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”
Over enthused youth
Please refrain in future from Oral Pleasure.
PLEASE NO BLOW JOBS AT THE OWEN JONES Talk
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
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.