In the name of Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Since gaining seats in the European Parliament, there has been much speculation and debate surrounding the BNP and its leader Nick Griffin, with the words 'racist' and 'hatred' making frequent appearances, to the point where it appears that all other British political parties seem less concerned with their own agendas and increasingly infatuated with the advances their far-right counterpart has made.

History has shown that Europe, on occasion has a tendency to embrace the far-right and even in it's current state, parties with so-called 'extreme' views are steadily clawing their way up the polls. But isn't this democracy in action, allowing the electorate to choose a party they believe best represents their values, one that will lead their nation to prosperity?

The illusion of a multi-party political system has been demystified and in the eyes of the press and public opinion, Labour, Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats, are the only parties worth a mention. So much so, that there has been much time coverage expended in debating whether Nick Griffin, MEP, should even be allowed to appear on the nations' favourite political Punch and Judy show, Question Time. There are talks of audience members protesting, of camera crews refusing to capture Mr Griffin on screen but these all seem like futile attempts. Surely, if we are so against the values of a party, then having the leader of said party, in the presence of his peers, subject to questioning and open debate, would be a much more interesting idea, one that would allow the electorate to become informed and make choices accordingly, and the party to be exposed as nothing more than thugs masquerading as politicians in badly made suits - if that be the case.

I am no supporter of the BNP and their values, but if you are a registered party and have had siginificant support and success, then no matter how absurd your views, you have earned the right to express them, one of the main staples in a democratic theory that this nation so eloquently preaches and tries to enforce the world over, but if we are prepared to abandon this principle, simply becuase we disagree with another's viewpoint, then maybe we have sleepwalked into some Orwellian landscape filled with censorship, blind allegiance.

The Mother of all Memories

// sorting through your trinkets, climbing through your clothes, looking at what's left and it don't come close, almost forgot how you would look so grand, surrounded by your stuff,in the past I stand, memories are too strong, I'll put my head back in the sand \\

The manifesto?

///more boy than man, no clue no plan, sat still doing nothing, while the rest, they ran, his own worst foe, of this he knows, still trying to find a role in life's great show, they tell him leave, they tell him lead, his heart is in it but his mind, it leaves, and so he stays, from them he strays, head down, dealing with internal frays\\\

At times like this

Jean-Paul Sartre one said that "hell is other people," which once can interpret to mean that time spent with people other than oneself, equates to a stint in hell and after many years of working with others, trying to form relationships with others and of course sharing public transport with others, I can wholeheartedly agree with Jean-Paul. However, of late, my mind has been ruminating on that said dimension of hell and how it came to pass.

Today is one of those days where I believe that the hell Sartre referred to may not stem from the grating annoyance of other beings, which I admit, can be a thorn in the side for even the most tolerant and exuberant of humans, on the contrary, I believe that the dimension of hell he began to explore, is born out of the self-doubt that has a tendency to breed in the minds of the timid in social situations, simply put, that if you lack self-belief, being in the company of others does nothing except highlight how much excess confidence other people may possess, causing a hellish sensation to develop and a sense of inadequacy to linger in the back of ones throat and in the forefront of ones mind.

I guess all this is nothing more than a preamble to me wrestling with the nature of isolation, that maybe, in times of solitude, one often conjures up les illusions de grandeur, creating a sanctuary free from scrutiny or honesty, a realm of which you are master, but when one is thrown into the company of others, that illusion, that false identity, can become eclipsed and in times of woe, burned to the ground.

I'm sure this line of reasoning is far from new, in fact, I think I may have heard something similar in an episode of Chucklevision, but still, at this time, this is one of the thoughts that occupies my mind.

Existential Orthodontia.

Nothing quite says defeat like caving on your own principles, having values and convictions, arguing them with vigour and virtue, only to be bound by consensus, resulting in the reversing of your position in the blink of an eye.

I suppose we all do this at some point in our existence, but I always held true the sentiment that the older a person becomes, the more experience they acquire with themselves and the world, then the chances of back-tracking and self-doubt will diminish, but it appears not to be the case.

For some reason, the aforementioned sentiment does not take into account a persons' maturity, their level of will, their knowledge of self or even the principle itself which leads me to believe that sentiment is as sentiment does.

Still, to look in the mirror and confront yourself after such a battle is not unlike a trip to the dentist, full of pain and reflection, all the while laced with the hope that we will do better next time, that the power of insight will not allow us to make similar blunders. We hope.

aw shucks...

/// you asked I gave, you pleaded I caved, yet you and happiness went separate ways, you left I stayed, I was in it, you strayed, I fell flat, but still I long for yesterdays, when it was all smiles, when it was all wild, those memories are stacked somewhere in a pile, but nothing stays the same, part of us is stained, but if I had the choice, I would do it all again\\\

Chapter 3

He worked as an insurance broker. He had always wanted to be an insurance broker but of late, he had found it be nothing more than a chore, work by both definition and sentiment.

"Can you make sure that the Reynolds account is signed off today?" came  a voice from over by the door, suddenly interrupting his thoughts.

"Sorry" he replied, slightly bewildered.

"The Reynolds account, you ARE still the go-to-guy on that account aren't you?

"Yeah, yeah, of course, sorry my mind was.."

"Look, I don't pay you for your mind to be anywhere other than here, so snap out of it. We need the account done and dusted before the end of business today or the boss is going to chew your arse. Comprende?"

"Sure."

"Thank you!"

And with that, Steve O'Reilly sauntered back into the corridors from whence he came.

Steve O' Reilly was one rung above him on the corporate food chain. They had both been up for promotion but Steve clinched the position and the board members attributed his victory to his opponents lack of professionalism and a failure to understand the importance of team ethics at Courtauld Insurance.

He looked away form his familiar computer screen and stared blankly at his co-workers, caged in their respective quarters, with their headsets and novelty mouse mats. "Now Mr Smith, have you ever thought about accidental death insurance...an extra £50 a month is a small price to pay to insure the well-being and security of your family...good morning, this is____ from Courtauld." This is all he could hear, panoramic inane, scripted babble from the people he worked with, people who had missed their true calling in their lives, who had deffered dreams of being a vet, an astronaut and the many other vocations that are encouraged in  times of youth but easily abandoned once a person becomes too entrenched in the perils of adulthood, these people had sold out the very promises they made to themselves many moons ago in order to sell "peace of mind" and "what ifs." He placed his headset onto his desk and began the all too familiar wander past the minions. Some twiddled their company pens, some stared at screens, trying to decode the reems of figures that jumped out at them and others surfed the net, in a voyeuristic haze scrambling for a connection with a world outside of their current one, but all of them trapped in their hellish cubicles, adorned with random personal artefacts. He refused to keep anything personal at his desk. He saw photos of partners and children as nothing more than futile prompts for talking points, ways to entice and captivate passing co-workers into uninteresting, awkward and short lived conversations about trips abroad, the joy of parenting and the importance of being a breadwinner, and he wanted no part of that. Truth be told, he secretly believed that these these artefacts, that stowed among monitors, keyboards and an assortment of post-it notes served only as a reminder of things that were once great, of past acomplishments. He was convinced that these people hated their partners and wished they had worn a condom on that magical night of conception. But not him. His memories, his personal decoration was not for public display or consumption, it was kept to himself as a growing collection of ideas and exchanges that he held important and that validated his time spent in the world outside of Courtauld Insurance.

He returned back to his desk with a cup of milky tea and a napkin full of Hob Nobs, enough supplies he thought to see him through til lunch. That's when he would lift his spirits. That's when he would talk to her.

RING! RING RING! RIN..

"Hello?" a surprised woman answered.

"Hi, love, how is your day? he enquired.

Silence.

"Why are you ringing?" she asked.

"To ask how your day was of course. Steve is on my back again." Can you believe it?I swear, that guy is.."

"Your boss, He is your boss, not the ultimate boss, but on some level he is your superior and you his junior, so suck it up already will you." She had had enough of his whining. The silence that followed allowed her the time to summate to herself that a person who moaned was a weak species but a person who moaned and did nothing to better themselves were by far an even weaker species.

"So, how has your morning been?" he asked, trying to obliterate the silence.

"Fine."

"Sure?"

"Yes." 

"Only you sound annoyed,"

"Don't over analyse what I say. I said I am fine."

Silence

"Did you ring for anything in particular or was it just to exchange pleasantries?" she asked, clearly devoid of all patience.

"I.."

"Look, I gotta go, I've got a conference call but I'll see you at the flat later I suppose."

"Great!. What did you want for.." CLICK. The phone went dead and the hum of having being disconnected wailed in his ears.I must remember to have more to say to her, he thought, overdosing on politeness never gets a person anywhere. He was sat on the steps outside of Courtauld Insurance which overlooked the city's busying financial district.

It was a little after 1pm, so lunchtime and the theatre that ensued was well underway. Men and woman paced through the streets, carrying brown paper bags loaded with baguettes and ciabattas, this was the meal of the serfs, those that had jobs but not careers, those that earned a fair salary but it was far from enogh to allow them to partake in the true hedonism that comes with working in such sectors, while the true victors indulged in liquid lunches, their faces and stomachs bloated with delight and satisfaction, for among the employed, segregation reigned, both inside and outside the workplace. As he tolerated his prepackaged sandwiched, his eyes scrolled left to right, absorbing the culture, commerce and corruption of his surroundings. He was neither fascintated nor intrigued by any of it, so much so, that his landscape became nothing more than a blurred vision, lacking definitive shapes or objects, just colours, a smeared canvas of blues and greys, some that were still, some that ran, some that crawled, some that stood tall and some that bled into the backgorund. Greys and blues. These were the colours that occupied his vision.

Chapter 2

He had made her breakfast, as he always did, coffee, toast and the bowl of 

muesli she could not start her day without. He leered at her, longingly, lovingly, 

this was his definition of beauty, her lenghty black hair and the way it grazed her 

shoulders, oh her shoulders, that was where the true essence of a woman's 

beauty lives, not in her breasts or her buttocks, but in her shoulders, with their 

sturdy and curvy demeanour, a junction that held pleasure at either end. He 

smiled to himself as he inhaled her greatness and exhaled sighs of jubilation and 

promise. Oh how he loved her. He couldn't restrain himself from telling anyone who would 

listen to how amazing she was, how she was simply the best thing to occur in his 

life. Ever.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP BEEP! The snaring overtones of her alarm clock 

overpowered his thoughts. He watched as the corpse-like figurine inbetween his 

sheets squinted and let out grunts of unease, slowly showing signs of life.

"6:40 already?" she yawned. She rubbed her eyes and sat upright, legs akimbo, 

making her presence felt at all corners of the bed, her eyes fixated on him, his 

smile, his willingness, his glow of child-like compliance and obedience.

"Mornin sleepyhead," he said, brimming with the joys this February morhing could 

offer. She stared at him, squinting, frowning.

"Do you have my breakfast?" 

"Oh yes," he said, remembering what it was he was he held in his hands. "It's a 

few minutes old but the coffee should still be hot and sweet, just like you."

"Gimme" she barked. With haste, he handed her the tray of nourishment then 

stepped back and resumed his place. "Wow," he thought even the way she eats 

is amazing, who knew eating muesli could take on a sensual yet god-like quality.

"Did you sleep ok?" he asked. "Only I know you were having trouble sleeping and 

I wanted to know how the new pillows and matress were..."

She looked up. While wolfing down the last of the muesli, her eyes met his, his 

eyes bursting with devotion and affection, her eyes full of contempt.

Silence.

She placed the tray onto the floor and sprang out of bed and began busying 

herself with the necessary regiments that would prepare her for a day at the 

office, all the while remaining silent.

The soundtrack of the world outside suddenly became audible. He noticed the 

the chirping of the birds, whom today seemed to belt a melancholy number, the 

distant rumble of trains and the silent cries from the communters on board, on 

their way to share carpet and teabags with people whom they neither love nor 

loathe, the sound of cars, the sound of people, the sound of life. This overture, 

with its banality and routine filled the room but was unable to topple the 

staggering silence. 

The city was officially awake now. The stains of a night well enjoyed were washed 

off the pavement. The sins of the city no longer hid in darkness, they no longer 

cowered in corners, they were apparent. The homeless slept in alleys, fermenting 

in their stench, litter sprawled across streets and avenues, mini-skirts and thongs 

were replaced by power suits and blouses, cocaine and alcohol were substituted 

for coffee and energy drinks, sexually charged banter between the young and the 

hip was gone, all that remained was silent stares in tube carriages, escapism 

came in the form of Ipods and Blackberrys, the bravado of the night before was 

hidden behind newspapers and supermarket approved literature, there were no 

friends, no lovers, just inhabitants, people unified by geogrpahy and divided by 

everything else. Yes, the civil disguise of the city was here.

Conversations.

A small part of a larger conversation I had with myself.

..you still cling to an outdated model, if you hopped aboard "the now" you might be driving full throttle, silly kid, you better off spinning the bottle, instead, you tread in the past, what a predictable bobble..

..what do you mean "the now?" Man, forget those trends, you must be one of those cats who cultivates false friendships, sorry, I mean "cyber friends". "Change is the world's constant," blah blah blah, I get it, but surely the past is just as important yet the world loves to forget it...

...the past is important, I agree with you there, but to ignore modern advances, I ask is that fair? Next you will be telling me that you despise MP3's and that you question the necessity of Sky HD, that we should tune in the wireless to Radio 3, rather than download a podcast or play a CD...

...I rarely partake in modern trends, if I do its in the form of voyeurism, besides, a lot of these advances reek of pure hedonism, time saving? maybe, but its what we do with that excess time that concerns me...

...entertainment is everything, luxury is paramount that's why we consume over-stimulation in mass amounts. I hear your point old-timer and part of me agrees, but unless you have something that can rival my Blackberry, that can offer mankind amazing internet speeds, or can at least curb my habit of having my needs met instantly, I suggest you park your rear and take 2, plus 3...

...but is it necessary to be able to browse the web on your phone, can't your spam and junk mail not wait until you get home, must you be able to poke and tweet from wherever you roam? 2 plus 3 equals five, I'm impressed you knew that, rumour has it that your generation didn't master basic maths, maybe you calculated the answer on an iPhone app...

Chapter 1..

Every so often, I write something. Usually it is opening chapters to things I rarely finish, or small anecdotes about the banality of my existence, or sometimes, when I am feeling a sense of jubilation about something, a poem of some sort. Today however, is an opening chapter.

The chaotic city spun freely, without boundaries or purpose. Neon lights littered the darkened metropolis, with the promise of entertainment and excess. It's inhabitants galloped through the night, in search of love, in search of lust. In search. All the while, time running towards them and eventually past them. This was how nights were spent, in the pursuit of happiness, seeking respite and distraction from the crippling underbelly of social distress and isolation that plagued the city.

Alcohol and moral corrosion oozed from the soiled pavements, covering everything in a potent musk of underachievement and fear. This was the city, a place of dreams and horrors, of success and failure, of wealth and distress and it was these attributes that shone bright and echoed through the blackened alleyways. Luxury cars paced the narrowing streets, carriages to the rich, driven by the poor, a salute to the capitalism that engulfed the minds and actions of all. Toxins bled from the exhausts and cigarette smoke spilled out of the cracked windows which when intertwined created a mysticism that hypnotised and blinded onlookers.

In the northern-most hub of the city, traffic was replaced with tranquility and the blinding lights were dimmed in an attempt to convey a district in slumber.From where he sat, he observed rows of houses, alike in style and colour, all of them closed to the public. He liked that. He liked that people were able to cocoon themselves away from the outside world, bury themselves in the things they thought mattered, all manner of things, from the trivial to the momentous. They all did it. Whether it be an army of literature that resided on dust covered shelves, or the heaps of backdated newspapers and periodicals that lay strewed beneath them, like the house at Number 22, or the memorabilia of a past life, of past places, of post cards and china plates with the names of capital cities emblazoned on them like at Number 18, her loved it all. Oh how he admired the residents of Hudson Close and the way in which thet all possessed the ability to personalise their space, stamp their brand of habits and customs on a property that called home.

His eyes ran across the houses and stopped at Number 26, with its gate ajar and the protruding shrubbery that had seen better days. He stared through the downstairs window. From where he stood, he could clearly see the flicker of a televison set that had been left on, the only source of light in a room that was naked, bar the solitary beanbag and table that lay rest adjacent to the television. With familiarity his eyes closed in on the room. He remembered the many days and nights spent sitting on that beanbag, staring at the walls, contemplating her whereabouts, endlessly flicking through the televisions limited five channels in a weak attempt at passing the time. All that time. Wasted. He could clearly recall the amount of scuffs and scratches on the surface of the table in the room, a skill he had acquired on one particular evening while he awaited her call. The memories. From where he stood, the room seemed as empty and as alone as he had remembered. How he wished he had claimed ownership over that space, decorated the whitewashed walls with trinkets of a life lived, with literature, music, memories. Instead, the emptiness of his life was now staring at him.

"Sod it!" he thought. "I'm going home."