Imagine This Scenario

 Imagine this scenario. For centuries, millennia,                              
your ancestors have ploughed the fields of Britain, milking many a                              
moocow, pulling many a lever, scrabbling at many a coalface,                              
been frogmarched off with bayonet, rifle, sword, to stop the whole place                              
from caving in, as they were told by those who owned the silos,                              
who fattened up the empires, whipped the natives, shot the rhinos.                              
                                      
 Your ancestors were Irish slaves, Welsh miners, English shepherds,                                      
they laid the pipes, they pumped the sewage, dug the roads, were peppered                              
with German bullets, choked on mustard gas, built ships and lorries,                              
stoked engines, mixed cement, fought off a million mortal worries,                                      
fought typhoid, smallpox, polio, Napoleonic trouble,                                      
kept calm and carried on while Hitler smashed their homes to rubble.                              
                                       
 Your father drives a minicab. Your mother feeds machinery.                              
Twenty-storey tower blocks make up the local scenery.                                      
You’re still a baby when the marriage dies of green-complexioned health,                              
so no-one teaches you to swim or cycle or protect yourself.                                      
No master shows you how to be a man and grab reality                                      
by the balls. He’s busy watering his popularity.                                      
                                       
 You grow up in a ghetto where a third of all your neighbours                                      
descend from those who lent this land millennia of labours,                                      
and in those dreamy years after the darts of death had withered,                                      
before the towers crumble and the planet starts to shiver,                                      
your streets become infected by a viral form of preacher                                      
proclaiming that their foreign dogma is your country’s future.                                      
For thirty years, while Islamists grow smug on housing benefit,                                      
no-one notices that your attention has a deficit.                                      
                                       
 The rest of your community’s a round hole to your square peg                                      
and all your creativity just lies there like a spare leg,                                      
you’re not turned on by television, drum and bass or football,                                      
and nobody is going to let you set foot in a good school,                                      
so there you sit with pigeon-brains concocting plans to hurt you                                      
and parrot lines of French ’cause there’s no other choice but Urdu,                                      
where using proper English means you think you’re some flamboyant king                                 
and means that you’re a poof, a queer, a raasclaat batty-boy and ting,                                      
a pushti pezevenk, a shishna-sucking gora gandu.                                      
Que devez-vous faire maintenant? There’s not much that you can do.                                
                                       
 One night, in a graffiti-smothered pit of social atrophy,                                      
a pack of boys with fewer brain cells than a pickled anchovy                                      
pursue you down the high road swinging poles and pipes and batons.                                      
Their gleaming metal cracks your head. Their rubber sportswear flattens                               
your face. They swipe your empty wallet and your tatty mobile.                                      
Here launches your revolt against the virtue of the docile,                                      
as further down the road you run, just focused on surviving,                                      
bleeding on the windscreens of grown men who keep on driving.                                      
                                       
 Your bookish tendencies propel you into university                                      
where pyramids of dark politically-correct perversity                                      
entomb Kureishi, Wordsworth, Austen, Ishiguro, Chaucer,                                    
where almost everyone’s a liberal-leftist law enforcer
from some pristine Landrover-clogged boulangerie-crammed village,
some prissy solicitor’s sproglet who’s scarcely set eyes on a black or brown visage.
They’re worldly wise authorities on racism, apparently.                                      
Half their conversations are parades of moral vanity.                                      
For three long years you’re yawning at some puffed-up bumfluffed ponce who                              
says all humanity can live in Ipswich if it wants to.                                      
                                       
 This doctrine-camp’s a struggle with your deficit disorder but                                      
you scrape a cape, some motto-blotted paper and a mortar-board that                                      
doesn’t fit, then wander in a zigzag back to London where                                      
comparing Laurence Sterne and Salman Rushdie’s a redundant flair.                                      
You stare into a void with no idea of how to find a                                      
career, and tuned to glimpsing glory, all you want’s to bind the                                      
severely-wounded, limping, out-of-action art of poetry                                      
to the powerhouse of electronic music, though it be                                      
as likely that a record-label oligarch would favour                                      
some bitter anti-globalist class-conscious rant-and-raver                                      
who shouts in Sapphic odes, ballades, rondels and Russian sonnets                                      
above a Mockney berk recalling how his best mate vomits                                      
on thirteen pints of piss or a Jafaican bint who prattles                                      
in sanitised opinions just like all the “edgy” cattle                                      
as a publisher would dare to shake a ten-foot bargepole                                      
at verse that’s not the cryptic nothings of a tedious arsehole,                                      
and so you stumble by and buy biographies of Byron by                                      
nibbling on a nabob’s nob, by tightening a tyrant’s tie.                                      
Your top job’s in a workshop, as you see the dreams of youth crushed,                                      
scrubbing mud off scraps of Roman porcelain with a toothbrush.                                      
                                       
 And there you sit, between two classes, cultures, worlds. You fidget                                      
towards them both. The gap is gaping, though. You cannot bridge it.                                      
                                       
 The tax you pay flings rockets at Iraqi haberdasheries,                                      
it pulverises coffee-shops in screaming, blood-strewn batteries.                                      
You didn’t give consent for this. Your country’s just a colony.                                      
Was there a referendum? No, there isn’t a democracy.                                      
No socialism, nationalism, nothing to believe in.                                      
The working people’s tongues are ripped out by conniving, thieving,                                      
identical imperial-globalist PC puppet parties.                                      
You’d like to race against this, but you don’t know where the start is.                                      
Not once do you vote Labour. You could never vote Conservative.                                      
All traitors, crooks and paedophiles. You switch off and no further give                                      
a flying badger’s tit about what happens in the Commons                                      
as London empties Cockneys and fills up with bearded omens.                                      
The seeds of World War Three are blowing nicely on the zephyr.                                      
Here come the ticking vests. Your country’s fucked. Perhaps forever.                                      
                                       
 As the lonely years plod by, your heart is full of longing.                                      
It grows obese on hunger, on the emptiness that’s thronging                                      
through your threadbare lovelife. Every person that you speak to                                      
might as well be Mister Spock, or maybe R2-D2,                                      
but still you’re cracking at the seams to meet someone who’ll nourish                                      
your cobweb-cornered heart into an upward-thrusting flourish.                                         
Each word that springs from female lips is just a dreary racket,                                      
“blah blah promotion blah blah pay rise blah blah income bracket”                                      
or else a sickening buzz, “blah blah we need more immigration                                      
blah blah blah xenophobic racists blah blah celebration                                      
of vibrant blah blah blah” vibrating like a verbal dildo                                      
up her holy minge. Traditional ways are long-since killed, so                                      
you can’t walk up and ask a girl if somewhere underneath her                                      
six coats of bullshit or above her talkative urethra                                      
there throbs a soul, since, ordered by society’s shining recipes                                      
for hurtling, faster than a coked-up lemming, off a precipice,                                      
approaching girls is sleazy and invasive. It’s harassment.                                      
And so your life is starved of warmth, of wonder, of attachment.                                      
                                       
 But then a teenage working-class redheaded wordsmith bursts in                                      
and says that she’s in love with you. You’re suddenly immersed in                                      
a five-foot-ten half-Scottish old-school-socialist rhyme-scribbler.                                      
You’re shaken from your skull-tip to your ribcage to your fibula.                                      
You’d slay a pack of kangaroos armed only with a spatula,                                      
set fire to Margaret Thatcher with a single soggy match for her,                                      
you’d scale Ben Nevis with sixteen typewriters on your back for her,                                      
prance round the roughest pub in Dublin in a Union Jack for her,                                      
you’d crawl across the Gobi Desert on your hands and knees for her,                                      
you’d stick your hairy bollocks in a hive of killer bees for her,                                      
you’d share your bed for six months with, instead of her, a porcupine.                                      
But what she won’t explain to you is:                       she’s a Borderline.                                      
                                       
 The girl’s a raging, lava-breathing maze of dizzy delusion.                                      
For forty months she coughed up lithium in an institution.                                                     
A pale-hued Loch Ness harpy whose emotional pollution                    
surfaces in gushes, fanning ripples of confusion.                    
Petty quarrel number one. She issues threats of violence                                      
and then declares a lifelong policy of howling silence.                                      
Your every quest to reconcile rebounds against her retinue,                                      
she sends her gangly father and the boys in blue to threaten you,                                      
she tells her friends and colleagues to ignore your every email,                                      
that she is just an innocent, harassed and fragile female,    
so no-one speaks to you or listens to a word you’re bleeding    
or treats you like a living, yearning, showering human being.                                   
By now the world’s a pointless vacuum full of pointless vacuums.                      
Each day you ponder leaping from the heavens to the catacombs.                      
     
 She wouldn’t lay a nectarine on a chopping-board to save your life,                                      
she wouldn’t dye her hair or play a harpsichord to save your life                                      
or pull a sink-plug out or open up her eyes to save your life,                                      
admit that she did wrong or just apologise to save your life,                                      
but still you’d pull a million pints or pallets, or scrub rotten mud                                      
off an entire amphitheatre with a broken cotton bud                                      
so she could sit and spend each afternoon unclogging the messiest                                      
brainbox in North London with a world-class psychotherapist.                                      
People tell you, “Just get over it! Move on! Forget her!                                      
There’s plenty more eggs in the frying pan of spilt milk, etcetera etcetera!”                      
Except there’s not, since all around are moralists making a dire noise,                                      
who bore you deeper than a bishop bores a bunch of choirboys.                                      
Everywhere you look there struts a virtue-signalling tosser who’ll                                      
snap their throat to prove their opinions are the correctest ones possible,                                 
though every person that you meet has only two opinions:                                      
“I’m not racist” and “I am a beacon of ethical brilliance”.                                      
Some try to convince you that threats of domestic violence made by women                              
should never be taken seriously, no matter how big or how brimming                                      
with psychotic rage a girl is, while threats of retaliation                                      
made in self-defence by men are a vile abomination                                      
(so it’s your fault the relationship ended, you’re the one who destroyed it                              
and you should apologise to her and flush your pride down the toilet).                              
       
 With sledgehammers of decency, these liberal usual suspects        
pound your heart to pulp and smash your gasping mind to dust-specks,        
with daggers of integrity and swords of glowing virtue,     
they stab you in the stomach with a smile as they besmirch you.                              
             
 But liberals are so good, so right, so modern and so clever!                
By God, they’re so much cleverer, more modern, righter, better.                
So fair and open-minded. Their moralities are premium.                
What worthless, low-down pond life one must be to disagree with them,                
to disagree that children’s corpses littered round a concert hall                
by a creed that kills for sport, that wants its virgins, wants it all,                
is just the price we have to pay (and golly, isn’t it worth it?)                
to have our wonderful, diverse, free, open, vibrant surfeit                
of multicultural loveliness, is worth it so a Western                
progressive bourgeoisie that never asks or answers questions                
can flaunt its orthodoxy at a tofu dinner party                
to all its friends in the honky-hating bourgeois wankerati,                
a herd of classist, oikophobic, veritaphobic robots                
shrugging off ten thousand Islamists with treasonous so-whats,                
a flock of preening, poison-spitting narcissists who tell you                
it’s noble to get on your knees and grovel, in a deluge                
of intellectual flatulence declaring it a felony                
to stand up for yourself, your folk, your tribe’s collective memory,                
demanding you feel guilt for having self-respect and dignity,                
for being a work of nature, being a man with masculinity.                
               
 You hear the gang of judges sizzling in their vapid power.                
Without a map, your bumpy way gets bumpier by the hour.                
The mob are weaving forth, they’re loading all their shrieking howitzers,                
they sermonise and slander you into a den of counsellors,                
they catapult their boulders of debilitating dogma                
and batter down your barricade. You gallop to a doctor.                
Who else is there? Your father’s shuffled through this sieve of fishiness.                
Was he a father ever? Or just half a sexual synthesis?                
               
 Your soul now crushed and sunken from these evermore-diffusing                
“I’m better than you” beta-males and gamma-females oozing                
from every nook and lecture-hall across the sterile promontory                
regurgitating all their shining spoonfed social commentary,                
crushed and sunken from society’s “creative people”                
possessing the imagination of a blind dung-beetle,                
you drift and drift away from this macchiato-stirring virus                
and shove a different quintessential dust into your sinus.                
               
 You can only face the world through the kaleidoscopic prism                
of ketamine, the only thing that beats a constant rhythm,                
the only method of forgiving those who cannot fathom                
an alienated misfit staring down into a chasm.                
Ravers’ smack, horse candy, donkey wonkifier, ketamine,                
portal through the universe you couldn’t squeeze an atom in,                
escape route from the crudely-painted three-dimensioned backdrop,                
God reflected in a mirror on which joy is racked up,                
powdered Buddhism, pineal threshold, magic lever,                
majestic psychonautic voyage through the throbbing ether,                
heaven in a frying pan, subverted pony valium,                
white fun, snuff plus, revivifying interstellar galleon,                
gurgling cruising goggle-eyed quick cure for kicking hungers,                
extra-human gangway, golden key to the humungous,                
lines of pleasure, psychic sherbet, nasal exorcism,                
centuries-secret treasure, transdimensional incision,                
Special K, emotional morphine, sniffable Nirvana,                
unicorn food, Zen-dust, paraphysical gymkhana,                
repositioner of time and space, the mind, the ego.                
Ketamine.                                                       Still just a placebo.                
There’s nothing more you want to say or hear. Now you’ve detached yourself.                
All you want to do is roll a banknote and dispatch yourself                
into a different universe from all of mankind’s trivia,                
snorting, snorting, as opinions all around get sniffier.                
Those banknotes though, are running out. They cannot reproduce themselves                
and bosses, colleagues, customers, they all can go and screw themselves.                
               
 Every job that anybody anywhere does ever                
is a dreary sack of ostrich mucus. Jobs just slither                
from your apathetic grasp like remoulade-smeared lizards.                
Money – is this really how a human’s worth is measured?                
All you ever wanted was a ticket in the raffle                
of Love. Instead you sell your slumbering brain cells in a brothel.                
And now you have to stand in line and sign your name and wrestle                
with all the devils in the trenches of the antisocial.                
So how do you escape this life with such a colour-free hue?                
You run into the arms of mystic beatniks up a tree who                
throw their arms around the world from Zhangjiagang to Aachen.                
Is this how mould will be scraped off, how skies will cease to darken?                
You squeeze into a squatted Georgian townhouse that’s disfigured                
by scaffolding and dreadlocked spray-can-brandishing left-wingers.                
Among the filth you drift into your chalky-fingered coma.                
You’re thirty now, but deep inside, your age is getting lower.                
You move into a nursery school, where stars of tissue paper                
dangle from the ceiling. The fruits of childish labour.                
The ketamine your kite-high haircut-skipping new friends peddle                
flows like the ketchup on your cod and chips. You boil a kettle                
and fill a plastic bin with shower gel to stay hygienic.                
And like some sort of Allen key and flashlight-wielding relic                
of when mankind stalked woolly mammoths through the prehistoric                
bogs of Doggerland, you creep through Bristol’s dark, prosaic                
supermarket car parks, cracking dustbins open, searching                
for pasta, trifle, sandwiches and maybe some tinned sturgeon                
to feed your tribe. At this point a cluster of middle-class Feminists floats up                
and tells you that you’re “privileged”.                
               
               
                                                                       A flock of sluts that soaks up                
the Tuscan sunshine. Lazy whores with tongues as sharp as grapefruit                
who think they’re on the brink of some great intellectual breakthrough,                
whose daddies paid their student fees and finance their addictions                
to leather bags and high-heeled shoes of myriad descriptions,                
whose lovers shower them with all they see in glistening adverts,                
who sit and quaff champagne until the seventh or the eighth hurts                
their coiffured heads, inform you that – unlike them – you are “privileged”                
because you have a penis.                
               
               
                                                         Even though this life is double-edged                
and in our brave postmodern world, all ideological spew aside,                
more homelessness, more pressure to succeed in life, more suicide,                
more workplace death, worse prison sentences, less child custody,                
these are the male “privileges”. From Mercia to Muscovy                
discrimination is against the law, and yet (how funny)                
companies hire men to do the same job for more money!                
               
 But even though the rights of both the genders are identical,                
you can’t escape the Feminist behemoth’s clammy tentacles                
demanding men apologise and beg and fawn and snivel                
and hack their shrunken testicles off with a rusty chisel.                
You can’t say ‘bitch’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘whore’. No, that’s misogynistic,                
insist these bitches, cunts and whores. But, oh – in case you missed it,                
it’s still alright for women to say ‘tosser’, ‘prick’ and ‘wanker’,                
it’s still acceptable for girls to snap and swipe in anger                
and laugh at a man’s penis with a crooked little finger,                
but men must show respect for women’s looks. These gifted thinkers                
inform you that all masculine behaviour is now “toxic”,                
so close your legs! Sit down to piss! Adhere to shrewish logic!                
Just shut your mouth! Don’t be a man! Be much more like a female!                
That’s what they order you to do. But here’s an unsaid detail,                
a loophole in the small print: women still possess the freedom                
to suck the cocks of men who do not care about or need them,                
of rippling-muscled chauvinists who’ll trap their hearts in sick pain,                
as women can have sex with who they want, you sexist dick-brain.                
               
 Another loophole: none of this applies to brown or black men.                
All misogynists are white.                
               
                                                                 Your ancestry goes back ten                
or more millennia in Europe, homeland of the white race.                
The fact that other people with a vaguely similar-typed face                
to yours possess more power in society than those who’ve                
been landing here for sixty years in fluctuating flows proves                
you’re privileged, and you should be deprived of your nationality,                
ashamed of who and what you are, with all of its depravity!                
For all white males are privileged oppressors, shriek the Feminists.                
Your Celtic heart, which through the years has passionately reminisced                
about King Arthur (Caradog and Boudicca both crammed in too),                
your Celtic blood, passed down from those who fled potato famines, who                
had begged and starved in Irish fields, now suitably affronted                
by a swamp of hairy-armpitted, intellectually stunted,                
nature-twisting, self-obsessed, unfuckable middle-class ratbags,                
Orwellian cowshit-screeching filth, degenerate privileged fat slags                
with fat gobs full of Arab-spunk, how else can you react to this?                
What would be your calmly thought-out, reasonable analysis?                
               
 Imagine this scenario. That this was your life story.                
How d’you think you’d feel about the panting, squirting orgy                
of moral masturbation that erupts around you daily?                
About these Feminists and all their eunuch friends who gaily                
prance across the stage while warbling doctrine from their rectums.                
How d’you think you’d feel about these folk? Would you respect them?                
Or would you yearn to slash them into slices with a gimlet                
and melt them into one vast herdcrap-flavoured Spanish omelette                
or lampshades, bars of soap, perhaps a set of scented candles                
shaped like huge vaginas? Well, these culture-stabbing vandals                
have brought us all here with their brains the size of hedgehogs’ foreskins,                
squealing “Sexist scum! Islamophobe!” at Richard Dawkins.                
With David Icke it’s “Crackpot!”, Tommy Robinson it’s “Racist!”,                
Marine Le Pen it’s “Far right!”, Julian Assange it’s “Rapist!”                
because it’s easier to vomit empty words and slogans                
and jump on all the government-sponsored, corporate-fed bandwagons                
than listen to what someone has to say. Oh yes, it’s easier                
to think what you’ve been told to think in blindness and amnesia,    
and if you don’t, there must be something wrong with you, you weirdo,    
you racist sexist knuckle-dragger. Be like Emperor Nero    
and watch the game show or the football. Pour yourself a new drink.    
Don’t doubt the doublepluswoke blackwhite open-borders groupthink,    
the duckspeak-quacking, racethink-parroting illuminati    
all squawking, “Ban all whitepriv hatespeech! Ban the patriarchy!”    
Don’t think about the Mongols, the Mughals, the Arab Slave Trade.  
Just keep on bleating, “It’s all Whitey’s fault the world’s got waylaid!”  
Keep squabbling like toddlers over your chromosomes and your level of melanin,  
keep raging that teaspoons are racist and that your neighbour’s meringue has more lemon in.  
Don’t think about the nought point one per cent enslaving humanity,  
don’t think about the working classes trampled beneath your banality,  
don’t think about the devils in suits rewiring you into unaware,  
unthinking, dribbling robots as they rob you down to your underwear,  
just get down on your privileged knees, you cracker, and apologise  
for all those crimes you didn’t do and lands you didn’t colonise.  
Stay woke, stay fast asleep, you gullible self-righteous spastics,  
suck it up, swallow it with your processed fats and microplastics!  
Don’t fret about jihadists or society’s destruction    
in general. Don’t you worry now, about the introduction    
of vaccinations, gender reassignment for small children    
or censorship. In this new world we’re cooking in our cauldron,    
everything is normal. So don’t challenge the opinions    
of the bankers and the billionaires and their rainbow-vomiting minions,    
those drivelling government spanners who believe their revolution    
is a rebel’s cause and love the European Commission,            
or you’re a bigot like those shitty brainless proletarians,                
insist the left-wing intellectual authoritarians,                
just shut your mouth and watch TV. Or else.                
               
               
                                                                                        This moral leprosy                
is the final, trapdoor-opening, downfall-triggering treachery.                
Vienna is besieged. See the invaders and their weaponry.                
Imagine this scenario. I think you’d know your enemy.