The Shock Doctrine

Is it just me, or are the politics of the Libyan situation given rather conspicuously different coverage from the Egyptian situation? The Egyptian stuff was 'peaceful' , but the Libyan one is not, and that is clearly giving the west more than pause for thought, in fact it's ready to send in the jets any moment now, is that because we do not know 'who' these particular liberating forces are? It is so obvious lots of duplicity is at work, lots of historical baggage, and loads of opportunity for western corporations to milk the the fucking place dry if they can find the right excuse.

Read 'The Shock Doctrine'.

Despair in the Trench

The Trench was particularly dispiriting today. It's pub on it's knee's, the old men who drink there on their knees. I began to develop a pain in the neck. If only they could be nicer about it, the old men I mean. For instance, an innocent family of tourists accidently came in with their bum bags and funny hats and European dispositions and even before they'd realized they'd made a BIG mistake walking into such a barn of misery the barmade had tried her best and failed to comprehend them and the old men had shouted at their little seven year old kid that 'if she got on the stage SHE HAD TO SING A SONG!' and if 'she went near the bar SHE HAD TO BUY A ROUND' and sadly the family had meekly tried to play along but I felt my heart sink to new lows. Sadly the old men, long lost in hilarious dialogue that might include such lines as 'I can speak Italian..... PIZZA!' saw the child's horror as deeply funny. So, let the place die, for to sustain it, you'd need a decent collection of old men to keep quiet have a good soak, for certain you don't want them taking charge; they tend to get nasty.

The problem is, there are no other pubs left that are not entirely populated by under twenty five year olds in 'new media' with their computers under the candles and ex-members of 'Big in Japan' playing on Saturday night.

So, it was home via the Old Maid Pharmacy. Now the Old Maid is run by an old gentleman who seems to cook up most of his own remedies. I'm contemplating asking him for something special for the afternoons.

Royal Mail.

Sometimes it's just rubbish, that's what this country is. It's amazing how rubbish it is, amazing to see the politicians squirm faced with their love of democracy and their love of selling tear gas (Arms, Drugs, Porn - you could add Fraud, our key new industries of course!) but even that is nothing compared to 'waiting for a package to be (re) delivered by the Royal fucking Mail'. You get the card through your letter box if you are lucky, you go online to arrange a new day and rearrange everything to sit there on the appointed day waiting in expectation. Of course nothing happens. You shlep down to the depot the next morning and they've sent the fucking thing back. I think the solution is very simple; much bigger letter boxes. You can't tell me this is beyond the wit of man, that and 'phone the customer to authenticate' that would help. Thousands, perhaps millions of man hours would be saved in waiting for the postman who never comes (but sales of Bukowski poetry to read while you're waiting would decrease). God it's depressing. Don't even try to contact Royal Mail customer services, they've given up long ago, and the website asks you to ask your question to a virtual smiling 'Sarah' who cuts you short just as you are about to describe just how fucking bla bla much you want to stuff the package up her virtual arse.

John Le Mesurier

Depressed with whatever it is and almost everything on TV, I turn to a biography of John Le Mesurier ('Do you Think That's Wise?' -good title- only thing good about it). Now how the author made this book a disappointment is beyond me. A man who marries first a hopelessly drunk socialite, then Hattie Jaques who not so much runs off with the chauffeur and moves him in and has John switching bedrooms (with John bringing them tea in bed) and then finally has his last wife run off with Tony Hancock when he was at his worst must be the tops of harrowing. That lot along with hanging out with Jeffrey Bernard in Soho and all the other reprobates I admired for their cat racing antics in my twenties, well it should be the most emotional of tales, but it is not, for it is written by a FILM BUFF. So is the one about Hattie Jaques (Julie says). I'll have to turn to other biographies, or preferably, autobiographies to help me escape from Master Chef Down Under, I think Casanova's- ten fucking volumes ladies and gentlemen, might be a good one.

Back in pajamas at least..

So, I am back in pajamas at least, and out of the nightmares of fever. The air is fresh once again, you wash the sweat off with fine soaps of laurel and you put off checking your e-mail for a bit longer, and I won't plug in the mobile phone. I love Bukowski's maxim to 'draw the blinds, stuff the door bell with rags, and put the phone in the refrigerator'. You can hardly do it now with so much communication, it almost takes guts to do it, it is almost a revolutionary act.

So with a clear head and some whisky left I settle down to Alain Badiou's The Century. It will tell me where we are heading, it will explain where we've been, it will provide an intellectual road map. We all need a road map, we all need to get back to work after delirium.

Acquiesce

And then of course I collapsed, well not in a spectacular way, I just felt the need to go to bed before nine pm. The excitement of the sunshine, The Stones and the nostalgia was clearly too much for me, and my own mortality sent me peacefully into a raging temperature. 'Damn you!' a bit of me thought, 'Acquiesce' said another part. The second part won, it's a more useful word right now.

Nostalgia

I was trying to put together Friday's lecture to third year, but I put on The Stones 'Ladies and Gentlemen' ( Texas 1972) and I just started to dance. I couldn't help it, it's just that fucking fantastic. You see Keef playing (mostly to Charlie Watts) and the timing is immaculate, I don't care how much MERC it took, it is a very beautiful thing.

Maybe it was the sunshine today, but I got nostalgic. For some reason I'm just walking down the Shoreditch High St and I'm thinking back to well over a decade ago when I was in LA with Tim Pyne. We were kings of the world and everything at our feet, at least that's how it felt. We've even got it on camera - a vegetarian christian was press ganged into following our adventures throughout ( we thought it would make TV ). I smiled, remembering tumbling out of a Strip club in Las Vegas at 7 in the morning with a porn star and somebody who said he was Lawrence of Arabia's nephew, and many hotel room moments besides; stockings and blur. Tim came back green and went straight to a meeting of the Millenium Commission for the Dome. It was the best job I ever had. Back then, our architecture really was rock n roll.