The Pumpkin essay: They hate our way of life. (‘I never mentioned Israel’).

“The fact that no British politician other than poor Mr Corbyn dares to admit that we have been bringing this on ourselves for 150 years …. is itself the very root and branch of last night’s tragedy.”

They hate our way of life

The suicide bombing that killed 22 young concertgoers and waiting parents in Manchester last night was a filthy atrocity that is still raw and resonant in the light of dawn. The Pumpkin debated with itself long and hard during the sleepless toothaching hours of this morning whether or not it was too soon to share certain thoughts with our Spammers, Likers, etc. that rose to the surface about, particularly, the timing of the attack.

The Pumpkin however is not known for the longevity of its memory and so felt it better to set matters down now. If you don’t wish to be irked today, come back some other time.

It was possibly just fortuitous. Some commentators pointed to the fact that it is the fourth anniversary of the murder in London by extremist Islamic ‘converts’, two African men of low intelligence, of Fusilier Lee Rigby, an off-duty soldier seemingly victimised at random as the symbolic target of some incoherent malcontent.

But the two events seem barely tangential and there is plenty else going on to explain an outrage at this time, if explanation is required (which, as I go on to explain, it isn’t… at least, it will not be encouraged).

The circumstances are as they are: the identity of the perpetrator will no doubt be pieced together in the coming hours, their contacts file raided before dawn, possible accomplices arrested, CCTV and phone images and witnesses interviewed, photos of the tragic victims sourced – the media will (indeed, judging by the headlines emerging from online press it already has) brush down the narrative of the ‘men of evil’ who ‘hate our way of life’.

Amid the hand-wringing pieties, the COBRA meetings (that must be getting a bit repetitive by now) and defiant rhetoric of politicians who have nothing left to say we shall no doubt hear the sound of stable doors being resolutely bolted to ensure that ‘nothing like this ever happens again’, while knowing in our heart of hearts that of course it will.

The one thing that can be done to honour the dead will not be done: end the war.

The last criminals to bomb Manchester were the Provisional IRA in 1996, a huge demolition job that injured over 200 people but, thanks to a partial warning given in advance, led to no deaths. The IRA were less interested in killing people en masse than in demonstrating that they could if they wanted to. Though, of course, ‘regrettably’ people were occasionally killed, three thousand on all sides over 20 years, the conflict was eventually ended not with semtex and the Armalite, but by negotation and seeking the other person’s point of view.

Some other people will draw moral equivalence between this random attack on our children and the many, many instances of civilian collateral deaths in the so-called war on terror, that is visiting appalling hardship and mounting casualties daily on poor villagers from what is inaccurately claimed to be ‘precision-guided’ aerial bombing in Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan – aimed (but not very well) at terrorising the fanatical army of Abubakr al-Baghdadi – IS – into submission.

An army born of Western interventions and supplied by America’s persistent arming of the Gulf states and supposedly friendly militias.

Appalling, but no longer, by example, unimaginable. From time to time we feel the backlash and gain a glimpse. Or rather, we don’t. Our ‘glimpse’ of their pain is invariably subsumed by the authorities into a narrative of inexcusable hatred of ‘our way of life’ – as if we don’t hate theirs back. Any other response is considered profoundly unpatriotic.

It might all make more sense if the authorities – the government – would openly admit to what the national policy in Syria and Iraq actually is; the problem being, they don’t know. There isn’t one. It’s all about blindly following some agenda set by ‘the West’ – whatever that is – that we have passively gone along with for decades since ceasing to be the imperial power in the region.

Perhaps the real crime is that what is being done there in our name makes so little impression on us here, three thousand miles away, where we go about our business in denial, blind to the suffering of others – until the refugees arrive on our doorstep and the media and the politicians conspire to affect surprise and consternation as they force shut the gates against them.

Perhaps they have not rejected the refugees because of who they are, but in order not to alarm the population too greatly as to WHY they are.

The Pumpkin regrets that, whatever the historical justification, the official version, the uncomfortable fact is that there is a war on, and that the inexplicable, evil ‘terrorist’ acts are also acts of war is simply not an argument it is permissible to make in our country. Let us just say then that the number of civilian deaths (including many ‘beautiful babies’ and wedding parties inadvertently reduced by Allied ordnance to unidentifiable body parts) in those one-sided conflict zones has increased markedly since the arrival in office last January of President Trump. (See link below)

In his determination to impress the dumbfucks with his toughness and singleminded ambition to ‘make America great again’, Trump has removed even the flimsy cover of the rules of engagement, while imposing the equally flimsy cover of a news blackout on military affairs. But does it amount to a strategy? We can see how this may be giving certain elements on the opposing side, which appears to be losing its grip both on human unreason and conquered land, cause for yet greater anguish; while, from a British dimension, Mrs May’s unconsidered support for Trump’s circus of the grotesque will not have gone unnoticed (see below).

While Mr Trump insists that his intensification of the Kissinger doctrine of ‘just bomb the shit out of them’, encouraged by the manufacturers of bombs, will ‘keep people safe on our streets’, elementary logic dictates that it will have precisely the opposite effect – and elementary cynicism suggests that that is precisely the intention.

Safe streets do not require the imposition of authoritarian regimes through dubious stratagems well-funded by uber-capitalist billionaires hell-bent on extracting for themselves the last ounces of wealth from a dying planet.

Rather than looking to the anniversary of the killing of Fusilier Rigby, one might look to the more contemporaneous speech Mr Trump delivered in Riyadh three days ago to the representatives of the Arab world, a speech written (it’s said) by his notoriously Islamophobic, obnoxious young advisor, Stephen Miller, calling for a final push to end violent extremism.

As if!

The Pumpkin respectfully suggests that as long as there is a cause for extremism there will be extremism. Trump could bring about the ‘beginning of the end’ of the war on terror by calling off his bombers first and not selling another $300 billion-worth of armaments to Saudi Arabia, a medieval terror-sponsoring autocratic patriarchal petrodollar state hagridden with hypocritical royal princelings, that seems to thrive on glut.

Instead, he brings the terrorists within his own limited compass, describing them as ‘losers’.

For Trump, life is simple: you are either rich, or you are nothing. A winner, or a loser. The president is sick beyond redemption, scarcely even human: a brash, vain money-breather with a brain made from congealed greed. Yet in a way, he has hit the nail on the head. Violence is the last refuge of the ‘loser’, when economic power is denied them and the violence of superior wealth, the violence of the winners, is visited daily on their nation.

(It should be pointed out respectfully that if it should prove to be the case that the Manchester bomber was a Muslim, he or she will almost certainly have been inspired by one or other branch of the faith that has its roots in Sunni wahabbism as practised, promoted and financed by Saudi clerics, and not in Shi’a or Sufism. Thanks to its insatiable demand for oil, America has always had great difficulty in determining who its real enemies are.)

We are living in a very odd time, are we not?, at which our rulers are prosecuting a war over our heads, largely hidden from the sight of the population at large; so that it is only brought home to us that ‘something is going on’ when atrocities are perpetrated on our own soil, in our concert halls, whereupon they are invariably represented to us as somehow inexplicable and random instances of ‘evil’, devoid of meaning or context.

It is simply not permissible to question the nature of this ‘evil’ or even to suggest it may have roots and cause and reason; as to do so would be to start to pull aside the veil. All that may be said of it is that there is an ‘enemy within’, who might be the hateful stranger next door; fear is turned against us and we are helpless in the face of it, reliant entirely on the State apparatus, on State power and secret knowledge, to ‘keep our streets safe’.

And when, inevitably, it is brought home to us – thankfully very rarely, this was the first bomb attack (we are told) on the UK mainland since 2005 – that our streets are not so safe, and can never be, the first instinct of the State is to add extra layers to the cocoon of platitudes that stifles rational debate.

No-one suggested the bomber wanted to destroy British values, Mrs May. That’s you talking out of your book of post-outrage homilies. It seems far more likely the bomber wanted to make a point by destroying Western children, which is why he targeted a concert for the young fans of Ariana Grande.

But yes, the element of Salafism, the religiously motivated Puritanical disdain for our soft, decadent pleasure-seeking, our lotus-eating lifestyle, which we indulge briefly in the few hours between work and work, in much the same way as Saudi wahabbists love to come to London and New York for the brothels and the casinos, that’s enough to say ‘they want to destroy our way of life’.

Which is another way of saying: they have a clear target and a cause they can use to recruit disaffected young men to attack it in pursuit of their war. It’s not such a difficult idea.

It takes perhaps a more sophisticated understanding of the nature of modern ‘hybrid’ or asymmetrical warfare than has yet caught up with the majority, fed on stirring tales, who may still think of a war as a confrontation formally declared and conducted between States with armies and navies and airforces, between ‘our boys’ and their ‘terrorists’ (our ‘heroes’, their hate-filled ‘murderers’) along more or less equal lines.

The so-called ‘Gerasimov doctrine’ however introduces precisely the mix of random and inexplicable events as elements of a wider picture, of present and future conflicts conducted in many ways and on many levels wherever opportunity arises, through computer hacks and disruptive malware, propaganda coups, ‘fake news’ and confusion, financial chaos and the encouragement of political instability, inexplicably shifting allegiances and illogical interventions; yes, occasional ‘terrorist outrages’ too – with only the thrust and parry of actual armed conflict from time to time to indicate that anything is going on.

As this ‘war against terror’ as Mr Bush defined it has no State enemy, is prosecuted in our name under a cloak of secrecy and deniability wherever the State chooses to pursue it, in whatever way, it is simply not possible for us to address the underlying narrative, the historical causes, of the violence – perhaps even to end it – to put finite limits on it without admitting that, yes, there is a reason, there is a cause, a historic injustice to which the word ‘unacceptable’, that favourite epithet of politicians, cannot be applied without undermining everything we are told we must stand for, our sacrosanct ‘way of life’, against which all argument such as this essay is ‘unacceptable’ – treason.

‘Our way of life’ is code for an increasingly fractious and irresponsible society where glaring inequality, economic stagnation for the many, unprincipled accumulation of wealth by the few, ersatz kultur, gargantuan waste and the growing signs of unsustainability are skated over, as the supermarkets struggle to keep up the appearance of infinite abundance in the face of rising commodity prices and crop failures; as the Arctic warms to boiling point.

Yet it is our government that has put our values, our ‘way of life’ on the line.

We are, it seems, here in Britain trapped in yet another election period, characterised by the de facto Prime Minister’s insistence that the principal motive for holding this election now, four years early, is to cement her in power, on the grounds that ‘only she’ can provide the ‘strong and stable leadership’ required to navigate us through the choppy waters ahead.

How many times have we heard this same bullshit from the vain and the overweeningly ambitious?

Mrs May has already demonstrated that she is not interested in Parliamentary democracy, by fighting a (losing) legal battle to deny Parliament the right of even a hint of a veto or any discussion over negotiations which she will personally oversee in order to obtain the best deal for Britain, a ‘red, white and blue Brexit’, in the minor matter of our shameful abandonment of our treaty obligations to 27 other European states, regardless of the damage to our long-term economic and security interests. Inasmuch as there is a long-term.

Indeed, so autocratic is the diffident lady that she has virtually abandoned her own Conservative party. There is almost no mention of the name in her communications with the public, who are henceforth to refer to the venerable party as ‘Team May’. Just what the hell is going on?, to quote former Candidate Trump. (Well, we now know, as details emerge of massive contributions to her election war-chest from three leading oil industry executives, while millionaire fund managers openly propose to buy politicians amenable to their profitably disruptive model of a ‘hard Brexit’.)

Three days ago, however, Mrs May’s seemingly unassailable poll ratings began to tumble, as she was forced through audibly gritted teeth to defend the presentation of, and possibly even backslide or even flip-flop on, a number of unthought-through promises contained in her manifesto, hastily drawn up by her exclusive inner circle of unelected advisors – including a former regional editor of the Daily Mail – policies that would have devastating financial consequences, both for poorer children and the frail elderly.

It is of course churlish to say what The Pumpkin is going to say next, outrageous and unacceptable, in very bad taste indeed; not the time, if ever there could be an appropriate time to discuss such an appalling event in such dishonourable terms. (There is of course not the slightest suggestion of any direct link or any such inference to be drawn here.)

But it is an ill wind, they say, that blows nobody any good.

Following the Manchester bombing, it would be invidious of some unscrupulous blogger fairly high on the Asperger’s scale not to point to the likely effect on the election outcome, which must surely now be beyond doubt.

The former Home Secretary, having presided over the security apparatus for six years previously; the architect of so much anti-terrorism legislation, despite successive governments having denuded the police, the military and the security services of the manpower and resources to actually implement the legislation or defend the country, Mrs May has created around herself an invincible aura: the impeccable credentials of a Boudicca who will ‘guarantee’ the safety of our streets.

The saintly and sanctimonious Mr Corbyn, on the other hand, has been ruthlessly tarred in a long-running campaign with the twin brushes of flakey pacifism and fraternising with terrorists – one of those Islingtonian libtard snowflakes who prefers ‘jaw-jaw’ to ‘war-war’ and thinks one should negotiate with one’s enemies before squishing them –  ever since he was first elected to the leadership of the Labour party.

Why, the hoary old traitor would even refuse to commit our US-controlled nuclear ‘deterrent’ to a British first-strike if pushed to it! He’d be too scared to press the button! How can such a cowardly man be allowed to run the country?

There is now, surely, no contest. The crux of the election will already have swung from ‘Brexit’ to the rhetoric of ‘safe streets’. Once campaigning resumes, only Mrs May, channelling Thatcher, than whom she is allegedly more popular, will be said to have the strength and stability to stand up to the men of violence, etcetera.

The fact that no British politician other than poor Mr Corbyn dares to admit that we have been bringing this on ourselves for almost 150 years of meddling in the oil- and blood-soaked affairs of the Middle East against the stony backdrop of a centuries-old history of violent schism within Islam, invasion and crusade, empire-building and collision, the gerrymandering of artificial states and the finagling of corrupt and brutal autocracies, is itself the very root and branch of last night’s tragedy.

‘Evil’ has nothing to do with it. ‘Evil’ is indeed part of the same delusionary medieval mindset as that of the fundamentalists on both sides who are prosecuting this filthy and in large part covert war; an unending conflict between proxies of greater Powers, petrol poured over it and replenished daily by the arms trade, inasmuch as life here on the Western front mostly carries on as if nothing was happening; until it does.

The Pumpkin has tried for several months now to point to the quasi-mystical aspect of the current political paradigm-shift in the West, driven in part by wealthy ‘disruptors’ linked to ultra-nationalist movements with roots feeding deep on past glories, when heroic knightly Christians and evil profane Moors collided with one another at the gates of Jerusalem, of Vienna, Byzantium, Granada and Omdurman; and partly by the ‘global laundromat’ of hot money.

It is simply folly to deny this history and not see the contemporary resonances. They may be largely symbolic nowadays, with the entry of gangsterism and drones into the equation; but symbolism has become the rationality de nos jours. And those people want war, they crave instability, uncertainty. It’s good for markets.

It would be folly, too, not to try at least to comprehend the enormity of; the incredible complexity, the tangled warp and weft, the thrust and plot of labyrinthine Mid-Eastern politics on so many levels; the role of Israel, the machinations of the energy business and the Deep States, with their endless lethal games; the ancient tribal power struggles… we interfere at our peril, we understand nothing. These ought not to be our affairs.

Atrocities such as Manchester’s cannot be reduced to the one simple absurdity, the old cliche of an act that is purely ‘evil’. People just don’t blow themselves up in crowded places because they are ‘evil’, they do it out of desperation, they go crazy and do these things because nothing else is available to them; no other remedy for the pain in their heart, the confusion in their head; not even the acknowledgment that they are fighting in a war which we have imposed on them: only the epithets ‘terrorist’. ‘Loser’.

We can manage our own atrocities, thank you.

Further reading: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/mar/24/mosuls-children-were-shouting-under-the-rubble-nobody-came

 

Postscriptum

And if you want to know how prescient is The Pumpkin, JC has indeed today (26 May) made a speech attempting to explain that there is a war on, just as I said – and if you want also to know what utter cunts the Tories are, here is the text of a reply from bully-boy expenses hypocrite, Michael Fallon:

“This is a very badly timed speech, showing some very muddled and dangerous thinking (That’s two ‘verys’, Ed.). He seems to be implying that a terorrist (sic) attack in Manchester is somehow our fault, it’s somehow Britain’s fault.

“Jeremy Corbyn is far to ready to ready to (sic) find excuses and far to (sic) slow to support the police and the security services. This is a man, by the way, who has opposed every piece of terrorist legislations (sic), who thinks we should talk to terrorists, and who’s even questioned should be right to shoot to kill (What? Ed.).

“You see the contrast today between Theresa May acting in the national interest and Jeremy Corbyn confirming that he’s simply not up to the job.”

So that’s what you get in wartime Britain for merely telling the truth. Of course it’s not the sort of thing you’d put past Fallon, to make political capital out of the deaths of children. He’s the most disgusting chinless apology for a human being, isn’t he?

Fuck them. DO NOT VOTE FOR THEM.

In the long run we’re all dead.

Isn’t he just priceless?

You may remember, there was a fuss the other week because, having fired the man investigating him over his dodgy Russian connections, the very next day Trump entertained the Russian foreign minister and the ambassador-spy at the White House, at the suggestion of Mr Putin?

And there, in front of a Russian photographer he blurted out information so secret that it came with a ‘Code-only’ security rating, that the US has ‘great intel’ such as was coming from right inside ISIS thanks to an ally in the region; the inference being that Israeli intelligence had an asset in Raqqa?

And when this was leaked, Trump got General McMaster, his head of national security, to deny that he’d given any secrets away? And then Trump went on TV and said he had an ‘absolute right’ to tell anyone anything he wanted, because he was the President. But he would never say where the intel came from, of course he wouldn’t?

So Trump is in Israel, there’s a press conference with Netanyahu, and the Trumpkin gets up and announces to the world’s press, ‘first I want to tell you, I never mentioned Israel. I never said it was Israel.’

And meanwhile it has emerged that Trump also informed his new buddy, the pockmarked litle thug Duterte of the Philippines, in a telephone call two weeks ago, of the whereabouts of two ‘very powerful’ US nuclear submarines.

This man’s IQ is very definitely somewhere in the 90s. Maybe lower. Immeasurably low. Especially when he tells the assembled Israeli ministers: ‘We just got in from the Middle East…’

And it appears that the lawyer he has briefed to defend him against the FBI’s investigation of his links with Russia is working for a leading Russian bank… his business partner is former GOP senator, Joe Lieberman, Trump’s (probably now abandoned) pick for director of… the FBI…

And it also appears that Comey was not the only one Trump begged to abandon the investigations into connections with Russia, a prima facie case for a federal charge of obstructing justice, but he also called the heads of the CIA and the National Security Administration and tried to get them to put pressure on Comey to back off the investigation into Flynn….

It’s like he’d rather be in gaol than in the White House.

What a loser.

x

xAmericans? Fuck ’em, says Trump

And if you want to know who really hates your way of life, please watch Senator Elizabeth Warren’s dissection of Trump and DeVos’s proposed $11bn education cuts in the federal budget, to pay for the Mexican border wall:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ma5AsvIgbhw

It is so shocking you will not believe it. So if you don’t believe it, catch the full version with Senator Chuck Schumer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98a3Uq3ML9A

(btw you may hear him refer to student loans. Mrs DeVos owns a company that buys up student loans and pursues students for payment with threats and property seizures.)

You may wish to conclude that Donald J Trump is a demented old orange slug and his placemen incompetent, self-interested, profoundly corrupted lunatics.

I couldn’t possibly comment.

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Comex 2. Stately Home. Sigh.

Luckily, you have all stopped reading this, muh li’l bogl.

That way, I can never be accused of boring you.

Three hits all last week is hardly going to win me a Grumpy award. Just as well, I have nothing to wear.

And no-one is reading my Posts, just the usual two, many years’ old Pages, that seem for some reason to lure vast numbers of readers when there is so much spectacularly witty and informative writing elsewhere to look at: ‘Comex 2’, ‘Stately Home’. Sigh.

It’s a sign that I should maybe write a couple of books instead. They’d be best-sellers. ‘Comex 2: Sand in My Chapatti’. ‘Stately Home: A Headless Horseman Riding By’.

Or perhaps it’s more a sign that Posting over four hundred other interesting and entertaining articles in a kind of linear depression narrative has been a colossal waste of my time and intellect. I should try something more worthwhile. What’s the local paper got to offer in its Jobs section? Ah, yes. ‘Cymhorthydd Traeth Tymhorol Dros Dro, £14k’.

As the great hieromancer, Russell Grant, explains today in my personal Yahoo! Horoscope: “Creating art in a vacuum is difficult. It’s important to share your work. This will help you connect with people who admire your vision and sympathise with your point of view.”

Er, right.

S0, it’s coming on three years since The Boglington Post first aired, or lined, whatever. And to be fair, I have said on more than one occasion that I refuse to get drawn into the SEO game, maximising my H-tags. (I might do, when I find out what one is.) I’ve been relying on you, your lovely big mouth, to transmit news by word of this great repository to your friends and colleagues, and thence to the worldwide virus.

But if that’s resulted in my bogl having 27 Followers, only two of whom have ever kept in touch, neither of whom now appears to be reading a word I write – maybe you returned from vacation with Chikungunya virus, or have been taken hostage – then is there any point in going on?

I admit, I have also said that I shall be perfectly happy if The Post achieves posthumous fame and recognition, long after I have died of reading the TV schedule and drinking too much red wine.

I didn’t mean it.

For, as dear Russell encouragingly goes on to explain: “Showing off your creative talent could pay off handsomely…. Be assured you will receive overwhelmingly positive feedback.”

Oh, I will. I will.

– Uncle Bogler

(Lalocabruja pings to say she Likes this. She is my only friend. And her lovely dog with the blue eyes.)

Buy It or Decry It: The Modern Dilemma

Oh dear, oh dear. What’s to be done?

Do you ever find yourself being ripped apart by metaphorical horses, one to each limb? I know I do.

(Guitar bore aware)

That this small article (particle?) touches on the acquisition of yet another stringéd instrument is in many senses irrelevant to my theme, that of the Moral Dilemma.

It simply concerns the choices we need to make and the moral consequences thereof – a moral consequence being the effect one’s choices have on other people and their wretched lives.

The question being, am I making someone’s life fractionally better or worse by purchasing a product that has been bought with the workers’ human misery as the currency of rapacious US capitalism?

It all began this week, when finally, at long last, after many months of assiduous interweb-thing advertising, I sold my lovely D’Aquisto guitar for about a third of its market price. The complex and detailed negotiations, rooted in mutual suspicion, culminated in the far-distant purchaser requesting urgently that I ferry it personally to the offices of an overnight courier company, fifty miles away, in order not to miss a delivery slot the following day.

Farewell, my lovely

Farewell, my lovely

Having nothing else to do (I’d forgotten I had an appointment with my Financial Advisor), and considering he had faithfully deposited quite a large sum in the vaults of messrs PayPal and Co. in my name, I felt I had no choice. I loaded the guitar, wrapped in so many layers of free cardboard (see Posts passim) that it resembled an Egyptian sarcophagus, loaded Hunzi into the back and set off on Wednesday in my elderly Volkswagen, the one with the slipping clutch-plate and disintegrating brake pads, across the winding pass through the stunning Elan Valley, to the fifty-miles-away town.

I confess that I felt less reluctant to make the journey, having recalled that the town boasts a specialist guitar shoppe of Aladdin’s Cave-like prolificity.

The business done, I bade a heartless farewell to my lovely D’Aquisto (it’s only money) and set off through the town. The shop duly presented itself. It was like one of those American guitar shops, single-storey and stuffed to the rafters with Fenders. Further rooms opened out unexpectedly, containing sheet music, amplifiers, digital pianos and a special room for drums. It was too much to take in all at once, so I availed myself of the free coffee.

As I soon discovered, there were only two guitars of the specific type and design I craved. One, a Yamaha, was lovely, rare and an enticing price, but I dismissed it on the grounds that shit-brown burr walnut is not my favourite finish. What am I like? I am SO superficial.

The other, however, surprisingly met all my technical requirements, and at a price some 4.6 times less than the equivalent lovely machines I had been dreading buying, with not a lot of loss in sound quality. It was, as some people used to say, a no-brainard.

Now, if like me you’re not very good at the interweb-thing stuff, you may find that your PayPal account has some limits imposed on it until you can prove you exist and that the bank details you have given do not translate to a small cafe somewhere in uptown Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. So I wasn’t able to consummate my desire on the spot.

And that was a Good Thing, because later that evening – the car seemed to fly home, possibly as it had no brakes – I went online to obtain a detailed specification of the object of my interest, only to run across a daunting website posted by some of the employees of the manufacturer. What I had read somewhere was an Italian-made instrument turned out to be the alleged product of virtually slave labour in several Far Eastern countries – China, Korea, Indonesia, I forget.

This explained its astonishing value-for-money qualities, and the rave reviews from weirdly bearded US guitar-picking baboons. It seems the highly profitable US company might have been been massaging its profit figures for various regions by moving the money around, and using the claimed ‘losses’ to justify factory closures and job losses, only to start up again elsewhere with cheaper labour.

It is of course a familiar business model, one that has benighted workers for decades, even in developed countries. The ruthless search for cheaper production is the ugly face of globalism. And it is, of course, totally self-defeating in the long run. What goes around, comes around. Labour in developed Britain, the world’s sixth or seventh largest economy, where this globalism shit began, is now so cheap that manufacturers are repatriating the jobs they outsourced to the developing world thirty years ago.

So, should I buy a Cort M Custom guitar or not? The displaced workforce would obviously like me not to. They would like me to boycott their erstwhile employer, to bring him to his knees. But life is not that simple. People need to work, to feed their children. By buying a Cort M Custom guitar, I am at least helping to feed the children of someone poorer than the newly displaced workers of a shutdown Cort factory in some marginally richer country.

During the late 1980s, the company I worked for was able to command fees of £120 an hour for my services as a copywriter. As I have bogled elsewhere, by the early 2000s I couldn’t get £12 an hour for freelance work. I would be told, oh, we can have copywriting done in India for three dollars. So I am just as much a victim of global capitalism as the Cort factory workers, in my own way.

I do not claim to be poorer, hungrier, or less able to feed my children. I am sure those people have a far more difficult time than I do. But in terms of scaleable economics, given that after two centuries of development the parameters of average wages and costs in my country are greater roughly by a factor of ten, I have lost just as much proportionally. I deserve to pay a bit less for my Cort M Custom, given how much worse off I have become as a result of those little bastards undercutting my wages.

This is not getting to a good place.

Luckily, I found another website and a different guitar and it costs twice as much and it is unbelievably lovely, and made in… well, who gives a fuck? I want one!

Postscriptum

But it seems alas that I can’t have one, the last one in England has just been sold.

Post-postscriptum:

Apropos previous Posts on the subject of Gibson guitars, the world’s leading make, I am relieved to find I am not alone in my views. Nor, it seems, are corrupt and bullying labour practices confined to exploiting the Chinese.

Former Gibbo employee ‘Andy’ writes on the Richard’s Guitars (of Stratford-upon-Avon) Forum, on a thread headed Maybe Some Gibson Lovers Need to Buy Soon:

“Might i mention again the EXTREMELY poor quality of these instruments? the processes these people try to use are inefficient, cumbersome, and so archaic they are ridiculous, and when you try to change a process to make it more efficient, you are told you can’t, because it’s not the “Gibson Way”.

“In short, this is the worst company in the world, slaves in sweat shops in Asia are treated better (and make a better product too)

“Advice to Management

“Die. Do the world a favor. Do your company and employees a favor. Die and quit ruining a great name like Gibson.”

Oh dear. All is not as it seems in the jingle-jangle jungle.

 

Down, but not yet out

(Work in progress. Depression-aware)

Have you noticed how many celebs and actually successful people have been coming out of the closet about their depressive illness, and how they needn’t be ashamed of it, so neither do we?

There have been many such depressionals lately, replacing the fashion for ‘misery memoirs’; the general idea being that it is usual for people with depression to be told by their GP: ‘What have YOU got to be depressed about, with yer big car an’ all? Just pull yer socks up, laddie!’ when in fact they are really ill, honest.

Depression is one of those invisible illnesses beloved of the drugs cartel; a vague systemic disorder, maybe connected to brain-juice, or lack of it; maybe to life in general, who knows? But here’s a pill!

Actually, when I went off a cliff a few years ago, my GP couldn’t have been more sympathetic. ‘Reactive depression’, he wrote, and I threw away the pills and lived on industrial quantities of St John’s Wort until I imagined I felt better. But I had just grown numb and inured to it, Time the healer.

I imagine depression is more like losing a leg than getting a disease. There’s not a lot you can do about it, other than get a marrow transplant.

When our friend and fellow director Graeme drove off and hanged himself in a wood instead of moving to a new job in Belgium, my partner stepped in and bore the brunt of the police enquiry, the inquest and the undeserved recriminations from his family and friends, and was briefly diagnosed with ‘reactive depression’, and afterwards found she couldn’t get insurance.

Luckily, I don’t buy insurance. Insurance company underwriters and actuaries have weird ideas, like you were depressed for a while ten years ago so you’re more likely to set fire to your underpants, burgle your own house, nail your head to a door, and so they double your premiums.

There are real consequences that follow from having the D-word on your record, just as a bad credit score will screw-up your life in ways you didn’t imagine when you signed the direct debit mandate. (Optimism can be bad for your life.)

So, I had a situation at work, that I took to my line manager, who told me to sort it out myself. I went over their head to the director, who told me to sort it out myself. So I did, and there was a complaint, and a disciplinary hearing, and a written warning, despite all the positive testimonials from my other clients, and I thought, what the fuck am I doing this for on a lousy fifteen grand a year, when the people up the food-chain who are paid to take the decisions, won’t?

But I wouldn’t take the two weeks off. There was too much work to do.

Now, that sort of thing probably happens to you at the office every day. Get over it! you scoff. Well, becoming profoundly depressed IS my way of getting over things. That, and running away and hiding behind the sofa. Shouting at people in the street. Sending offensive emails. And putting words into CAPITAL LETTERS. It’s how I preserve that little inner kernel of ME in the face of so much injustice and stupidity.

For, readers of this, muh li’l bogl, know full well that I too am a chronic depressive. This entire oeuvre is one long chronicle of despair. That’s what’s supposed to make it funny, the underlying subtext of hopelessness and humiliation, the life half-lived.

What have I got to be depressed about, with my expensive boarding-school education, fur-clad mother and account at Harrods? you ask.

Okay, but that was all a very long time ago. It’s different now.

Now, I live in a little house my long-dead grandmother has bought for me, that I can’t now sell, on a terrifying main road in the thunderous outskirts of a provincial town in remotest West Britain, and have no job, no love (other than from li’l Hunzi and Scat the Cat), no-one to share experiences with (no experiences to share) or talk to at night, other than the squabbling personalities in my head; little interest in anything except wine, hoping desperately to move on, to stay where I am, to go sideways, anywhere, prove I am brilliant and successful, to crouch in the shadows and be unobserved, ridiculous and unsucessful, but hopefully to be discovered posthumously – to die and yet never grow old.

Depression is like an impostor is out there, living your life while you lie, bound and gagged, in a darkened room.

Depression is setting yourself fabulous goals you can’t achieve, then sitting back and enjoying watching yourself fail.

(The fastest sprinter in my junior school, I used to slow down and let the others win. It seemed important to them.)

Depression is knowing you don’t exist, but finding every day, disappointingly, that you still do.

Whoever can know what the trigger-points might be to set this off, the petty disempowerments, the childhood nightmares, the seen and unseen terrors, the thoughtless criticisms and ludicrous overexpectations, the sense of threat, the feelings of guilt over crimes you haven’t committed, the genetic inheritance of your alcoholic forebears, the casual abuse that even in the most cared-for upbringing might all one day add up to the depressive adult personality, that refuses to care for itself?

Depression is like, when seized upon by raptors, prey animals essentially shut down their life-support systems and even die before they can be ripped apart. It’s precisely the same reflex.

  • I spent last winter, six months, during which I kept the doors locked, fearing to turn the house lights on, going to bed in the dark, never opening the blinds, hoping the neighbours, the police and anyone I owed money to would think no-one was here, keeping a baseball at by the bed. Who was threatening me? I was!
  • I wouldn’t open the mail, because I know I will not deal with whatever it contains in a sensible or positive way, but would end up instead writing long and rambling, self-justifying letters to people in authority, pleading to be set free from the responsibility for managing my life according to their expectations. And then not sending them. Or sending them.
  • I erased myself almost entirely, in case anyone tried to help. I stopped going to choir, ducked out of a theatre production halfway through rehearsals, started obsessively (and with utter futility) trying to sell everything I own; knowing even so that I could run away from my life, but not from myself.
  • At the same time, part of me kept telling the others, it’s not where and how you live, but why, and what you do with your life, that matters. Depression is often marked by a clinging on to sanity in the face of your own irrational actions. It’s self-preservation – not such a bad thing. But where were the opportunities to do anything?
  • And I continue Posting to this, my blog, putting endless messages in the lengthening trail of empty bottles (exactly one a night) to say help, I am trapped in here. Then you look up, and see that the entire surface of the ocean is bobbing with bottles.

I fancy madly that even now at the age of almost 65 I am still capable of living up to everyone’s ludicrous expectations of me. I can still write that best-selling novel, that screenplay; win that 100-metres, star in that show, master that guitar riff. But I cannot penetrate the shroud. And why would I? Nothing can! The shroud protects, the shroud provides. Success is only one kind of survival, the least important kind.

The most important kind of survival is to be forgotten in your own lifetime.

I keep rewriting my CV, imagining I shall one day discover who I was, mailing it out to people who obviously think I am a fraud – prospective employers who will never believe, whatever I write, that I have not invented all those peculiar details, that unlikely body of expertise and experience, those obviously fake qualifications, that I am no longer sure I believe in myself. Did I really do that? Was I really there? Was it that good? Could I ever be again?

In hiding away, I have become someone you would very much want to avoid. Paradox upon paradox.

Do we know anything about ourselves? Do we really remember anything of the past, other than the stories we have repeatedly told ourselves? Does it make a difference, whether it is real or invented?

I keep my house meticulously tidy, in case anyone comes to buy it. I wash-up the dishes every day, take a pink fluffy stick to the cobwebs and touch-in the paint chips. No-one has been to look at how tidy my house is for the last eight months. I don’t really want to sell it anyway. Except I do. Only, I can’t decide.

‘I will stay. I will go.’ *

 

* Laura Nyro: You Don’t Love Me When I Cry.

Normal service will be resumed

To all my friendly Spammers, Followers, Commentators and whatnots

Normal service has been broken in bits by the death of yet another hard drive on my little laptop, this time with no hope of data recovery. It has been in hospital for a week and is now home, but every photo, file, bookmark, reinvented CV and most of my downloaded software including the entire MS Office suite has gone forever.

I have signed-up too late to some kind of external backup operation, as I urge you to do if you have not already done so, but they want more money than I’ve got in my account to ‘protect’ me for a year and so I am stuck. WordPress of course is unaffected and so The Boglington Post lives on, while some useful data may still be contained in attachments to past emails and so be partly recoverable.

Not sure I am, though. Yesterday, I received from HM Department of Work and Pensions, my invitation to apply now (while stocks last) for my old-age pension (for every five weeks you put off applying, you get an extra 1% added on. George Osborne must be fucking desperate!).

It may not be the end of the beginning, but it is possibly the beginning of the end, to misquote a Great Man.

– Uncle Bogler

Postscriptum

A minor miracle.

Yesterday while reviewing a photo I had just taken of my garden on my little Coolpix camera I accidentally went too far and there was a picture of Hunzi I remembered taking eighteen months ago…. It was but the first of over 300 recoverable photos that are still there, stored on my camera’s little chip. Despite the fact that I asked it to delete them when I downloaded them to my laptop, it has kept them all safe, my children, my guitars, my little house, knowing that one day, my hard drive might die.

Bless.

Cometh the hour

Help.

According to the historical record, I started this, my bogl, on 27 February, 2012. Noticing recently that I had cranked out my 291st Post, I thought it would be fun to celebrate two years in the business by simultaneously posting my 300th Post on 27 February. I’m a bit obsessive-compulsive about numerical coincidences, as you may have noticed.

That meant rationing my output to one Post every two days. Or so I thought. But the math doesn’t add up. Three hundred into 730 days is one Post every 2.43 days. So in fact, to meet my target I needed to speed up!

It’s now been five days since my last Post. I have fallen behind. I don’t know what to do. I can’t think of anything to write about.

Then, I’m acutely conscious of my bogl having become more serious than I ever wanted it to be. I feel I am letting my loyal boglers – Followers, Commenters, Likers and Spammers – down. Certain faintly humorous characters, references and threads have not been heard of for months. My sense of malicious amusement has gone out of the window and I am writing boringly instead about social issues. Or the weather. Or about my sales problem. Which is that I am trying to sell lots of stuff and no-one is buying it. There I go again.

How interesting is that?

I wish I could help. But I can’t.