Pump Fiction.

I tend to reject conspiracy theories. To me they are the result of endless time in the mind, combined with pointless responsibility in the hand; there are no shape-shifting reptilians disguised as Freemasons - controlling the mass populous, Neil Armstrong never landed on the canvas of a secluded Hollywood studio, and Elvis Presley does not live on the moon - where he regularly plays Poker with Tupac Shakur and Bruce Lee. This being said, there are a few minor beliefs which carry weight - due to the facts lending themselves to contradiction; the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 9/11 attacks in New York City, and Frank Lampard’s disallowed goal against Germany, during the 2010 World Cup – though this is more a result of personal bitterness from buying a £35.00 shirt, worn by a collection of lauded underachievers. 

Five days ago, I was listening to the melodic tones of Magic FM in the car with my girlfriend, when a news report – full of the usual scaremongering favoured by media outlets, explained how the government were keeping the army on standby, in case proposed upcoming industrial action - planned by petrol tank delivery drivers, came to fruition. I initially laughed, and joked about a story from September 2000, when I missed a job interview at a Matalan store; the manager stuck in traffic, due to the masses purchasing petrol, in case of a planned strike which never happened – sound familiar? I proposed with booming confidence the reality of a blatant conspiracy to fuel finance - then, and now, as I explained the notion of fear being the greatest barometer to enforce any culture of consumerism – in this case, the words such as  ‘Army’, ‘Action’, and ‘Strike’ used as subtle replacements for ‘Extremely Serious Situation ‘. Think about it, when are the Army ever called upon as arbitrators of enforcement; beyond the serious business of averting a zombie apocalypse, or a royal visit? 

The government need a sharp burst of cash to aid the coffers within the deep pockets of their short arms. They know every vehicle driver nationwide is a slave to petrol, as much as they know how the media carry a weight of power so accepted as fact, that the printed word or story articulated by a dude in a suit, or voice of a school master, will be perceived as almost omnipotent gospel. So they scare society, society panic purchase petrol, then, a few days later; in this case, today – after the petrol has all but run out along British petrol stations from Southampton to Stockport, our leaders announce the proposed ‘strike’, has in fact, now been cancelled. Quite convenient timing really, especially consdiering once petrol is inside a car, it cannot be returned.

There are no qualms on my side that any government decides to conduct a sonnet such as this, in order to pulsate another dying beat of their economy’s heart. Politics operates on numerical statistics (ironic, when you consider this ethos created the mass abuse of the welfare system, and slow deconstruction of our National Health Service), and no ruling party wants to be the ones remembered for pissing all the money away. I am more surprised how such a large percentage of a seemingly logical, rational society, could fall a ploy so obviously constructed for financial gain? Seriously – did not a single pawn question the story as soon as the word Army was used? Or even consider why petrol tanker drivers have suddenly decided to strike – when there has been zero indication of any issue amongst their profession in many a year? 

Even then, surely knowing the recently announced annual budget proved the government’s vaults were almost empty, would raise a few bushy eyebrows? I guess in most cases, not so. The bizarre irony is that, even after the announcement of averted strike action, people are still heading out panic buying petrol. Those, on the other hand, who fully loaded their tanks only to realise they were duped, are reacting with anger; openly expressed behind a banner of the way Britain’s leaders have handled the situation, when in reality, it is because each and every last one of them knows they have been kippered - hook, line, and sinker. Of course, there are many who see this story for what it is, and I am grateful we will always be here to stop the building of draconian societal walls - but I sure as hell wish more of us existed upon this land.

So while I do believe in many lies being based on truth, and some truth constructed around lies - perhaps the key lies in knowing which is which; I could be way off, after all. I cannot say much more, as I am about to attempt a new conspiracy theory through the media; the suggestion that every Starbucks coffee contains traces of absinthe. Maybe if it works, I can write with a little more peace. Unless the masses begin panic buying frappuccinos; then I really am fucked...

Lee.

The Customer Is Always An Arsehole.

I queue with calm serenity inside my local Starbucks. Ready to indulge in general light-hearted barista banter, before I predictably order a medium café latte, chew proverbial fat, and finally perch upon a comfortable, quiet seat. I am about to write, as a multitude of ideas float around my neural capacities. I know once a single hook sparks, words shall naturally flow like a mulled wine poured into cut glass goblets, after fifty-years of fermenting in the cellar of a French aristocrat. Though sometimes, it feels more like a sea of Irn-Bru – sticky, pointless, and loaded with too much sugar.

Today however, inspiration strikes between these hazel eyes – literally. For as I wait to order, before me a dumpy, middle-aged woman complains to a barista in a monotonous drone, about her coffee being too cold – even though she has already half finished the beverage. The girl behind the counter apologizes, offers her a replacement, and a complimentary slice of cake as payment of interest. The woman agrees, and is handed a fresh, hot coffee, and slice of sponge-cake on a plate. Her stubby hands grab both as she remains silent, and then walks with nonchalance to her vacated seat. 

Spending many waking hours in these unique avenues of anthropological study, you begin to discover customers – or human beings, on a deeper level, carry with them certain traits which the mass-majority seemingly adhere to. It is almost as if one person chooses to act in a particular manner, and virtually everyone else agrees to follow this path; in this instance, the belief that the server in any supposedly subordinate position is dog, and the purchaser, the master. Somewhere along the lines, where did the general consensus forget they were being served by human beings, and not soulless, smiley robots.

There is a strange sense of irony in the idea of truths perceived by percentages, as a person alone is a unique and interesting individual. And yet people as a group - on the other hand, seem to carry a universal desire to follow the first vocal decree of reality; in the case of any service industry – especially that of Starbucks, this seems to be that for the price of a coffee, the baristas become accepted as personal slaves - who we are free to treat with as much contempt as possible, yet still smile as if they actually enjoy being looked down upon, for working a demanding job which receives little credit from any direction outside the company. So many wasted cups, dirty plates, napkins, moved chairs, spilt drinks, filthy floors, and orders to clean a table, and yet still they smile - even through the most malicious of visitors.

In a perfect world - a more honest, direct world, retail and service workers would shed the false smile they are forced to wear for every last piss-taking customer, who comes in and demands the Earth. This could work better for all parties involved in the long run because A; the polite customers (and they do exist, hopefully more than the cynical nature of this article suggests), receive the genuine response they deserve, through showing a reciprocated respect. B; the selfish, miserable bastards – who show no gratitude or appreciation for the service they are fortunate enough to have given to them, will have to earn each smile, which may or may not come their way.

Perhaps the customer has become too spoilt in modern times. In a nation like Britain, we take the notion of being waited on hand over foot, cleaned after, and treating workers like Eunuchs to Alexander The Great, as a given standard; as opposed to occupational extra. But the jobs are hard, the hours long, and they are out earning a living in a dignified, honest manner. 

My inspiration is spent, and I clear my table, say polite goodbyes, and wonder how to be less general next time I write. I receive a smile from the staff - but I am pretty sure it is genuine, and that I have earned it. They say the customer is always right. Personally, I say the customer is always an arsehole. I know I am - but in my case, it is only to the customers...

Lee.

The Sole Invention Of Man.

Conventional wisdom suggests man's greatest historical invention to be the wheel; the argument born from its use as the first tool of expanding all physical elements to develop civilisation. This is a subjective discussion, of course, and it is easy to argue this superlative for many other constructions of mankind; language, electricity, powered flight, central heating... the list essentially endless. You can even stretch as far as to suggest the humble Cricket Bat to be man's greatest tool; though the reason why, is down to each individual perception.

Trouble is, every last one of these global influencers are - in my view, not really unique creations of our species at all - as opposed to discoveries, which nature handed us to build upon. It is much like a Nursery Teacher dropping a Lego set within a sitting circle of infants; one produces a wall, another a robot, and a third doesn't even begin to piece any blocks together, merely chewing on the pieces. This leaves one solitary product of life which I consider of man and man alone. Unless anyone can come up with anything of similar nature - and if you can, please do, there is only one genuine, true invention on this planet... the concept of Money.

First of all, I am not referring to physical coins of Gold, Silver, or Copper. These carry a genuine value through the material derived from. What I refer to is the first instances in which those in possession of mass coinage, would hand their wealth to a trusted holder, for safe keeping. In doing so, a small promissory note (An I.O.U, as such), was exchanged to the coins owner as an official reference, to avoid theft; thus beginning the first invention of paper, classed as capital. Man took the discoveries of ink from iron salts, and paper from the pulping of trees, and combined to make a creation which was solely his own.

As it grew to a level of power unparalleled in existence, it slowly learned to control the purity of religion, distort the connective influence of communication through words, operate processes of electricity and flight, and eventually find itself chased by the majority of global society; like some kind of mythical dragon we never even see. Our perceptions of success, power, strength and dominance, all held tight in its cold, heartless grasp... and yet in a strange, ironic sense of tragic comedy - it doesn't even exist. If you don't believe me, consider this; if society crumbles tomorrow, and we are left without banks, governments, taxation and general law in all its forms, how much value would a piece of paper with a number on it - or figures on a computer screen, actually have? The wheel, electricity, and the like shall continue to exist and be of worth, but besides the retaining of heat though fires - as much as with any form of paper, money becomes truly worthless; its true light, exposed by natures sometimes vicious hand.

So maybe we afford money the power we do, because it doesn't really belong to any religion, or God, or element of natures possible master-plan. And in that strangely narcissistic way - in which our species convinces each other to believe we are this planets sole harbingers, we embrace our one true creation as our own very human God, because it is ours and ours alone; try buying the love of a Dog with a £50.00 note - if he can't eat it, he don't give a shit. Then again, perhaps money is in fact a creation of God, and we are being tested in how we handle the stock we afford a product both cold and soulless; one we have turned into a very necessary evil, in our perceptions of Homo-Sapien progression.

I guess this means we are failing, as we all need it to operate into the systems we are born into. But remember, there is one absolute truth proven time and time again, by, ironically, time itself. Every beginning has an end, and every system eventually gives way to a new one. Maybe the next greatest human invention, will be that which replaces money... but I sure hope the sequel learns from its predecessor.

Now give me lots of cash, so I can prove it doesn't corrupt me. ;-)

Lee.

Trolling Trolling Trolling!

"TROLLFACE" Circa 2008.
The appearance of a successful Troll.

Behind the anonymity of this screen, I can write anything I desire. Doesn’t matter if it is an account of discounting religion, hate fuelled pile of racist drivel, collection of apocalyptic doomsday prophecies, or an article defending the bizarre warbling of failed Beach Boys wannabe and perennial loser, Charles Manson. This cold hard reality is a fact of the internet as we currently know it; the most powerful tool of global free speech, man has ever known along his short journey upon Earth. 

While I would personally neither write nor agree with any of these viewpoints, I remain an advocate for free speech – and even though I believe the world-wide-web will eventually become a passive tool of draconian governmental control; simply because deep down, the vast majority of humanity prefers to have their thinking - therefore belief systems, invented by others. As of 2012, the web stands alone as a virtual wild-west; where there are no rules, no sheriffs, and no Smith and Wesson stand-offs. There is, however, the Good; charities, communication forums, helpful guides, etc. The Bad; political propaganda, pro-fascist groups, gaming sites, midget porn (Who watches that?) and the like. And, my topic for this blog - the ugly; known in layman's terms, as the Internet Troll. 

The description of a troll is ubiquitous; male, under the age of 35 (though some severe emotionally repressed cases, reach 50), lives in his mums basement, never feels sunlight, and has never seen a naked woman. He is unpopular with girls, gets beat up at school regularly, and carries a delusional superiority of his intellect within the comfort of his own mind. Between bouts of World Of Warcraft marathons, and masturbating to Megan Fox images or Brazzers latest offering, he invests the dwindling nocturnal moments of his waking hours scouring the internet; in search of a naive sitting duck, unaware of the world of trolling - in order to force his carefully considered attack. 

His source of critiques have no limit; awareness pages for cancer victims, tribute sites of murdered children, paedophilia and rape help campaigns, media stories of families killed in fires – he is truly rotten in the meticulous nature of execution, and will leave no sordid stone unturned, in trying to gauge a reaction. He anonymously creates a series of hateful, twisted posts of extreme antagonism, in search of an emotional reaction to his blind attack - which he usually receives. In seeking the reaction he attains, it affords him a minimal level of power, and with the growing worlds of Twitter and Facebook at his disposal, he is now able to fire his bullets in many directions; gaining tremendous pleasure in doing so.

The troll is not an anarchist, for they carry zero believe in smashing any system. They are not rebels, for anonymity defeats their subversive purpose. They are neither revolutionaries nor trend setters, for their acts carry no weight. They are simply sad, lonely individuals, desperate to be noticed - even through negative refraction. While I feel pity on our worlds internet troll, I am glad they exist. For they remind me of two important facts which keep humanity progressively rolling along. One; the twisted underbelly of human nature, will always remain alive - rendering the often ignored impurity of our species in tact, stopping us from turning into soulless robots. And two; even though it is a beautiful feeling to know we are free to say anything we wish at any time, they are proof how it doesn’t necessarily mean we should. In the words of Spiderman's Dad; with great power, comes great responsibility.

So I salute you, you unkempt, lazy, web-dwelling trolls - for you keep the Machiavellian spirit well and truly alive; even if you are all sick puppies. Now switch off those laptops, get out them basements, see a little sunshine, and talk to a female once in a while...

Lee.

My Broken Zip.

A challenge has been set upon me, but I need to consider where to begin undertaking this task. As a writer – as much as any endeavoured field of skilled execution, I suppose, the path of progression lies around turning corners of comfort zones, until this uncharted pathway becomes its own walk of security. This follows a standard course of rinse, and repeat. I approach all learning in the same light; the subject of improvement remains the likely topic of my second book.

It all begun yesterday evening in the moderately sized, rectangular shaped building known as Harrow Starbucks. This building has and will always hold a firm place deep within my heart; it was the vicinity of date number one with the only woman I have ever fallen in love with. The land I conducted the initial and final words of Our Human Labyrinth – the book’s introduction, ironically set in the confines of a busy coffee shop. And over the last two years, a social outlet of passive inspiration; in essence, a seat of education – this harbinger of dormant relaxation and cultural disparity, expressing everything a classroom can only explain; you just need to know where the veil covers, to see what lies beneath the surface.

I was tired and about to head home. Only, when trying to place my netbook into the Fitness First gym bag, designed by amateurs and stitched by exploited migrant workers - then lovingly stolen for me by a Personal Trainer friend of mine, the zip’s top half decided to separate itself from its master. Being a scholar of impulsive survival technique, my solution involved a screwdriver, dexterity of digits, and the base of my front teeth. I approached the ever engaging Katka, one of the stores many baristas; who provide both friendly service, and interesting banter – quite a feat, when you consider a vast amount of the people they deal with tend to be – in the nicest possible term, wankers; but this is another article by itself. Screwdriver-less, and forgetting their official name, she handed me a pair of pliers, and, after joking about robbing the place using this hand sized tool – possible physically, but not morally, I mooched to a quiet corner to fix my wounded apparatus. 

Unfortunately, I was too eager, as the zip tore right off. In lifting my rucksack onto my back, the unzipped bags contents decided to hang through the fabric, like an unopened sack of potatoes. With three smiling baristas now pleasantly amused by my obviously ridiculous predicament, Katka offered two medium sized paper bags as a replacement for the journey home - I was surprised at how sturdy they were. Once I entered my front door, I whipped the bag onto an ironing board, tore off the broken contraption, and replaced it with an old zip from yet another of my discarded Fitness First sweat sacks; presto, all was back to normal. I could now carry my free bag worth three-pound-fifty around, and pretend it was actually of value.

The next day on entering Starbucks, Katka asked if I was going to write about zips. Aware she was only half-serious, in her dry yet quietly charismatic Slovakian sense of humour, it sparked a light from within. It made me wonder; what can you write, about a creation as basic as the zip? It uses as an invention of the eighteenth century, perhaps? The manner in which it desecrated the standard button, maybe? It’s sound, possible? Quality, unlikely? Texture, now I am clutching at straws? Shit, how about its ability to preserve my dignity when my jeans cover my particulars? Nope, I am stumped on this one.

And here I am, thinking with my fingers about how to formulate an article on an item, surrounding an experience which may seem interesting to others, but is quite standard to me. The truth is - my truth at least, the zip is just not that interesting. It is a boring, lightweight, mass-produced tool of function. So I admit defeat, for I cannot write about the zip, for as a writer I am perhaps of an inadequate skill level at this stage. Maybe one day, I will journal the story, of My Broken Zip. Then again, I guess I just did...

Lee.