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.
Psychedelic Bolsheviks 