Back to the Wall
“Come the revolution they’ll be the first up against the wall”. I love that phrase. Always have. It’s one I remember being used from being a small child. That and “C’mon you motherfuckin piece of shit” which are magic words which have been passed down in my family from father to child for generations. Usually they’re accompanied by the cough of a cold engine, but experience has taught that they can be successfully adapted to almost any situation where force and frustration aren’t working. This love of extremely violent solutions to problems is probably the sign of an intolerant individual but I am an intolerant individual. I don’t regret this fact - I’m proud of it. Although I realise that come the revolution, intolerant individuals will probably be the first against the wall - this particular one intends to have a large gun (or a big knife) and settle a few scores before I’m dragged kicking and screaming to meet the firing squad. By the way, you know the last cigarette thing…well I’ll be all right, but all you non-smokers are fucked, that’s a good five minutes of precious life you’ll lose before the blindfold goes on - seven if you smoke rollups - and we all know that it’s in those last five minutes that the telegram rescinding the execution comes through so, if I were you I’d light up.
I just wish this revolution would hurry up and arrive because people are starting to piss me off. To qualify, I’m not referring to any revolution that could possibly end in either “ist” or “ism” because they just don’t work and the people that subscribe to them are generally annoying and should be taken out by a Chubb fuddler. I’m talking about that wonderful day when you get to take out people who are especially irritating to you, sod it, lets be honest here, the golden day when they give me a gun, a cohort of highly trained soldiers and crown me eternal and undisputed ruler of the universe. Stop tutting even the goodest of the do-gooders once in a while dreams of the good they could do with an Uzi.
Now even as undisputed ruler of the universe the extermination of annoying individuals is not without its problems. Finding the right wall is not easy. The following criteria have to be met; Height - it’s no good having a wall that your prisoner can escape over. Durability - you don’t want the bloody thing to collapse after the first round of bullets. Accessibility - if your soldiers can’t get to it then it’s no good. Length - unless you’re going to kill them one at a time then you really need a wall long enough to accommodate everyone. Design - you can be a despot and still have good taste despite all evidence to the contrary.
When I first started and the list in my mental black book was quite small I used Hadrians Wall which fulfilled all of the above (if you like shabby chic) and had the added bonuses of being liberally supplied with National Trust teashops and as it was in the North East of England, relatively accessible to a child. Unfortunately, by the time I reached 13 Hadrians Wall had run out of space so I started on the Great Wall of China which if it’s somewhat short of National trust Tea-room has the added bonus that I’ll be able to watch the executions from my impregnable space fortress on the moon. (Yeah yeah, I know you can’t really see the Great Wall of China from space - obviously if I can build an impregnable fortress on the moon then I can find a pair of really good binoculars.)
Now those who are backed to the brick will not include people who are currently in power. I have no desire to create a new world order other than one that puts me firmly in control of everything, so a couple of nights of long knives and muffled screams will quickly rid the world of the heads of all major, minor and made-up social, religious and political groups. At the same time my minions can also take out anyone who wears tracksuits other than on their way to or from a gym. No, my killings will be altruistic in fact you could classify them as mercy killings. Fair enough they’ll be merciful only for me but as all the best self help books state - you have to be good to yourself before you can be good to others. So here’s my starter for five.
1.Sting. Not even the Police can save him (I mean the group, as obviously the violence of my regime would ensure the loyalty of law enforcement agencies.) I am able to forgive his execrable ballads, all of which now seem to have the same chord progression. I’m able to bypass the fact that he wrote Roxanne as he can hardly be held accountable for the countless drunks that think being able to scream the word at the top of their voices makes them a singer. I have no problem with his championing of Tantric sex although I feel that if he must bang on, he should restrict it to the privacy of his bedroom. I don’t have any issue with his obvious vanity as vanity is good for the soul and under my regime will become mandatory. Even the fact that he and his wife introduced Guy Richie to Madonna (and they seem to be breeding) isn’t really a shooting offence although it does mean that Mr Richie is likely to churn out more of his ghastly films that resemble an Eastenders Christmas special. Sting is being stung for a far more heinous crime - the calculating manipulation of his Geordieism. Far be it from me to decry anyone for ruthlessly using anything that comes to hand in the pursuit of a fast buck but I refuse to be convinced by someone who brings out an album documenting and lamenting life in the shipyards when his accent seems to have floated down the Tyne, hung a right and ended up in the Mid Atlantic.
2.The inventors of GHD straighteners and all derivatives thereof. I don’t mind ironing. I don’t particularly like doing it but I admit on aesthetic grounds there are things that look better ironed. White shirts for example are, if properly ironed, a work of art that makes anything by Da Vinci pall in comparison. Ironed sheets give a sensuous pleasure that would put Belle Du Jour out of business. So I will iron most things - eventually. But I draw the line at ironing my hair. Now mind, this is not a tirade against those who have real straight hair (even though I’m madly jealous of them) or even those who (like me) need to contain the frizz. No. My gripe is the sort of ghd straightened hair that makes you look a soap star. I remain convinced that there’s something in the straightening process that flattens your brain cells. I have never had an intelligent conversation with someone who straightens their hair and as I believe that fools should suffer rather than be suffered, line ‘em up and give them a frizzy perm before pulling the trigger.
While we’re on the subject of fascist fashion tips we need to add women who don’t wear bras. I realise that this is a highly political statement however as I have already stated that anyone who solely defines themselves by a term that ends in ists and isms will be taken out by the Chubb fuddler I’m not taking a pop at feminists but at sloppy dressers. If you can hold a pencil underneath your boobs - get wired. Breasts are like meringues, a certain amount of lifting and separating is required in order for them to look their best and not frighten innocent passers-by. Charlie Dimmock’s unfettered bosom is not a pretty sight although in a (belated) attempt to appear impartial nether is builders crack. (In either sex the only people who look good in hipsters are those who have no hips and a concave stomach) Additionally pigtails and bunches will be banned in anyone over the age of twelve, you can’t complain about the increase in paedophilia when it’s trendy for a grown woman to dress up like a child. If you team the pigtails with granny glasses in a misguided attempt to look intellectual then I’m not even going to waste a bullet on you. Instead I decree that all your limbs be tightly secured by your own hair bands until you get gangrene and die of blood poisoning.
3. The last paragraph brings me nicely to the subject of intellectuals. I know that it’s a cliche for a dictator to execute intellectuals but I’m afraid I can sympathise. In this case I’m not targeting anyone who is likely to come up with some sort of Utopian manifesto or document the atrocities of the state but intellectuals of the pseudo variety. You know the sort, instantly recognisable by their granny glasses, ugly shoes and a tendency to drop the names of obscure artists, writers, etc. at any available opportunity in a vain attempt to appear intelligent. They are unable to draw any conclusions of their own but instead reference everything in relation to its juxtapositioning, paradigm and ability to tap into the well of deep despair that is their psyche. This will all have been set out in a crit which was released by a tiny publishing house that has cornered the market in wannabes. Whatever their discipline (and most are would-be artists themselves) they seem to have replaced “think” with “talk” and added “a genius” to Descartes original statement and remained stuck at the anal stage of development (whatever crap they produce needs to be oohed and aahed over and displayed to all and sundry.) First in the queue is a person I went to Goldsmiths with who spent three years making extremely bad plaster casts of potatoes.
4. Men who’s feet are unnaturally small in relation to their height. This is added at my mums request. Apparently men with small feet are always strange. I’m not quite sure why (perhaps it’s because they steal your shoes) but if, as ruler of the universe, you can’t make your mum happy then there must be something wrong with you. I’ll also add men who pluck their eyebrows in a way that makes them look distinctly suspect (I was going to put like an old queen but on reflection I don’t think that any old queen would do a such a bad job) which would see Tony Blair splatted if it weren’t for the fact that he’d be taken out by my night of the long knives.
5. Parents. Not mine, obviously and not yours if they’re sensible. I realise that this will prove to be even more unpopular then machine gunning the inventors of hair straighteners but I feel it must be done. I’m afraid I remain unconvinced by the “miracle” of birth. Any fool can (and unfortunately does) have sex and so the ability to spit out a sprog isn’t that specialised. I have no problem with little bleary chocolate smeared faces and three wheeled pushchairs pissing off people who drink in Starbucks but that’s mainly because I never go to Starbucks - their non-smoking policy being the first reason and the fact that their coffee tastes like too strong Nescafe the second. So I’m not crying over spilt chocca mocha frappe latte and I have no particular gripe with the rug rats themselves. No, my particular problem is with those parents who seem to think that engaging in a reasoned discussion with a child will somehow prevent the child from running amok and being a nuisance to all and sundry. It doesn’t. Children, like puppies need to be trained. They’re egocentric, manipulative little shits because they have to be. Their whining voices are an evolutionary throwback designed in order to ensure their survival. It’s a parents job to make sure that they aren’t heard in public. Unfortunately children aren’t born with manners and they don’t develop along with motor skills. There’s nothing wrong with teaching children manners. It doesn’t suppress their individuality in fact it ensures that they aren’t immediately dismissed as an annoying individuals later in life. In order that these misguided parents fully appreciate this fact I propose that if they attempt to argue with the firing squad - a nice firm no and the promise of a smack if they persist is the only response.
God hasten the day the world comes to its senses and votes me in.