Racist Media?

Racist Media?

On Thursday the sixteenth of august I went on my break in work and was disappointed to find I had forgotten to put a book in my bag and the only thing I could read was The Sun, I should have just left it alone but with nothing better to do I began to flick through the pages. I was only really looking at the headlines until I came across an article written by Rod Liddle with the headline “Salute MP Fighting Stone Age beliefs”. Obviously it drew my attention so I read the whole thing finding myself more appalled the further I got through it. Basically it was about Africans that practise Voodoo and abuse children, gleefully he tells “there have been 83 cases over the last 10 years and many could have been stopped but for the old bill treading a little to carefully, afraid they might offend some one.” He then chose to pick out cases that involved Africans or Pakistanis clearly showing that your little white children aren’t safe as long as they are on our shores. Apparently “all of these vile practises need to be stamped out and the Neanderthal beliefs challenged”.           
            After reading this I felt so dirty that I threw the paper in the bin in an attempt to save some poor soul I work with having the misfortune to read this or worse still believing it and have spent a little time since researching child abuse cases, trust me when I tell you there are much better ways to spend your time.      
         Seen as Liddle brought up Neanderthal beliefs I thought I would like to start with the Catholic Church, I know how original is it to call a priest a peado however it has to be done. In February of this year (2012)  a Senior Cardinal of the Catholic church revealed that in the past ten years 4,000, let me say it again 4,000 cases of child abuse committed by CATHOLIC PRIESTS have been investigated.    Cardinal Levada, who is head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, went on to describe the figure as a 'dramatic increase'. Yet nobody calls for Catholicism outlawed. However I don’t want to only talk about priest as that would be unfaier. Christian parents have been convicted for beating their own children to death with crucifixes, locked them in cages and starved them. If that isn’t enough what about Christian parents that warp their own kids minds, can you imagine growing up in a fundamentalist Christian household house hold if you were homosexual or worse still Atheist, how many people under that kind of pressure have grown up hating themselves or simply taken their own lives. Every one knows all this already  though,don’t they, even if it’s only relatively recently that these matters stopped being “taken care of” internally and the perpetrators made to pay for their sins rather than simply given a slap on the wrist and moved on to another trusting community. Just to be clear I am not just priest bashing here, does anybody need reminding about Ian Huntley, baby p, the murder of James Bulger, Fred West, Mary Bell… I can keep going if needs be but I really would rather stop. By Liddles his own words should these case not be considered an anomaly and all white people are “human filth” (just to be clear that quote wasn’t taken from the article I am writing about, it came from an article he wrote for his Spectator blog in 2009) and he continued with “The overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community. Of course, in return, we have rap music, goat curry and a far more vibrant and diverse understanding of cultures which were once alien to us. For which, many thanks”. An interesting side not on that quote is that thanks to a number of complaints Liddle became the first journalist to have the contents of his blog censured because he couldn’t back up his claim with statistics, shocking. Even if every word he said was true I believe that unless you are going to at least try and objectively explain the reasons behind this or solutions to the problem you are doing nothing more than inciting racial hatred, which I thought was a criminal offence according to the Incitement of Racial Hatred - Sections 17-29 Public Order Act 1986, which by the way carry the maximum penalty of seven years in prison, just a thought. How this story made t into a national newspaper is beyond me but it just tells you everything you need to know about the feelings of the editors that allowed this to be printed thinking it was a fair and unbiased piece of journalism. If you agree with Liddle that is your right but I urge you to read about the worlds history before you take the word of a BNP member as fact because whether you like it or not we are all the same and this type of thinking only holds the entire species back, so how about we sort our selves out and move forward to make every ones life better or maybe I’m wrong and you can go back to eating your curry while you moan incessantly about those damn immigrants taking over “your” country. Child abuse is just wrong no matter who's doing the abusing and to turn it into a racial issue is just illogical, offensive and dangerous and I would rather not read the opinions of sombody that has proved themselves to be a bigot time and again, save it for your BNP meetings Liddle.

Carlos

Bit of Fan fiction today, Robert Ludlums The Jackal as i see him

A man walks down the dark street towards a pay phone that sits under the only street light left that still shines. The only sounds are the distant humming of cars and glass crunching under his footsteps. in front and either side of him warehouses rise up into the night throwing tremendous shadows over everything making it look like a scene out of The Big Sleep. The man looks around as he approaches the phone, taking on an orange glow under the halogen light. The phone rings piercing the silence with its shrill tone and the man picks up the handset but doesn’t speak. For a moment there is silence on the line, it starts quietly just a little chuckle that quickly rises to a menacing deep laugh. The man spins around visibly anxious and as he does he feels a sharp pain just above his knee. Before he even has time to look down at the source of the pain another hits on his other leg and he drops to the floor, helpless. He makes no sound though even as the pain grows to an agony he couldn’t have imagined. Footsteps crunching on glass draw his attention and his hand goes to his waist to pull out a berretta m1951 how ever as he raises the gun a flash comes from the shadows down the street momentarily revealing a tall figure striding toward him. The flash was a result of the bullet that slammed into his hand sending the gun flying from his grip signalling the end for him, all he could do now was wait. It didn’t take long as his killer was already striding purposefully out of the shadows towards him.

“Who are you” the victim spat through a grimace of pain

“Another professional” he replied coldly. Nothing in his face said any emotion was being felt there was just sheer indifference.

“Who…who hired you,” the soon to be dead man demanded. The killer let out that low pitched laugh before he answered,

“ Nobody hired me” he said with a cruel smirk,

“then why, why take the risk,” anger in his voice now, if some body had paid for this he could understand it, it may even be fitting as well as ironic,

“you should be pleased you even made my list, you made it by being good at what you do… sorry did, you were good however I am better, the best and soon the whole world will know Carlos. Tonight the year of the Jackal begins.” the assassin enjoyed this moment, that wicked smile grew bigger and he raised a type 64 silenced pistol for the kill shot.

“The jackal is dead, he was killed years ago, you are an impostor and the jackal is just a myth” those were his last words as, with less noise than a loud cough, the final shot was taken. A shot directly in the centre of the throat. The Jackal bent down and retrieved a switch blade from his belt lifted his head as the man gave his last few breaths and removed the bullet that had become lodged in the pavement. This man was fading quickly now but before he could escape into death the Jackal stared into his eyes, watching the life drain away, and shouted

“The Jackal is NO myth but soon he will become a LEGEND

The Bridge

Prologue

2015

Half the city turned out that day to watch the Mayor close the bridge officially. People from both sides stood at the foot of giant steel gates that minutes later would shut signalling an end to free movement in the city. On his platform in the centre of the bridge the Mayor was finishing his speech about how the city would run more efficiently and that the gates would benefit everyone. A lot of people believed him, especially if you lived on the east side. There was a lot of happy faces that day and the TV cameras filled their lenses with these grinning idiots all afternoon whilst completely ignoring the looks of concern that were equally on show.
               At the end of his speech the Mayor strode back to the East side along with his cronies. Only one man stopped to look back at the crowds of people that were one by one disappearing from view as the barriers closed. Councilman Drake was the only person to watch the gates slam shut and as the last faces he would ever see from the East vanished he mouthed the words I’m sorry. He was unaware that his now ex wife and unborn child were watching him leave forever from what used to be their home. With a tear in her eye she touched his figure on the glass wanting just once more to touch his cheek but he was gone and there was nothing that could bring him back now.

Even before the gates we being built plans were being formed about what would come next. The politicians were content to play the long game, year by year decreasing the budget for the west side until it became nothing more than a source of cheap labour. Others had a much quicker scheme that would allow them to seize control of the city through brute force and fear.
How had it come to this? Money as ever plays its part. Even then there was a divide in the city, not a wall built between two sections but a gap in wealth and as this gap grew steadily bigger so too did the crime rate. At first almost all of the crime stayed in the west side of town, not surprising as that was where the poorest people tended to live because house prices on the east side were irresponsibly high forcing anyone who didn’t earn fifty thousand a year to live on the West side. Crime on the West side was fine, to be expected from people that couldn’t get real jobs or put drugs before their families. It was only when the muggings and beatings began taking place on the East side that anybody with the power to do anything took notice. The final straw came when the sixteen year old daughter of a councilman was mugged beaten and raped. People from both sides of the city came together, all united in their horror at this appalling crime and eventually the vicious criminal was brought to justice when one of the many honest citizens of the West side gave evidence, only that is not how the story was reported. The men of influence made it clear that the people of the West side were responsible for all the crime in the city and had to be stopped. In a perpetual state of shock and fear the doctors and teachers swallowed all they were told and begged for an answer. It came in the form of the young and ambitious Councilman Drake with a revolutionary new idea. The rest, as they say, is history.

How Does This Make You Feel

Ok this is a dream sequence i'm thinking of using to open a story but i would like some opinions on:
A) should you start a story with a dream sequence, and
B) does it make you want to continue reading because lets face it if it doesn't it would be a pretty shit start to a story.
Anyway I loved writing this because you can do what ever you want ina dream so you can create some really cool and sureal stuff, enough babbling from me, read it and advise please, i'm talking to you Hay, i'm sure your the only one who reads this shit haha.


“A sterile room with bright white walls that make you wince if you look at them for to long. It could only be a hospital waiting room but what kind of hospital and what exactly was wrong with me, I feel fine so I must be there for some one else. I look around the room as I wait. The entrance is at my back, two thick double doors shut tight, I want to get up and check they are unlocked but I resist the impulse. At the other end of the room there are another set of double doors but these are swing doors with circular windows cut out in top. To the right of the door the wall is lined with grey filing cabinets right up to the corner of the room. Just in front of the filing cabinets was an unoccupied desk that was immaculate, not so much as a pen was out of place but yet on the corner of the desk something broke the order. One of those tacky dancing flowers, the type that sings when some body claps, the petals were a bright red that stood out against the plain room it inhabited as if it were the last rebellion of a beaten soul. I find myself staring into the colours, not at the flower but actually into the colours. Somehow they surround me until all I can see was that deep red. Still it goes deeper, boring into my very core almost as if I am absorbing the colour itself. Things seem almost clearer now; I see everything as an absolute truth for the first time. I see things, visions that come from inside me out of the colour figures evolve. My wife smiles at me radiantly, her once auburn hair now shines like a ruby with such colour it seems impossible, her soft skin that once was deliciously creamy now took on the colour of blood. The crimson figure morphs, slowly changing before my eyes and some of the colour melts away to nowhere to reveal a shorter figure. I feel as though I am about to make a realisation, a moment of clarity hidden in a moment of madness. Its almost there, I can feel the truth as it approaches. I want it to find me but before it can the colour fades lighter and lighter until I’m back in the same white room only this time I’m not alone. In front of me a man in a white lab coat is staring at me in silence. I look up into his eyes and I see nothing living. Soulless eyes stare blankly back at me without blinking and the head rotates stiffly towards the double doors on the back wall. I stand up unable to stop my self, in fact I make a conscious effort to sit back down but an unseen force props me up and my legs mechanically guide me to the doors. The closer I get to the doors the more uneasy I become; I have a definite sense of dread about what I will be awaiting me. When I’m almost within reaching distance the doors swing open with a creak and a long hallway stretches out before me. My legs keep going as if I’m being sucked in. Once I am inside the hallway I hear the doors crash shut behind me and without pausing for a moment I continue on. It’s as sterilized in here as it was in the waiting room. Just as this becomes a thought in my head colours spring up on the walls. Pictures push there way out of the walls. All the way down the hall they appear as I walk past and all of them are stills taken from my life. My parents are in one, stood outside my boyhood home, in another I’m a boy in team photo from my old football squad. The first time I saw my wife, our wedding day and the birth of my son are all there for me to relive. I’m studying these pictures so intently as I pass them by that I don’t notice the end of the hallway approaching fast, bringing me to another set of doors. These doors however aren’t white; they are made out of a picture of my son walking on the other side of a road. He’s wearing his football kit sodden with mud and clutching a medal in his little hands. I stop abruptly and excruciatingly slowly a black line appears down the middle of the photograph as the doors creep open. Then just like that I am awake in my bed and soaked in sweat.”
“Hmmm, now how do these dreams make you feel?”

God Giggles

The trip had been planned for years, I would travel all over Europe for as long as it took. Five years of working in a job I hate was about to pay off and the excitement I felt was immeasurable. Pressure had been building for years and this was to be my release valve, what I had worked so hard for. So as I sat in the front seat of my car I was surprised that I was filled with a sense of dread. I had expected some trepidation but this was something else entirely. Some how I knew that something bad was going to happen on this trip. The goodbyes were said to family and the few friends I had left with unbelievable ease, I had prepared myself for difficulty in saying goodbye but there was none. While I had worked so hard to achieve this dream I had neglected the relationships I had, the people that still held faith in me would often tell me I was cold and cynical but I corrected them with one word : driven. So focused was I in succeeding that everything else fell by the way side, even so as I pulled off I had no feeling of regret, who needs people when you were constantly moving, seeing new things. I looked back one last time at the four people left in the world that still cared about me and then I was flying. Not on a plane but through my windscreen, another car coming the opposite way had lost control and struck me from the front, they would say I was dead from the moment my head smashed into the windscreen and shattered my skull but I wasn’t, i, i had just enough to time to find the regret i had misplaced, with such clarity that only imminent death can bring i saw how wrong i had been and i saw just how small my funeral was going to be, those four upside down people running towards me would be the only ones. even realising all this my final thought was still selfish, "fucking typical, if you want to make god laugh make plans"  and just like that I was hitting the floor, bouncing once, coming to rest lifeless in a mangled heap. My passport lay next to me. 

Keep Your Head In The Clouds

Atop the mountain I finally achieved true and complete peace. Up there amongst the clouds my very soul was lifted, as if at that great height it had been released to flow with the wind that rushed all around me. Looking down upon the land that encircled me I couldn’t help but realise how small and insignificant I am. Some people may look upon this idea with disdain but I find it wonderfully liberating, there can be no success or failure on the part of insignifcance, we can just sit back and take pleasure in creating the things we love. To think that this very mountain side was here long before I arrived on this earth and shall remain long after I depart  is a comforting thought, our lives are fleeting but real beauty is immortal.
           That this panoramic view and isolation should be only a few short hours away from every day stresses and strife’s is an immeasurable blessing that I had taken for granted up untill that point. For this is escapism in its purest form, to rise above the world and for the briefest of moments look down as an objective observer is a gift we should all recieve.
 My mind wandered as I looked out into the clouds, wonderful thoughts of a nomadic existence where sights such as the one before me were not a rarity, no; on the contrary they are just another step in your life’s journey. I felt like this is where we belonged. A quixotic view I'm sure but no less fantastic for it.  The rites of passage of tribesmen sent out as boys to hunt and return a man don’t seem so strange and antiquated when you’re out in the wilderness, here it almost seems like a better way to live.

                At first the idea of climbing a mountain seemed pointless to me, why walk up a big hill to walk back down again? Once i was there however there were more reasons to make the trip than I could ever have imagined. Every step I took on my way to the summit was, in all honesty, against my very nature but to be thrust out of my comfort zone was as rewarding as it was exhilerating. Simply to flee the constant torment of the city with its crowds and mephitic air, even for that short time, was a welcome break. A cleansing experience almost for mind, body and soul. Being alone with such an expanse of land all around you seems to free your mind from the trivial thoughts that are a product of modern life and it is remarkably refreshing, as if I had dived into the icy water of the lake that sits at this mountains feet. Like some ancient spirit walk, you can find yourself in a place like this, I mean really delve into your mind and discover things that you were not conscious of before.
After near death experiences people change their lives, for better or worse the experience effects them, I didn’t have a near death experience I had a near life experience. Not since I was a child had I felt so alive, my teenage years were spent doing teenage things, mostly drugs, and I’d forgotten what it meant to be alive. Life had beaten me into submission and I accepted my depressing fate, to spend my days working a job I had no passion for, holding on to my weekends because they were mine when in fact everyday was mine, I don’t have to be a slave shackled down by my own defeatism. If I can climb a mountain what else am I capable of.
Of course this new found enthusiasm for life is difficult to hang on to and after a week back in the real world of work it has dwindled. It was in my mind numbingly menial job that it occurred to me though, the connection between me as a child and the me on the mountain. Hope. As a child we have hope, I knew (I mean it was a certainty) that if I worked hard I could walk out of the tunnel at Old Trafford or write a bestselling book, it is only later in life do we realise that talent and luck also play a huge role in success. That day on the mountain I regressed back to that romantic time where dreams really could come true and I was happier for it.
 A great writer once wrote that hope springs eternal, I had dared not hope for to long, so while the exciting energy I felt that day may have dwindled my hope shall not because without hope we turn to despair and I have had enough of despair.

The City

I found this poem the other day, i've never been into poetry so i was surprised by how much i like it, so much so i thought i'd share it, so here it is my new found faveorite poem

The City
You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this.
Every effort of mine is condemned by fate;
and my heart is -- like a corpse -- buried.
How long in this wasteland will my mind remain.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see the black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted."

New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
in these same houses you will grow gray.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land -- do not hope --
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have ruined your life here
in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1910)