bowlines and cross-jack braces; 37, main-braces and mizzen stay; 38, standing part of peak halyards; 39, vangs, similar on each gaff; 40, ensign staff; 41, spanker-book; 42, quarter-boat’s davits; 43, one of the davit topping-lifts and wind-sail; 44, main
With Africa on the horizon shortly, its difficult to avoid thinking about it. Richard says there may be no better time to buy cheap beach front lots in Liberia or grass huts in the Congo. With Bono already on the job, Nigeria will become an earthly paradise, while the BBC do a piece on the first Zimbabwean female astronaut. Maybe I'm a bit cynical when it comes to Richard but I just can't help see Africa as a bottomless pit of gold, diamonds with brothers chopping each other up. They'll just buy more consumer crap and the place will be a garbage dump like England. Hey Bob, do you know why nightlight is so brilliant in Africa? It's because they haven't factories and power stations cluttering the place up you egomaniac. Bono better pack some Raybans with they 're fleet of Range Rovers waiting to take them to their air conditioned hotel rooms. Who's got the Ballygowan Spring Water? Help the local economy? So they can buy more BMWs and houses in Switzerland. Just because I'm cynical doesn't mean the world grinds to a halt. All you idealistic young people should just ignore me. My brain is addled from writing this.
Having said that, I normally don't have much time for politics but the Olympics in London and the dismantling of the Irish peace process by the British, has caused a temporary re-assessment by this Irishman. I feel sorry for my poor people in British Occupied Ireland, who are currently ruled by an un-elected Tory tyrant, who fancies himself as a bit of Ghengis Khan. Good old Ghengis Paterson all he and his fellow Tories want is another one of their nice little wars in Ireland. Intern without trial, torture a few Irish human rights activists in solitary confinement to make sure the natives remain restless, start the troubles all over again and then tidy up the map a bit later, while maybe grabbing a few more Irish assets for their pals. Besides the industrial-armaments-complex with plenty of brainwashed local cannon fodder and a war somewhere, every five years at least, is still the best business of Empire.
Basically they are creating another big bloody mess in Ireland, I could go on but what's the point, nobody listens and does anyone care about political prisoners of conscience in Ireland like Marian Price, tortured in daily agony in solitary confinement, without trial for more than a year now. Britain's human rights record is far worse than China ever was and do you remember all their racket about the Beijing Olympics and Tibet while their own censorship and treatment of Ireland is more subtle and sanitized, it is far more widespread but then that's why we are forced to go up the Thames to protest for the coming Olympics with a Galway Whooker even if people and her fellow sisters seem to have no heart or humanity left in them.Is there any nature left in people at all at all. Free Ireland and then Free Tibet is what I say! Things are bad when people have to come from the other side of the world to highlight all this. Are human rights totally ignored in Britain and Ireland now ?
Excuse me I must take break to lighten up a bit. Some people use drink, drugs or create their own bloody universe! Why not? like making something out of nothing! Like the Creator does. Some people like me enjoy plenty of sex, unlike these sadistic, blood thirsty, fox hunting Tories like the pervert Ghengis Paterson. Doesn't do anyone any harm does it ! Young John Lennon was right, make love not war but then they permanently censored him too, didn't they ? Like I said go forth and multiply for phuck sake! All these Asian foxes and sex are perfect for a Galway Whoorker in the South China Sea. Of course it doesn't always go smoothly. Sometimes I’ll write a paragraph and then I’ll look at it and ask myself, do I really want to write this crap? I keep telling people, I don’t give a toss but do I give a toss or don’t I? It’s an existential question I have to confront daily but I nevr seem to get used to it.
Anyway you can all go phuck yourselves, while ye are at it. I haven't asked ye for money? I don't litter the place with shite? No I only do it for my own amusement and right now I don't give a toss what ye think. Ye can read this stuff or piss off, it's all the same to me. If I start taking it too seriously, game is over anyway. Blow-jobs help a lot for inspiration though. Have I mentioned Olive's professionalism in that department? Give her a cock to suck on and she's as happy as dog with a bone for hours. She's down there right now as a matter of fact while I am banging away with one finger on the keyboard and she's keeping my creative juices flowing. . Talking of humdrum existence, ever heard of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull? Well you have now.
I was over on Richards’s boat for the first time last night. He had a some people for dinner who are not my sort, stockbrokers, bankers with their ugly loud mouthed wives. Right enough they know a few good tax fiddles but essentially they are boring bastards. I look at their wives and no wonder I want a different one every day just like I can't imagine having to drive a bus everyday again through rush hour?
LONDON HUMAN RIGHTS BRITISH OCCUPIED IRELAND
I was over on Richards’s boat for the first time last night. He had a some people for dinner who are not my sort, stockbrokers, bankers with their ugly loud mouthed wives. Right enough they know a few good tax fiddles but essentially they are boring bastards. I look at their wives and no wonder I want a different one every day just like I can't imagine having to drive a bus everyday again through rush hour? Feck that for a for a game of soldiers. I can’t even think about that sort of work without a shiver going down my spine. Imagine being a poor barsteward stuck in some factory or mucking around a building site in wellies? Not sure I would last long in an office either. I'm amazed more people don’t go to lunch and never come back. How do they all keep getting up in the morning or even stay in bed with them same wives? Must be hungry feckers to get them rambling into their bathrooms, to look at their soulless selves in the mirror every morning. So today's the day, as Richard's world bank officials wing their way to Washington to catch up on the latest tax fiddle.
Today I've decided to have all the sails hoisted with full of wind. I could feel that way myself as we cut loose from the stale hangover of last night's decadent dinner. I got an opportunity to drop the bombshell to Richard, about his proposed protest visit up the Thames to London for the Olympics. Besides right now I feel like I could happily sail off into another dimension. Maybe discover a whole new world on the way to London, devoid of all these selfish wankers in the extreme. Perhaps I’d soon be lonely I suppose but it beats hangin around growing stale and vegetating. On the way to London, we'll keep sailing around all these Indonesian islands and see what comes to mind along the way.
People regularly ask me about a sailing destination. Have you any idea where you are going Bernie, I'm asked? WelI i give them an auld grin but to tell the truth I haven’t a feckin clue and frankly I know feck all about navigation either. Sextant no, sex yes!. All the fiddly stuff I leave to Olive. She gives me a compass head and I steer. She has an instinct, some people always seem to know exactly where they are. The Indonesians got around, hopping from Island to island, within sight of land almost all the time. Bloody amazing how they found their way across the Pacific on a few shells and twigs.Personally, I don’t know where I am most of the time. Wind, water, tide-tables, dates, headings, wind speed, haven't a clue and neither do I give a toss. A day at a time each one's a bonus. So the sail fills, the mast bends, I send Richard below deck while Olive and I fly across the ocean. One hand on the helm Olive in her harness tethered short enough to a jackstay, to prevent her falling overboard, while I rip her rigging off, oil her sterngland and ram it up her forecastle. Jaysus, it feels good with the wind and spray on our face and her arse drippin sea-water.
Later Richard and I were chattin about the sixties in London, John Lennon, the Beatles, the Rollingstones, the Who and we wonder how the world has morphed back into squares somehow. Everyone was either scooting off to the South coast or giving peace a chance with John. We both always loved watching sailboats and the freedom of the ocean, so I suppose that's why we both ended up with boats and why this boy kept busy chasing different tail every day. Feckin paradise, nothing to do but watch the sail billow and give the ould rudder a nudge every now and then. Gives me a chance to think about Olive's arse again. It’s not just about sex though, there's somethin spiritual about the whole thing. I leave Richard in charge and I head for a berth below to a sleep, listening to the sound of reggae music drift across the water.
Hallo says I, nice mornin for something. She smiles a lovely Philipinne smile and I want to phuk her again but she just stands there looking at the boat or more specifically the mainsail weighing about 150 pounds, more wet. "Think you could get it up there," she says pointing up the mainmast. "Sure, I say, why?" "I need a trimmer," she says. "Ach put the kettle on, I'm famished I say." "Morning Richard," as I meet him. "I don' want to go to London." he says, " I don’t think I like England anymore. Not even for a visit." Shut up Richard we discussed it alreadyor would you prefer discuss it with your wife ?" "Please No ! please I beg you, she will take me for everything, a bar girl everyday for the rest of my life is cheaper than that. " he said. "Get on with it, Olive and I are going down below for some breakfast." Well I must be honest. I’m really thinking, I’d bloody well like to ride Olive again. Get her tiny little white skirt off and go for a bit of muff-diving. She has gorgeous legs and I know I definitely won’t feel right till I have her again. Can’t keep my eyes off her thighs, as she wriggles her way into the cabin and onto the bunk.
"Funny people the English," I say to Richard later, "always talk like they can win everything, be it the London Olympics or the upcoming European football tournament. Always ignoring fantastic talent from other countries and teams, then they are so, so disappointed when they lose. Football is just a game but the English are brain washed, like as in Bill Shankly who said, "Football is not a matter of life or death, it's much more important than life or death." It seems to be like that when it comes to British Occupied Ireland too. I mean we are just after 40 years of deadly troubles, had a peace agreement and they go along and break i,t to intern without trial an Irish prisoner right's activist called Marian Price and torture her in solitary confinement. Its not not just the Olympics or the European Football finals, ;like I said yesterday its not bloody cricket, old boy !
More accurately we have an un-elected, demented English barsteward in Ireland perverting the course of justice, ripping up Queens pardons or loosing them to start another 40 years of war in Ireland. Wind your neck in you double eyed barsteward, leave the Irish women and men play their grown up games in their own country, stop interfering in other people's business and get back to yer wanking! Until you do, this Galway Whooker is sailing up your London Olympics, up your Thames, up your's mate! You see Ghengis, my voodoo helps. I have a bag of old bones scavenged from graveyards all over the UK. Whenever things get a bit too much or I am annoyed, I ride on the Galway Whooker by moonlight and cast them. Seems to work everytime, it worked with Brian Faulkner. The Brits have been after them for years but they can sod off. I’ve told them, they can have the bones back but only when we have Marian, our political prisoners and our country back. Beware of Shankley's ghost England to lose on penalties? Blame the ref is it or blame epic literature? Life's a voyage, we're all adrift on the ocean of life, some more than others. Sometimes we sail calmly, sometimes buffeted by storms from nowhere. We are now sailing into uncharted waters, as we approach London Olympics 2012.
So I'm kind of just thinking out loud and I’ll just write the stuff here. If you don’t feckin like what you're reading, you can just piss off! So I'm sittin here on a tropical island in the south China sea, with more pussy than you can shake your stick at! Now I've been thinking lately about the swinging Londoners. So Swinging Dickhead, I hear you say, were you in Carnaby Street recently? No I wasn't my English friend, as you know I'm Irish, its years ago but what with the Olympics there currently, with an Irish girl interned without trial and tortured, its just not bloody cricket breaking the peace agreement, we have to do something for the poor woman.
LONDON OLYMPIC PROTEST
So I'm kind of just thinking out loud and I’ll just write the stuff here. If you don’t feckin like what you're reading, you can just piss off! So I'm sittin here on a tropical island in the south China sea, with more pussy than you can shake your stick at! Now I've been thinking lately about the swinging Londoners. So Swinging Dickhead, I hear you say, were you in Carnaby Street recently? No I wasn't my English friend, as you know I'm Irish, its years ago but what with the Olympics there currently, with an Irish girl interned without trial and tortured, its just not bloody cricket breaking the peace agreement, we have to do something for the poor woman.
So with Meme and Pui giggling below deck in my Galway Whooker in the South China Sea, I get an idea. I call Richard my English friend to ask him over. After he arrives, I say to the girls to come out. Come on and say hallo to Richard I shout. Out they come topless with bikini pants and I give the ould English pucker a wave towards them. “Frightfully charming ,” says he. “Delightfully cute.” Blinking his eyes he can’t believe his good fortune. “I’ll leave you at it then Richard,” I tell him, “There's a few berths below to choose from and you can lock the cabin door from inside. “That's jolly decent of you Bernie he say, how can I thank you.” he whispers. “I detest broaching the subject of renumeration but we'll chat again.” Nudge, nudge, wink, wink and he was gone for his oats, quicker than a flash. He didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the mini-cams but ignorance is bliss and what he doesn’t know, won’t bother him for now, let him enjoy himself.
Now I have to digress for a minute to explain how all this came to be. You see there is a right auld unelected bollocks, running Occupied Ireland at the minute, who as some of you might already know has been perverting the course of justice there. Loosing or shredding a Queen's pardon, interning a highly respected Irish woman without trial along with several other political, prisoners of conscience. He's also been torturing her, along with administering considerable cruelty to animals. He fancies himself as bit of a sadistic, Ghengis Khan and he needs sortin.They have a posh, big house in the country in Shropshire I believe, with dogs and horses and all that. I could tell you more but for now, there is this bar-girl sitting on my face.
Right where was I, oh yes, I was on about a bunch of septics riding around somewhere in the South China Sea, having a good time and all that. They aren’t nasty or anything but as some of you will already know, perfdious Albion has some crafty bastards and you couldn’t put anything past them, as my instincts told me a long time ago with my dear friend Richard. Beisdes it wouldn't be wise to go rushing up the Thames with him riding a Galway Whooker protesting torture and internment without trial in British Occupied Ireland, better he go up on his own.
Which brings me back to the first time I met Richard or perhaps I should say his wife. I always enjoyed watching Indonesian women washing clothes, not that I want to piss off any other yachties in marinas of the South China Sea but its a chance to meet my neighbours. So there I was sunning myself on deck, with the women scrubbing away, when an ould english old bag from the next boat, stuck up her blue rinsed head and was waffling on like “Excuse me Paddy but you must realize all this waste, finds it’s way back to our beautiful ecosystem!” “Well yes says I, but you have pissed since you came to this part of the world, have you ?” “Humph, that’s hardly the point, my urine is not the same as your PCBs!.” “Ach, says I that’s why we use organic soap, made with olive oil and a bit of Essex salt mixed in, to help get rid of my underpant's skidmarks.”
I was just going to tell her how ugly she looked, when her old man puts his head above deck with a big Hallo! while getting an eyeful of Pui’s breasts, as she bent over washing her laundry? " Jolly good show" he says. “Yes, I said, a very good show, you should see her pole dancing in my bar at the Jakarta Cock." He gave me a sarcastic smile and goes back to playing with himself or whatever he was at, unaware the trap was set.
“Richard Ainsworth Barclay Q.C. Retired. I used to be a judge.” Bloody hell that was quick, he introduced himself in my place later that evening. “That was a shock seeing you today like that Paddy.” Says the bould judge.“ Call me Bernie. Richard and me, talked about this and about that but mostly, London late sixties early seventies. Boats sailing and the famed Galway Hooker. I notice he was fond of a drop so I ordered another bottle of Jameson.
“You like the Jakarta Cock do you Richard?” “ “Can you keep a secret Bernie?” he says. “Of course I can, between me and you, I have been in places like this more often than I care to mention.” “Really I said?” as I switched on the tape recorder. This will cost you, you Essex bugger. “ I remember the first time I went to a business conference in Hong Kong and some of our chaps wanted a bit of sport, if you know what I mean.” “To see some of the dens of iniquity in the red light and that? Dipped your wick did you?” I said “Oh yes indeed, Bernie old boy. Of course one thing lead to another and to be frank with you, I acquired a taste for it.” “Its been known to happen Richard, just like myself, really.” so on he went.
I let Richard talk as he had so much stuff dammed up inside him and as I was his new best mate who would listen and understand. Inevitably he came to mention my crew. “I must say Bernie, those are saucy little foxes on your boat. You’re lucky, I’m stuck with Dora.” “Yes Richard, I noticed, I'll tell you what, I can fix you up with one of them in the next few days, if you fancy it. Just give me your number and I'll give you a buzz when the coast is clear ” “Muahaha ! Nice one Bernie,” “ Richard, I’ll arrange it, you can have a sandwich if you like!. They like it that way, a change is as good as rest. You can borrow on of my cabins on my boat."
Now this was the nicest thing to happen to Richard for some time. While he was wondering if he could get away with his legal mind at work. I gave him a call next day when Dora was out of the way, as he replied. “That's awfully decent of you Bernie. No problem Rich, bring herself if you like.” knowing full well she had gone out and that was the last thing he wanted. Like I said I got him over to my Galway Whoreker and there he is bangin away below deck. Somebody’s going to get a nasty shock when they find out they will have to single-handedly take my Galway Whoreker up the Thames for an Olympic Protest.
“There are praises of flowers who epitomise the unconquerable spirit of Irish womanhood. Let no man dare to scorn these women and let your weeds of indifference and sleeping roses blush in everlasting shame.”—Bobby Sands
Marian Price has been politically interned now without trial in British Occupied Ireland for over 1 year in almost total solitary confinement. After previously been force fed 400 times by the British while on 200 days of hunger strike, Marian now has very serious health problems and is in considerable constant pain, as result of her previous treatment. She is now has to be moved in a wheel chair and the doctors say she should either be in a hospital or at home. The British autocrat has instructed loyalist prisoners to bang on the walls of her prison all night and shout Loyalist slogans in support of the queen so that she cannot sleep.She had previously received a Royal pardon which would mean she should be released immediately, the British now say they have lost it.
The UN special rapporteur on torture recently called for solitary confinement to be banned in all but 'exceptional circumstances' and that it never to last more than 15 days. The British are also ignoring the first Geneva Convention of 1864 in the treatment of Marian, as per her injuries from their previous torture. Despite a court ordering her release, this political internment ordered by an un-elected Englishman in Ireland, is administered using deprivation techniques, banned by the European Court in Strasbourg, where Britain was found guilty of torture in British Occupied Ireland.
We call on everyone to boycott the London Olympics and all of its sponsors !
Olympics London, London Olympics, Olympics, Olympic, Olympic Games, Games, Two Thousand and Twelve, 2012, Twenty-Twelve, London, medals, sponsors, summer, gold, silver, bronze
May 14, 2012 "Information Clearing House" -- In Robert E. Gamer’s book “The Developing Nations” is a chapter called “Why Men Do Not Revolt.” In it Gamer notes that although the oppressed often do revolt, the object of their hostility is misplaced. They vent their fury on a political puppet, someone who masks colonial power, a despised racial or ethnic group or an apostate within their own political class. The useless battles serve as an effective mask for what Gamer calls the “patron-client” networks that are responsible for the continuity of colonial oppression. The squabbles among the oppressed, the political campaigns between candidates who each are servants of colonial power, Gamer writes, absolve the actual centers of power from addressing the conditions that cause the frustrations of the people. Inequities, political disenfranchisement and injustices are never seriously addressed. “The government merely does the minimum necessary to prevent those few who are prone toward political action from organizing into politically effective groups,” he writes.
Gamer and many others who study the nature of colonial rule offer the best insights into the functioning of our corporate state. We have been, like nations on the periphery of empire, colonized. We are controlled by tiny corporate entities that have no loyalty to the nation and indeed in the language of traditional patriotism are traitors. They strip us of our resources, keep us politically passive and enrich themselves at our expense. The mechanisms of control are familiar to those whom the Martinique-born French psychiatrist and writer Frantz Fanon called “the wretched of the earth,” including African-Americans. The colonized are denied job security. Incomes are reduced to subsistence level. The poor are plunged into desperation. Mass movements, such as labor unions, are dismantled. The school system is degraded so only the elites have access to a superior education. Laws are written to legalize corporate plunder and abuse, as well as criminalize dissent. And the ensuing fear and instability—keenly felt this past weekend by the more than 200,000 Americans who lost their unemployment benefits—ensure political passivity by diverting all personal energy toward survival. It is an old, old game.
A change of power does not require the election of a Mitt Romney or a Barack Obama or a Democratic majority in Congress, or an attempt to reform the system or electing progressive candidates, but rather a destruction of corporate domination of the political process—Gamer’s “patron-client” networks. It requires the establishment of new mechanisms of governance to distribute wealth and protect resources, to curtail corporate power, to cope with the destruction of the ecosystem and to foster the common good. But we must first recognize ourselves as colonial subjects. We must accept that we have no effective voice in the way we are governed. We must accept the hollowness of electoral politics, the futility of our political theater, and we must destroy the corporate structure itself.
The danger the corporate state faces does not come from the poor. The poor, those Karl Marx dismissed as the Lumpenproletariat, do not mount revolutions, although they join them and often become cannon fodder. The real danger to the elite comes fromdéclassé intellectuals, those educated middle-class men and women who are barred by a calcified system from advancement. Artists without studios or theaters, teachers without classrooms, lawyers without clients, doctors without patients and journalists without newspapers descend economically. They become, as they mingle with the underclass, a bridge between the worlds of the elite and the oppressed. And they are the dynamite that triggers revolt.
This is why the Occupy movement frightens the corporate elite. What fosters revolution is not misery, but the gap between what people expect from their lives and what is offered. This is especially acute among the educated and the talented. They feel, with much justification, that they have been denied what they deserve. They set out to rectify this injustice. And the longer the injustice festers, the more radical they become.
The response of a dying regime—and our corporate regime is dying—is to employ increasing levels of force, and to foolishly refuse to ameliorate the chronic joblessness, foreclosures, mounting student debt, lack of medical insurance and exclusion from the centers of power. Revolutions are fueled by an inept and distant ruling class that perpetuates political paralysis. This ensures its eventual death.
In every revolutionary movement I covered in Latin America, Africa and the Middle East, the leadership emerged from déclassé intellectuals. The leaders were usually young or middle-aged, educated and always unable to meet their professional and personal aspirations. They were never part of the power elite, although often their parents had been. They were conversant in the language of power as well as the language of oppression. It is the presence of large numbers of déclassé intellectuals that makes the uprisings in Spain, Egypt, Greece and finally the United States threatening to the overlords at Goldman Sachs, ExxonMobil and JPMorgan Chase. They must face down opponents who understand, in a way the uneducated often do not, the lies disseminated on behalf of corporations by the public relations industry. These déclassé intellectuals, because they are conversant in economics and political theory, grasp that those who hold power, real power, are not the elected mandarins in Washington but the criminal class on Wall Street.
This is what made Malcolm X so threatening to the white power structure. He refused to countenance Martin Luther King’s fiction that white power and white liberals would ever lift black people out of economic squalor. King belatedly came to share Malcolm’s view. Malcolm X named the enemy. He exposed the lies. And until we see the corporate state, and the games it is playing with us, with the same kind of clarity, we will be nothing more than useful idiots.
“This is an era of hypocrisy,” Malcolm X said. “When white folks pretend that they want Negroes to be free, and Negroes pretend to white folks that they really believe that white folks want ’em to be free, it’s an era of hypocrisy, brother. You fool me and I fool you. You pretend that you’re my brother and I pretend that I really believe you believe you’re my brother.”
Those within a demoralized ruling elite, like characters in a Chekhov play, increasingly understand that the system that enriches and empowers them is corrupt and decayed. They become cynical. They do not govern effectively. They retreat into hedonism. They no longer believe their own rhetoric. They devote their energies to stealing and exploiting as much, as fast, as possible. They pillage their own institutions, as we have seen with the newly disclosed loss of $2 billion within JPMorgan Chase, the meltdown of Chesapeake Energy Corp. or the collapse of Enron and Lehman Brothers. The elites become cannibals. They consume each other. This is what happens in the latter stages of all dying regimes. Louis XIV pillaged his own nobility by revoking patents of nobilityand reselling them. It is what most corporations do to their shareholders. A dying ruling class, in short, no longer acts to preserve its own longevity. It becomes fashionable, even in the rarefied circles of the elite, to ridicule and laugh at the political puppets that are the public face of the corporate state.
“Ideas that have outlived their day may hobble about the world for years,” Alexander Herzen wrote, “but it is hard for them ever to lead and dominate life. Such ideas never gain complete possession of a man, or they gain possession only of incomplete people."
This loss of faith means that when it comes time to use force, the elites employ it haphazardly and inefficiently, in large part because they are unsure of the loyalty of the foot soldiers on the streets charged with carrying out repression.
Revolutions take time. The American Revolution began with protests against the Stamp Act of 1765 but did not erupt until a decade later. The 1917 revolution in Russia started with a dress rehearsal in 1905. The most effective revolutions, including the Russian Revolution, have been largely nonviolent. There are always violent radicals who carry out bombings and assassinations, but they hinder, especially in the early stages, more than help revolutions. The anarchist Peter Kropotkin during the Russian Revolution condemned the radical terrorists, asserting that they only demoralized and frightened away the movement’s followers and discredited authentic anarchism.
Radical violent groups cling like parasites to popular protests. The Black Panthers, the American Indian Movement, the Weather Underground, the Red Brigades and the Symbionese Liberation Army arose in the ferment of the 1960s. Violent radicals are used by the state to justify harsh repression. They scare the mainstream from the movement. They thwart the goal of all revolutions, which is to turn the majority against an isolated and discredited ruling class. These violent fringe groups are seductive to those who yearn for personal empowerment through hyper-masculinity and violence, but they do little to advance the cause. The primary role of radical extremists, such as Maximilien Robespierre and Vladimir Lenin, is to hijack successful revolutions. They unleash a reign of terror, primarily against fellow revolutionaries, which often outdoes the repression of the old regime. They often do not play much of a role in building a revolution.
The power of the Occupy movement is that it expresses the widespread disgust with the elites, and the deep desire for justice and fairness that is essential to all successful revolutionary movements. The Occupy movement will change and mutate, but it will not go away. It may appear to make little headway, but this is less because of the movement’s ineffectiveness and more because decayed systems of power have an amazing ability to perpetuate themselves through habit, routine and inertia. The press and organs of communication, along with the anointed experts and academics, tied by money and ideology to the elites, are useless in dissecting what is happening within these movements. They view reality through the lens of their corporate sponsors. They have no idea what is happening.
Dying regimes are chipped away slowly and imperceptibly. The assumptions and daily formalities of the old system are difficult for citizens to abandon, even when the old system is increasingly hostile to their dignity, well-being and survival. Supplanting an old faith with a new one is the silent, unseen battle of all revolutionary movements. And during the slow transition it is almost impossible to measure progress.
“Sometimes people hold a core belief that is very strong,” Fanon wrote in “Black Skin, White Masks.” “When they are presented with evidence that works against that belief, the new evidence cannot be accepted. It would create a feeling that is extremely uncomfortable, called cognitive dissonance. And because it is so important to protect the core belief, they will rationalize, ignore and even deny anything that doesn’t fit in with the core belief.”
The end of these regimes comes when old beliefs die and the organs of security, especially the police and military, abandon the elites and join the revolutionaries. This is true in every successful revolution. It does not matter how sophisticated the repressive apparatus. Once those who handle the tools of repression become demoralized, the security and surveillance state is impotent. Regimes, when they die, are like a great ocean liner sinking in minutes on the horizon. And no one, including the purported leaders of the opposition, can predict the moment of death. Revolutions have an innate, mysterious life force that defies comprehension. They are living entities.
The defection of the security apparatus is often done with little or no violence, as I witnessed in Eastern Europe in 1989 and as was also true in 1979 in Iran and in 1917 in Russia. At other times, when it has enough residual force to fight back, the dying regime triggers a violent clash as it did in the American Revolution when soldiers and officers in the British army, including George Washington, rebelled to raise the Continental Army. Violence also characterized the 1949 Chinese revolution led by Mao Zedong. But even revolutions that turn violent succeed, as Mao conceded, because they enjoy popular support and can mount widespread protests, strikes, agitation, revolutionary propaganda and acts of civil disobedience. The object is to try to get there without violence. Armed revolutions, despite what the history books often tell us, are tragic, ugly, frightening and sordid affairs. Those who storm Bastilles, as the Polish dissident Adam Michnik wrote, “unwittingly build new ones.” And once revolutions turn violent it becomes hard to speak of victors and losers.
A revolution has been unleashed across the globe. This revolution, a popular repudiation of the old order, is where we should direct all our energy and commitment. If we do not topple the corporate elites the ecosystem will be destroyed and massive numbers of human beings along with it. The struggle will be long. There will be times when it will seem we are going nowhere. Victory is not inevitable. But this is our best and only hope. The response of the corporate state will ultimately determine the parameters and composition of rebellion. I pray we replicate the 1989 nonviolent revolutions that overthrew the communist regimes in Eastern Europe. But this is not in my hands or yours. Go ahead and vote this November. But don’t waste any more time or energy on the presidential election than it takes to get to your polling station and pull a lever for a third-party candidate—just enough to register your obstruction and defiance—and then get back out onto the street. That is where the question of real power is being decided.
Chris Hedges writes a regular column for Truthdig.com. Hedges graduated from Harvard Divinity School and was for nearly two decades a foreign correspondent for The New York Times.
Saturday May 19, 2012 00:42
by BrianClarkeNUJ - AllVoices
