Showing posts with label KLF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label KLF. Show all posts

Sunday, 9 October 2016

992



"In the year of our lord 992, The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu set sail in their longboats on a voyage to rediscover the lost continent. 

After many months on perilous stormy seas, their search was fruitless.

Just when all seemed lost they discovered...

America!" 

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

North Of Heaven


"If y'want the position o' God, then tek t'responsibilty."

Stephen Baxter

"LOTS of planets have a North..!"

Only in the North, and in Northern people and in Northern Hearts have I ever encountered have I ever encountered actual Englishness, the much-vaunted, much-lauded "British Values", loyalty and quiet pride, modesty, warm humour and wit, genuineness, radicalism and agitation, GOTH, a sense of self, place and nation, bravery, stoicism and cheek.

They are our best and only tribe of unrepentant patriots - but their loyalty, always is only to The Nation, and it's People, and to the story of this land.

Not to The Court.

Not to the usurped and tainted Crown or its office-holders, Mistresses and Favourites, Viscountesses, false-pretending Pomp and Circumstance 

Not to the Privy Councillors and Toilet-Room Toadies in WestMinster

Not to The City, it's Banks and Guilds and Corporation or Toxic (Human) Assets.

And not to the bloody BBC LicenseFree Enforcement and Revenue Recovery Unit - Jog on, pal.






It's Grim Up North
by The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu


Bolton,
Barnsley,
Nelson,
Colne,
Burnley
Bradford,
Buxton,
Crewe,
Warrington,
Widnes,
Wigan,
Leeds,
Northwich,
Nantwich,
Knutsford,
Hull,
Sale,
Salford,
Southport,
Leigh,
Derby,
Kearsley
Keighley
Maghull,
Harrogate,
Huddersfield,
Oldham, Lancs,
Grimsby,
Glossop,
Hebden Bridge,

It's Grim Up North,
It's Grim Up North.

Brighouse,
Bootle,
Featherstone,
Speke,
Runcorn,
Rotherham,
Rochdale,
Barrow,
Morecambe,
Macclesfield,
Lytham St. Annes
Clitheroe,
Cleethorpes,
The M62,

It's Grim Up North,
It's Grim Up North.

Pendlebury,
Prestwich,
Preston,
York,
Skipton,
Scunthorpe,
Scarborough-on-Sea,
Chester,
Chorley,
Cheedle Hulme,
Ormskirk,
Accrington Stanley,
and Leigh,
Ossett,
Otley,
Ikley Moor,
Sheffield,
Manchester,
Castleford,
Skem,
Doncaster,
Dewsbury,
Hali-fax,
Bingley,
Bramall,
Are all in the North.

EARTH + AIR + FIRE + WATER

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy lamb of god
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem built here
Amongst these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spear, o clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built :

JERUSALEM

In England's green and pleasant land.


THE NORTH SHALL RISE AGAIN

Thursday, 23 June 2016

The New 1945


"You Lot...? Really?
You Lot...? 

Cheeky bastards...."

The Organising Committee of the 
Popular Front to Build for The New 1945 needs your help, and we're up against the clock on this one.

I get pessimism and despair. 
I do.

Meaning that I can dig them - by which I mean that in the sense in which I "get" them, I recognise and appreciate them for what they are, meaning that I understand their nature and their role  , as well as utility - as opposed to the "I often experience them" sense of getting them. 

Or at least, with less and less frequency I have found at any rate, at least of late - long may it continue, God Wi77ing.

I have known, and I know depression, imimately. 

Biblically, you might say. 

She remains with me in all places and times as an old and constant friend with rare and highly dubious, yet undeniable benefits. 

And she's always there, just out of sight, lying in wait to pounce right on top of my head and try with all her strength to f**k me as mercilessly as she can, regular as clockwork, as soon as I sense complacency or contendedness looming, as soon as she senses a gap or a breech in my vilgiance opening or the minute she   calculates that my guard has begun to sag or started to slacken down.

But we all each have our demons and she just happens to be mine - in the Chymical Wedding that occupies what I suppose must pass for my brain, we're joined at the hip and stuck with one another now, no matter how much we might tear at one another and try to wage unholy war for momentary, transient domination and subjugation of the other, neither one of us is going  to get anywhere, so much as a single step away on our own against the wishes, will and consent of the other. Til Death Us Do Part. 

It's after all isn't her fault, after all, not really. 

She can't help being what she is any more than I can choose to be what I am, within a certain bandwidth of degrees of freedom of choice, at least for the time being, and I realise now, my future options and odds-on likely best hope to achieve my next Level-Up are just a complete non-starter, ball-breaking deal-breaker unless I can ensure her complete cooperation, take a firm grasp on my Depression, break it to my will and keep it on a tight leash - which turns out to be very fortuitous that I was able to achieve this milestone of self-discovery in order to reach this key resolution as firmly and concretely as I have, given the fact that she's actually really into all of that, as luck would have it... The filthy, witchy little wenchy whoremongering slut of a hell spawned succubus that she is - I don't see why that should even have come as a surprise. Not that it did, as in fact turned out.

So I live with depression every waking minute of my day, and for as long as I can remember, and will until the day that I die, and probably even after beyond that - she'll try her damnedest (literally) to drag me back down to Hell with her and lie for all enternity caught locked in her excruciating embrace,  lost an entangled forever in her arms and by her legs where she is free to inflict upon me never-ending pain and spiritual torment and agony, as she tortures me so exquistly, like a small boy savouring the pure thrill and relish of the experience of power of slowly pulling each of the legs off of a captured and terrified spider, stretched out over the course of an æon. 

If instead, I succeed instead in dragging her up behind with me by a collar or her hair only so far Up as even one of Mormon Heavens, it'll have some sense of victory at least, or so it seems like, on days when I feel as though I'm tiring. Like today, actually. 

I can't lie to you and pretend that Mormon heaven wouldn't be a disappointing achievement, should I end up making it there, but consider all the extra weight I'm carrying here on the journey, not to mention the endless setbacks, complications and distractions that have to be dealt with in turn, as the arise (and they will) en route along the way.

All of which also applies with reference to Degree, Mum and Dad, by the way, if you somehow are reading this right now - I know how it sounded, and I realise that it wasn't quite what you had expected of me (admittedly, to be fair, not that you had actually, y'know, TOLD me what you had expected of me, either at or, - ideally - y'know, sufficiently and generously ahead of such time as I might have been  still able to actually, y'know do something about it, but never mind), but I forgive you.

A 2:2 is what it is and I Yam What I Yam, and knowing that and those things and all the rest , I know that I did well.

Michelle from Eastenders got a Third.

And she wasn't dragging a malevolent daemon halfway up her hill as she went, she just shagged Dirty Den and had his iligitimate teenage love-child... In which case, actually, I retract that last critical completely.

A Christian Demon may be a Djinn or malevolent spirit, or a fallen and disembodied Angel sworn to plague men's souls in service to Lucifer or The Enemy, but a Greek or Hellenistic Dæmon is guardian animal, some supernatural beast or monster brought forth into The Flesh, as a created creature of the Olympian gods to protect and keep safe some great horde of treasure, some secret roadway or path, or some equally precious and valuable thing, as like the gorgon Medusa and her two sisters, the Gryphons and millions-strong swarms of wingèd serpents of Scythia that guard the Crimean Tree at the End of the World from which hung the Golden Fleece of the epic ode of Jason and the Argonauts, the Giant Ants of India that dig up Gold dust out of the sands of the earth, or the man-eating Thracian Sphinx of the tragedies of Oedipus Rex, the she-monster lying in wait by the side of the road, waiting to devour any who failed to answer her cryptic riddle and supply her with the correct passwords. 

I didn't understand it then, but now I do - my depression is a part of me, a part of who I am. 

It is me - an equal and opposite aspect of me gone mad, created to protect me, to keep me safe, mindless, savage, pure instinct, a legendary, deathly dark black, monstrous vision of me and all that I am, that I made up somewhere, some time, for some reason a lifetime or maybe more ago, like some kind of psychic Doomsday Device to marshall all of my strength and will and courage and rage to fight myself free from some place and time and situation where there seemed as though there was absolutely no last shred of hope left, as I was being backed down into a corner, checkmated in every direction, with no room to manuvere, no end in sight, no other way out, no options open and no help on the way and no cards left to me to play.

Probably, I assume, or I am guessing, that at or before (I must have been) around the age of six (back when I was still counting birthdays [ like that matters ]), I can only conclude, having given it much thought and rumination in order seek out, hunt, stalk and chase down  each of the clues that have led me to reconstruct this particular Truth, that reveals to me the Origin Story of my Dark Heart and the Blackness that encircles the very centre of my soul......

[I'm] a walking study,
In Dæmonologie...



If we can survive 5 years under Winston Churchill's 1-Party State during the Blitz, Wartime Austerity, a Police State and Rationing, I am prepared to suffer through a similar fate to  bring on the new 1945 and the next NHS.

Britons Can Take It.



You've just named the core leadership of Churchill's Cabinet in the One Party State of 1940-45.

Clement Attlee led the Churchillian Coup of May 1940 as the ranking member of New Welcome Lodge No. 5139, created at the behest of the Head of British Masonry at that time, the Nazi Prince of Wales.


As for Nye Bevan - as for how he was able to get the Doctors, GPs and crucially, the British Medical Association on-side and on-message and on-board with the NHS in the first place : "I stuffed their mouths with Gold."

He paid them off.


The BMA is also, as one would obviously imagine for such a ruling class institution, somewhat Masonic...


Don't misunderstand me - training, studying and qualifying as a junior doctor is expensive, lengthy, stressful and incredibly hard work.

But there is a galaxy of difference between the labour intensity, over-work and burden of professional responsibility a junior doctor on a ward working overtime, understaffed back-to-back irregular shift patterns in A&E, a surgeon or specialist and a General Practitioner with a cosy private county practice.

They basically get £100-150,000 a year from the State to essentially perform the same tasks as a skilled administrator, perform triage, risk assessment and make referrals and pastoral care. 

Because of the way it was negotiated in 1947, in a such a damned, chaotic, heist-like rush.

That was such a worthy caper, the Lavender Hill Mob would have been proud to have pulled it off.

GPs essentially have picked up much of the slack left behind by taking on the major aspects of the functions formerly provided and carried out by the parish vicar prior to 1940.

And vicars generally don't cost the public purse £150 grand a year (plus final salary pension).

Junior Doctors and front line emergency staff (which mean NURSES AND AMBULANCE DRIVERS, too) ought to earn A LOT MORE.

But the money has never been there for anything other than below poverty-level wages, training or recruitment because the General Practioners TAKE so much and contribute so much LESS.

All this furore over The Tory Government vs. The Junior Doctors is nothing but The Pledge towards The Prestige, when that was never the issue - The Turn has always pivoted around question of the real battle it has always been between The General Practioners and the Nurses et al. over All The Money as to who gets to keep the heat on and eat meals that come in tins vs. who gets to grow laconically rich and upwardly mobile, socially.

That's why we need a NEW 1945.

Better than the last one, better prepared (we've got the next 5 years to get it right), coolly calculated rather than patched and cobbled together out of desperation and pieces of old sticky-tape and string, free from all of the dangerous compromises embedded, deep-rooted within the core foundations of the first one.

The Wise learn by studying the mistakes and errors of others.

Don Corleone's patròn swore "I believe in America".

Sod that for a lark - why not try believing in yourself, your friends and neighbours and going out to try and inspire them to feats of grandeur?

So how about we all just agree between ourselves to say that we each affirm that I believe in you, you can have confidence in me, so roll up yer sleeves y'great jessie, ye, and come on and let's all get stuck in, lad.

There's work as needs doin'.


"This time, there'll be a THIRD Covenant - and it's going to be written by each and every one of you.


Really....? You Lot....?

Yeah. 
You Lot.