The Unwanted Schema of No Peace in the Park

Phones have been harranged, Washington DC shrank in the washington machine, The Quaner Experiments completed and vague details extracted.

The days happenings should proceed in a zig zag manner like this:

Enter Norfolk Park at about 12 on the Granville Road  look for the Blue erect lamppost

Turn right at the Ian Bench with the sport concrete cage in sight to find:

At about 12.08 Happening 1: Election Debrief: Does the Corbyn train still have any wheels?

Then a brief waddle to the other grass adjacent the café to see

At about 1.07 Happening 2: The uses of the unconscious: The Surrealists and their detractors

Then at  a about 2.13 Happening 3: Thoughts on the crisis of migration.

up the incline to the robotic wars memorial arch way

where the PB state funded picnic will be revealed in it’s haphazard glory to accompany

At about 3..09 Happening 4: Ruminations on CLR James.

A Tumble to the Lustful deer quarter for

At about 4.26 Happening 5: In the 100th Anniversary year of the Marriage between the Russian Revolution and History. What does the Class need Organisation or Spontaneity?

A final twist to the Occult cubby hole for

At about 5.23 Happening 6: In hope of a bust up on the question of Derek Bailey, Jazz and the Working Class

Decant to the Rutland Arms on the Paternoster for Happening 7 at about 7.59: AMM ALL STARS  will dissolve our energies in to conjoining moments of improvised music.

Raid Bargain Booze of their mini rolls and mulled wine, raid the decathlon of their tent display, dust down your blankets and prepare to be averaged…………

12pm Norfolk Park Saturday 17th June.


Corbyn for Starters, Coco Pops for Main, Poetry for Dessert.

Standing on an Oxford estate watching the forgotten Robertson once tormentor of the north german perm colony list the contents of his shopping bag……

I coughed myself into a dutch persona brave enough to open my letter from “The Sanatorium for Correct Social Responses in the Working Class Movement”

It read:


Over enthused youth

Please refrain in future from Oral Pleasure.


We expect your compulsory attendance at classes for your social realisation every other Wednesday from tomorrow.

Next Class: Appropriate Levels of sadness to witnessing poverty



Revolution is a stomach gushingly serious business if you look in the wrong places

Luckily Robertson had a slightly burnt photocopy of the friend amongst the bears Harry McShane’s autobiography “No Mean Fighter”.  His recognition that commitment did not have to equal boredom soothed us greatly


Mcshane's Nostalgia


Lighter less at the taxi rank bemoaning an inability to entertain our own organs, Mcshane’s silliness still tickling on our ear drums, Robertson decided at the next gaping hole to dispense with say what you see, get to the point niceties in favour of worlitizing empiricism upside down.

Luckily he only has to wait a matter of years……………..

Two wollen branded swordsman asked

“Decent boozer this mate”

The 4 pairs of eyes transfix upon the pub scene:

The wags head bulges with poorly pulled blokes with oversized heads protruding from doors and windows avalanched by salted crew cuts. Even big bell boristovs like worthington smooth flow himself had to puddle his liquid form across the most absorbent flecks of carpet.

Cocksure of the answer they believed to have been confirmed by the act of looking, the swordsman turned away,  but with an effervescent twinkle came Robertson’s reply

“There has been fuck all a person in there since 1973”

perturbed only briefly they continued to push themselves among the throng of human flesh, only once their game of pool had been interrupted by the early bar prune croon, did they laugh at the error of their eyes and scrape the John Locke tattoo’s  from their eyelids.

Robertson’s fag in a fit of having pleased himself realised it’s fate to combust

Lively is the word. At certain moments of History absurd foolishness has revealed

been revealed the creases, cracks and bed crumbs of Life’s detail opposed to the creeping rot of sameness.

No one can prepare you for the production line precision of how people undertake their daily commute. The system produces a want to unthink. Everyday behaviours that unwittingly reproduce. Same seat everyday, same 30 seconds trying to resist the temptations of the natural yoghurt, the same 1min-1min 20 spooning hazardously the white mixture Mouthward. The same 5 mins of face apparent guilt for not resisting. One day the yog hog made a no show, so cemented was routines totalitarian nature the yoghurt dragged itself with some difficulty (because of it being a unconscious confectionary product) to the usual spot. The train departs, everybody knows the yoghurt had no claim, amongst a cascade of caught eyes no one dares take upon themselves the consumption to  break the cycle.

The process of weather conversations where even opposition to the correct response of sun good, rain bad has been absorbed by the culture industry. How euphoric it must be to watch Gene Kelly getting saucy on a cocktail amazon river cruise,  tongue kissing takes a fantastical turn surprised by floods of rain water. I recognise more excitement in a park discussion of the fascination of asymmetrical and crooked nature of penises than respectfully having  to listen to reasons why we should nationalise the FTSE 100. At least in the first persons case I think they would be more willing to entertain the idea of creating a collage that represented the FTSE 100 with crooked penises ascertaining to some sort of metaphor we don’t really care to think about ourselves and stick them up despite having no real interest in the role of the state.

We are headed toward the question that creates despair: As radical as thoughts may be we are still trapped in this world that imbues us with conservative action.

Now we enter a whirling phase of contradictory statements that with your pulsating synapses you will have to unify in small talk with man on a bus who needs to tell the world about his cheap crab solution to world hunger.

Cause maybe at the present phase of WWE organisation of appearances, where the majority of thoughts in this world have been pre organised for everyone’s connivence (one day I will get over the fact the milk turns chocolate) exaggerating thought to its elasticated peak so it slaps us back in the face is maybe a weapon we have……..

it is a really a case of trying to turn Corbyn inside out, Bones in the front, turning criticism in a box to criticism of standing on the box. Why defend Corbyn now in his Skin facing state? As we explained in a letter to a spurious publication here is the reason:

“In an abstract universe (one in which anarchists and postmodernists sit feeding each other well done marshmallows) defending Jeremy Corbyns pale shadow of left reformism fills us only with a desire to smack ourselves with kitchen cupboards. But were living through an election campaign where increasingly the act of thinking has been banned. Even when Corbyn expresses a desire to deal with poverty he is treated as if he has started a George galloway on Big Brother tribute act. The look in the journalists eyes seems to suggest the substance of his campaign has been to lap milk out of John McDonnell’s pocket.

Words are never neutral, we have become trapped in whirl of concepts that only serve to mask reality, Middle England is a cage on British Politics, we like to think it consists of 5ft 5 residents of Wolverhampton. It would be a surprise to no one reading this paper that Middle England is nothing but the wet dream of centrists.

Defending Corbyn is a defence of the simplest of all ideas, the idea things could actually be different. This seems banal, but in a world where it is recommended that anyone mentioning taxing the rich should be sent to have their brain bleached with liquid aspiration and any mention of Marxism is cause for a lobotomy it seems the only way forward.

But at the same time sowing any illusions in left reformism is a road to despondency, the idea of a “Critical Vote” for Labour needs serious consideration. That is why the PB’s will be spraying the walls of Sheffield with posters declaring “It’s better to rub dog shit in your carpet than rub dog shit in your eye”. Corbyn should don his catsuit and endlessly move his bins because this is a clear sign of his humanity”

Just because we see the moment as one to support Corbyn (a tatic not a principle and tactics are meant to die in the process of war)  doesn’t have to mean you subordinate yourself to the Left reformist machine like people who grease themselves up with residue of capitalist separation and declare there great purity with the slogan “Don’t  Vote, Organise” believe, if anything this just represents there complete lack of imagination, a collapse to prevailing apathy.

In the spirit of a Glasgow hunger marcher  who bonked a vicar in the mouth for refusing to let them sleep in the church hall  we will suspend ourselves above a banner that reads “Corbyn is a humongous plaster lets put him on before we run to the doctors” dressed as primary school nativity angels attempting  to supersoak windscreen fluid into each others mouths.

The PB’s stand firmly on the footing that experiments in new ways of smashing  perception and sterile thinking are essential, repeating the same abstract slogans ad infinitum means we will firmly be trapped in the box and Corbyn will never go away.

A Case for Bras


After hearing French presidential candidate Jean Luc Melenchon call for a 100% tax on the rich, a move that made the PB’s chuckle we asked him to endorse our up and coming day school, he claimed to be too busy to write much, but said we could publish his first attempts at erotic historical fiction as a clear show of support. 


There was a sexy bra and a sexy par of big old panties. They were on a person. The bra upon closer inspection was actually a pair of child’s swimming goggles. In a surprised protection of the collective nipple the pink pinchers against there purposed function slurped all surrounding breast flesh inward. There was I dunno know large robust frillies able to contain the appendages of an adequately sized man. Wild orgy of shapeless blobs, floating teeth suck  floating breasts, suckle and suck on pink pincher bosoms.

“Ooo crickey what ample breasts” If you slap it they will jiggles wiggles and ripples 5 seconds unaided, 5p a turn, 5 year jiggle. Release them from the pink pincher prison and you shall rub your penis over the mountains of my torso. Hurry for I grow impatient and my kettle (vagina) has come to boil. Woo Hoo she screamed Woo Hoo she screamed again Woo Hoo the Kettle had boiled.

In 221 BC the first bra was discovered fossilised in the ash of mount etna, engraved it was with its maker, the pre historic rockers dinosaur junior who had woven it from the first rejected drafts of the bible. It was taken to the pope where upon it was declared a saintly messenger from God who had finally seen fit to enslave the protruding juice buckets of heathen sex. Til the outbreak of war, Sunday was simply know as the day of the bra.

Unlike other western appendage gatherers Bras have changed little since the middle ages. There is nothing new about keeping things in there place. Froom Dulwich Italy the bra conquered the globe. The Austrians never missing new themes for erotic wall carving innovated wooden bras with fire door access, the earliest form of sexual health and safety. First World War Germany rationed Bras due to a breast shortage. Leading to the humorous British Music Hall satirical reworking of the classical “It’s a long way to tipperary” to become “Its a long way to get some boobs”. In colder countries the naked natives would use left over whale blubber from the local newspaper to frustrate the frost. Whales rights activists recently led a “no more whale 3” campaign that stormed Japan as the worlds leading blubber bra company based in Tokyo JellyFishTits was besieged. In Siberian gulags women were forced to self snowman but there bosoms were so hot (If you know what I mean) It was largely ineffective. In Bolivia bras and pants were woven by alpaca’s from their wool, when Harold Macmillan claimed “Breasts have never had it so good” He obviously never realised about the alpaca cannibalism.

King Canuts war against inanimate objects stretched way beyond the puddle of the north sea, in a farcical episode created by the vikings delicacy to abbreviate, Canuts wish to invade Britannia ended in a latex bonfire that set back the development of s and m in Denmark for nearly a thousand years. In our modern Utopia of burnt of bras, the liberation of humanities finest manifestation of chest bumps knows little bounds. Britains Got Talent was in literal titillation when the ironically titled singing breast duo the boys won the genitals of the nation only succumbing in the end to the openly racist under 5’s all white dance troop the ghetto blasters. No one wants to stereotype the no shoe hippie platoons but their constant radio play of the their pop folk classic “Take off your Man maids” encouraging Women to strip at any available opportunity was adequately lampooned by Edna Bi Carbonated soda when she said it’s destroying the fun I have in foreplay.

The question of Bras seems increasingly irrelevant like that of Brexit, but still I hear the ad infantum repetition that only the Tories will secure us a hard exit of the braupian union.

You should all attend the No peace in the park with the psychedelic bolsheviks cause whether you turn up in a bra or not they won’t really care and that seems like feminism to me.

Jean Luc Mélenchon.

Postcode Philosophy: A desperate child’s guide to rejecting a post truth world.

In 2014 the newly formed Korschian 8 Pack handed out these leaflets in Sheffield 8 declaring:


This was in response to various diseases of gloopy gangrenous thinking intended to make your head fall off.  Bleached mouths, those responsible for making Marxism so sterile you can buy the Communist Manifesto in the classics section of Waterstones. Those same bore offs you have the phrase “Philosophers have only interpreted the world the point is to change it” permanently holstered in their Karl Marx play mobil pirate gun belts of moral superiority. They misuse and abuse this phrase to reject philosophy in totality, it is true that the glorified recycling bins that are university academics (because having an original thought is too difficult)  suck on the milk of Roland Barthes breeds disregarding any attempt at truth in favour of the tiger that came to tea,  as a laser shield protecting their comfy poof in the division of labour. But as Adorno begins Negative Dialectics  “Philosophy, which once seemed obsolete, lives on because the moment to realise it was missed” The proletariats failure to seize the revolutionary moment of early 20th century and abolish the abstract lingering of intellectuals means the battle of ideas continues to be an arena  that needs contesting. The Korschian 8 pack said “rum to a donkey” if this is going to be fought institutionally.

In S8, the recent closing of the Tesco and Greggs exposed the dribbling academia’s congealed thought  into everyday life. The people of Woodseats decried the loss of their identity with the removal of these big branded shops.  Where now could they buy seductive buttery pastries from crotchety old women  or get pink wafers served by the dead town archetype cashiers chewing gum like they couldn’t give a flying fuck. All that was left was to choose to drink your lager by candlelight or next t0 a large bush. Defining ourselves by our consumerist habits is the harrowing symptom  of the post modern attitude. The response to the commercial decay of the high street emerged with the formation of the 8pack gang whose activities were formed of teenage posturing  and tagging any available wall space with 8p. One toot on a moogi synth and some people no one can even remember decided graffiti had become a wallowment in decay, they turned to the most pounciest  Hegelian Marxist Karl Korsch for a tide of localized philosophical criticism.  Korsch offered explanation of the rotting state of current ideas as a reflection of material conditions in which the working class had been defeated.  It becomes no wonder  with the working class movement at it’s lowest ebb in a century that we are drowning in a sea of robotic Marxists and wish fulfilment crushing post modernists.

The KP8 were inspired in their what  an oranjeboom officialdom on the park roundabout had called  “a silly belief in the outdated notion of truth” by the Psychedelic Bolshevik before there was Psychedelic Bolsheviks Arthur Winterbottom, who misspent his youth recreating the Lettrist International denunciation of Charlie Chaplin, until he realised this was a  Chris Collinson type Napoleonic war re-enactment of no worth. With this he lapsed into worst kind of turtle neck wearing  “Everything is just opinion”. Until as the  The Tale of Arthur Winterbottom goes he had an enlightenment.


As this extract from Arthur’s Self Published Autobiography bizarrely written in the third person shows:

“Frubing from the bureau of abbreviated thoughts thronged by medicinal thick juice bozo’s. Arthur Winterbottom, the co author of the occupational buzzards guide to retna detachment

declogged of hair braiding, Ivan Campo and Love by his annual visit to the glorious ball smackers alleviation of having to care unit, fondant fancied syringing 50p bags of putrified peace and condom flavoured sawdust from his cousins wife of public engagement and discreet danish occasions detergent popping boils. Arthur home situated ruminated on his destation of refabricated bunk ups and all the nozzle fingering it contained “nowadays”

The Wall mounted toshiba squeaked with the bean saturated expectant mother quiz rinsed in vomitous amounts of Ben Shepherd infatuation, the turquoise coloured cackles salvant of orphanising reminded him of the first gay to look at the moon commemorative mechanical prize dispenser. It had awarded his icy cheeks a green letter anal rummage sponsored aversion therapy “for those scared of being obtuse” as a recuperation for winning a contest dressed as Levi Strauss’s 97th best immitator .

Coached to the leisure spandex playpen of spectacle concocters work time personalities. Forthwith bungled inside a toilet so purple anyone in the business of creating senility would presume the invention of beetroot had been a mistake. Arthur was offered a free complimentary interaction with under tongued Gary, previously a rat hormone smuggler for an unelected governor somewhere over there. This unexpectantly blossomed into a human data analyst with benefits scenario. Post polish using the toilet for a purpose Michael Barrymore never intended for it, Arthur watched as Gaz moved towards him, pulling his foreskin back in one delicious motion, easily creating the historical conditions for a relapse into the previous moments bog roll romp, when Gary shouted with the tenderness of a beep boop modger (Phantasmagorical range)

“Do you think they mop these floors with piss”

Terrified of offending the urine sodden fag end community or sentimental skag shunning chiropodists Arthur replied “they might or might not”. No sooner had the most pointless sentence in western thought (apart from football punditry) been uttered,  fishy hunk gazbo had bodged his fingers into all available nostrils. This was insignificant considering the lavatories engulfment by a narcotically ravaged tortoise who moonlighted as a spinning joy ride. The erecticcally dysfunctional terrapin currently experimenting with a slush puppy of apocalypse now gargled burpesque the aphorism “the surrealists and their gothic marxism were the only bleached bunkers to understand Marx’s desire to have it with ghosts”

The common error in this scenario was to misunderstand the flammability of piss and misapprehend that no exits were actually closed.  After all this was nothing better than a spa resort that had gone delusional. Despite suffering from an impending sense of doom pliable to mechanistic marxism the hegelian massage qualified turtle delivered a cloth fez award winning speech on the question of truth.

“If you continue to bleat on about how everything is subjective and it is up to people to create their own truth in life, don’t be surprised when in the future a group of quasi-fascist types decide to take you up on your offer and begin to disregard what you consider to be facts like “white supremacy is wrong”. So don’t start to complain because they are only embracing their subjectivity like you told them to do, it would be highly hypocritical at this point to decide that your subjective is suddenly a truer subjectivity than the racists you have come to dislike. Wrap yourselves in a philosophy that absolves you from doing anything at all till it’s too late and criticises those who may have failed abysmally but by god least they gave it a good rattle”

Arthur wept uncontrollably, comforted by Gary who had now donned an old Raya Dunayevskaya  fancy dress costume to act as a comfort and further suggested reading”

What Arthur Winterbottom and Korsahcian 8 Pack carry with them is the dual rejection of the truth of dogmatic Marxism and untruth of post modernist despair, that there exists a point at which subjectivity interacts with objectivity, and that point might possibly contain something true.


The End of Reading Groups.

There is bound to be a sausage somewhere in Finnegan’s Wake…….

We have been accused of being obsessed with shit by Steve Lamacq and Chris Wellbeck. what do we actually want? We want Helena Beyonce Carter shot in the crossfire of Marx and Joyce. and Soggy Swanns.

This will take as many meetings as Jimmy Carl Black says man in a half an hour period. Truth being you would never want to enter someone wearing a Disney condom.

Historical necessity says we need to get across when it is:

Wednesday 15th February 7pm

The Three Cranes

Queen Street, Sheffield


and possibly say what it is

the aim is to attempt a fused, pre fused, defused reading group which simultaneously reads Karl Marx Capital Vol 1 and James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake

to understand there undoubtable dialectical connection.

“Fight Club is Post Modern Bollocks at the Bottom” Finnegan’s Wake JJ

Pants down debrief: Pre coital sword bop review.

The Pre-coital sword bop revealed in absent minded pan scum there festers also crystalized custard crumbs of a higher unity. Unlike fumbling heavy heads our event makes no claim to a floppy snozzled salvation. Amidst ashamed acquaintance embarrassment of ending up at the political equivalent of a Texas yard sale selling bully wee hand muffers, moments (mum’s net) of hot toddie warmth and crack curdled bloodgasms trespassed. Riding on the bards wet wacker intestinal fun slide THF drenching taught us to love hosepipes and hate the clash. A hobgoblin was haunting the doorway with not quite a trumpet tickling the audience to participate. Drenching pancaked music and politics with a dose of much waited hilarity rendering drugs impossibly boring.16402865_1137568746355758_3929516683762734587_o

Finally the call for the jazzification of Mick Beck’s pond to declare against the dog choking antics of the degenerate children of aristocrats in favour of working class decadence was answered by the alcohol troughing antics of day school revelers. In the worlds most bus driver nicotined stained pub this side of a diving board Andy “I don’t listen to myself” Smith prophesied no amount of pink hat wearing can pervert the course of neo liberal decay headlong into international Frosties. The pump for the people sponsored tentacle slapped us with the engraving “it looks like its trump vs non trump”. In answer to your chant in sexual terms we prefer our belly buttons on the out. Is the confidence of the dilapidated suspender inhabitants to greet each other with the phrase  “Whats occurring Hermann Goering” enough to call fascism.

In our last bowl of bed before cereal a semi answer to the question of who it was safe to hold hands with emerged in the tri bird slosh.

Ged Colgan  absorbing water

Ged Colgan with his enviable ability to absorb water called out momentum on it’s ironic name and Sisyphus (sissy feet) antics.
Lets leave the boulder where it is and spunk communism into the clp’s and everyday life, instead of reshaping ourselves into endless blobs of ill worth. We should befriend those with cheeky smiles whoever tells the bureaucrat “We want Sex cubicles not life insurance” and take a wee nip of cough syrup to whoever tells his teacher to go back to the cupboard.

The Psychedelic Bolsheviks one theoretical contribution has been to emphasise the rightful place of bodily functions in revolutionary politics. The holy matrimony of the objective and subjective might appear shitting in a plastic bag or projectile vomiting into a shoe. The fill Mitchell idolatress North East Notman funneled us to the man murdering fictions of 3 Maria’s. M M and M literary sprongel splurged writing, masturbation and criticism to melt crispy bummed dictators. Before having understood our uncontrollable liquid seeping bodies as barricades, the Play doh version of Dada’s everyman is his own football Ben Watson,  in self turkey boasting tones attacked the swollen gusset philanderers of structuralism from old MacDonald’s hip hopinest farm. Why ask the charismatic bassey cow what it meant, how did it make your Johnson tingle.

The honorary doll maker of the dead members of Def leopard society Esther Leslie playing herself at a self inducing coma Ping-Pong ravaged us with the latest design in sky carpets. Google frazzles us with an unknowable inexistent place that inadequately stores our dreams. The PB’s stick to their philosophical pants of repeating the words dialectical and Hegel appropriately and inappropriately (Which is dialectical) until we understand nothing and hence everything. We thank everyone who attended our ramshackle barge flapper of a day without you all it would have been just the usual 2 minutes of politics and 7 hours of cock jokes.

15978236_10154210466876409_1994018010_nWe awoke at Finnegan’s Wake with drool hanging from each other, members of blur crying from Steven Edwards eyes, the dialectic was cracked, one of us was cracked, how can we now masturbate without das capital in our blurry minds eye. Hangovers taste most bitter with mackerel sweetness. We understand the next step, to read capital volume 1 and Finnegan’s wake side by side in our locality. Watch out for details!

Psychedelic Bolsheviks


Listen too  Out to Lunch’s Political Mix of the Day School <;

and check out Mordecai Watson’s Vlogs of his time in Sheffield

Creating your own personal abstract button.

48 Hours in Time, the response to the response would of aroused maybe but one grin in me surrounded by the desire that reading was not a thing at all, but we Libertarians do not mind what goes to the blog, all opinion and silliness are welcome , do we have to enjoy it? No. But after draft 1, a shower of democratic feeling reigned we should together look to edit the critique of IWW practice, Sharp political argument shrouded in the ridiculousness

It was voted no less! Those wilsoned would return with the collective power of Rupert Rung. Rupert Rung surely should have been the Jewel of The IWW’s idealist eye. Bill Haywoods Lover. After all he is imaginary either existing or not existing at the same time. As a Worker? He holds 3 jobs. As a person of the world? He muses in Chinese Restaurants and baths in the warm thoughts of the German peoples of Bonn. Primed for non-sensual polemic Rupert did divide her into his constituent’s parts, The Father, The Son and The Hegelgeist and enter reality as the psychedelic Bolsheviks, on this appearance it seems the jagged knife of bureaucracy has plunged inwards and no longer will Rupert Rungs wrath be outwards but instead a delve into his own mind.

There were valid criticisms to be made of the Hippocratic Libertarians, Rupert represented a Working Class core not invented after PHD’S, their employments came at the behest of Capitalism not organisational whim. Controversally The question is correct why would they apolitically reject these young workers from putting on a workshop? How more grass roots do you want it? But how long can the abstracted anger at the left go on as all too fatally The PB’S stand to be a reflection of what they hate. Yes it may have been a Friends gathering but hardly a criticism Rupert can dish out, he does not even have friends only the division of his personality that if pushed can produce 5 and a half distinct characters some of these he represses to become an ever more dwindling set of voices.

What scares them of Rupert? They heard tails of the socially awkward, the deep intense eye contact it gave Bill in the act of fellation, the way he dumped us a free man after his trial, do we carry on a Jilted Love, no room for sex in the economic. Move on or be lost, the angry denunciation of the left were of their time but the words spat out now apply equally to our mind, we do not stand for anything, we are nothing new. There is a place for abstract blog posts, but to believe they constitute any form of political movement is the saddest of the all the lies we tell ourselves. Why don’t we begin with question where does Art and Surrealism fit into the Political Question?

We are presented with an opportunity as Working Class peoples to create something genuinely revolutionary, as we are in Unique position to raise the questions in Practice of how we break down the separation between Work and Life, Artist and Worker, Manual and Mental not from a position of privilege where we choose to take low pay work. We never explore the key challenges we find have arisen, example how to act in work as a revolutionary and break down the veneer of small talk social conservatism.


But if the first track is to be continued where we console our irrelevance in stomach lining of our bourgeoisie equivalents, one section of Rungian mind will wither away (Probably the most unproductive part anyways) Lets see the one year publication as An end to one section of our history and Tuesday evening to be the beginning of a serious Political force to spread silliness, ridicule, surrealism into the left and the working class. The IWW rejection is ridiculous social politics and laughable libertarianism but we the parts of Rupert’s mind are no less guilty and the latest action of releasing the statement undemocratically angers Haribo.


There is room for everybody In Rupert Rungs One Big Love Machine and Let it never be forgotten.