Wednesday, 25 July 2012


Many of you may wonder what exactly Neoliberalism is, I mean, its not as if you can vote for it. Neoliberalism has no face, in fact it is a many headed beast, a hydra, some picture it's organization as super powerful giant green lizards who meet regularly in Radison hotels to lord it over kingdoms of wallys. So I'll draw you a picture:

There's a big crane in the street, and a team of jovial operatives in vans. It becomes clear this jolly troop are going to install quite a lot of things on our roof, in this case it's not a missile, I wouldn't really mind a missile, a nice pretty one could look impressive, it would be obvious, but it's actually more mobile phone rig allowing you to see better pictures of Katie Price enjoying an enema on your mobile phone. Celebrities are the bourgeoisie of Neoliberalism, it's oxygenated scum. 'Better pictures' the man in charge says, 'Do you want to help?' Of course, the money the mobile phone company pays to the council for use of block has never  been used for so much as a lick of paint on the actual structure of the thing.
On the back stair a couple of bedraggled scabby junkies descend, they have been living on a camp bed of piss and shit for four weeks under the rooftop. The council say they can't get rid of them because they are so busy with the Olympics. In fact nobody can be concerned with anybody currently because of the Olympics. 'We're busy with the Olympics' has become that giant euphemism for doing fuck all and saying fuck off (In fact they can't get rid of them because there is nothing to be done with them, they are officially labled as 'issues', and things officially labled 'issues' are things that nobody can do anything about, and that is one of the beauties of Neoliberalism).
The Olympics reminds me of the time when, in the midst of that colossal mass hysteria Lady Diana's funeral, a bloke in a Peckham pub said to nobody in particular -'All those old bill over there....what a day to rob a bank!'
You might phone all the council's agencies from the numbers inscribed on whole wedges of bright helpful 'We're here to help' postcards, delivered in the name of gaining 'stars' of credibility, but nobody will answer; the loony will still be screaming his version of the Koran all night long two doors down- he has issues, but his extended family are very well connected, but not so well connected as to actually look after him. The midnight chorus will still be the old East End refrain of 'You're a cunt!!! YOU'RE FUCKING WORTHLESS CUNT!!!! but now with the added hollering on crack pipes and whores as accessories while their children cry, yes literally cry, in the street.
Then the intercom rings, it's the jovial folks down below 'We need access to the roof!' Could be anybody. The estate manager pleads ignorance, but the guys down below have it under control, they have bodyguards to protect them from the junkies just in case. They say this has been organized months in advance.
And this computer program won't recognise Neoliberalism as even a word in spellcheck.

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