In Defence of Jonnie Marbles

After careful deliberation, something unfashionable in the internet age, I’m offering the revolutionary transpontine interpretation of recent events.

Jonnie Marbles sat through hours of polite investigation, gentle probing and media elite slippery avoidance. Elite gently nibbling elite.

He politely tweeted commentary, as it seems did half the world.

And then he stuck a pie in the face world renowned bastard, Rupert Murdoch.

And then all (polite, ineffective complaining) hell broke loose. Marbles, in absentia, was dragged over the lukewarm coals of digital justice by panicking lefties and dreary salt-of-the-earth types. He had, apparently, ruined everything. The chance to topple Murdoch’s Empire gone, vanished in a splatter of shaving custard. Apparently.

But I put it to you all that the problem lies not in Marbles’ stunt, but in the complete failure of the rest of us to join in.

There is a class of disreputable bastards of which Murdoch is currently merely the most visible that deserve at the very least a pie in the face.

Ten solid days of worldwide pie throwing would drag us closer to something resembling utopia than at any point in non-theological history.

But do we pick up the pies and join in? No! We make crawling attempts to intellectualize our own lack of balls. We decry the bravest man amongst us as somehow cowardly. We roar inside with jealousy knowing this damn sexy bastard has lived so brighter in one moment than we ever will. We even go so low as to dehumanize the elderly as an invented class of unables (would you babytalk a “nigger”?)

The problem with Marbles is, if anything, that he is too much for this world. This world, from Tooting to Tehran, should be pitipataring to the sound of the #splat hashtag made real, made revolutionary, made plural.

Marbles, I’m proud of you. I’m honoured you picked up the luridity and melodrama of our transpontine ways in your time in Mitcham, and so fantastically unleashed in the face of an enemy.

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Exclusive: Kate’s Dress

Having come across certain information thanks to certain minions riffling through certain important bins, I can unofficially announce who has designed digestive biscuit vagina’d Kate Middleton’s wedding dress…

Andres Serrano!

Yes, indeed. At posh o’clock Kate, having been lowered into Westminster Abbey by crane, will be wheeled down the aisle in a very special art installation. Crucified on a wooden cross and submerged in a vat of royal urine. Not unlike the past week’s experience of being alive in this teetering, shameful city.

The Census 2011

Ten years ago the Census managed to completely ignore the plight of South London. Not this time, comrades. This time we fight back. Find question 15, ‘How would you describe your national identity?’ Fill in SOUTH LONDONER.

And then take it a stage further. Find question 16, ‘What is your ethnic group?’

Go down to ‘Other ethnic group’ and tick ‘Any other ethnic group, write in’ and fill in TRANSPONTINE.

 

Little Ease

New revolutionary short film regarding the decline of the tie, the City of London, the decivilising process & medieval torture…

Pre-Memoriam: Elephant & Castle Shopping Centre

Today I visited an old friend. An old friend on death row. Haphazardry may have delayed the execution by two years… but they are definitely beyond reprieve. Bulldozers and cranes – a particularly savage deathodology – will rip them apart in 2012.

South London is a world leader in bittersweet concurrent dichotomies. She is at once central and provincial – or, to use the sociological language, both core and peripheral. Andfore, I willfully believe, beautiful/ugly for it. Much as the Virgin Mary is both saint and slut, South London too straddles seemingly incompatible dualities at once. And where else could be the epiphany of such be but our Cathedral of now & then, good & bad – the Elephant & Castle Shopping Centre.

I set off from my Anarcho-Situationist Commune expecting to find a wreck. A useless shell echoing faintly with former glories & nagging regrets. Elephant & Castle Shopping Centre, sentenced to death for someone else’s crimes: the post-war town planning of modernity’s rationality. Knock it down. And dance upon its grave immediately with the hoisting of a new contemporary development.

But… my friend was… alive! Vibrant. Vivid. Vivacious. It’s a mess, certainly, a mandarin-enraging crumblejumble of not-neatness. What we have is an abandoned 1960s brutalist shopping mall – there is something of the post-apocalyptic here – but like fungus growing in a dampridden flat, life starts anew. The 20th century supermarket meets the medieval village market. Stalls selling crap, fabrics, tat, bits, bobs, gloriously delicious foodstuffs, boomin’ reggae vibrations, and general material titillations, have, over long years, popped up hicklety-picklety/fractal geometry/in your face/what a lovely place. From a ridiculous beginning – an absolute failure – South Londoner’s inherent transpontine truculence (a fair reaction to being an unwanted appendage) has seen them make something of nothing.

This is the exact kind of thing, a sort of “natural” or “chaotic” multilayered living-irony, a kind of playful fractal mix, that inspires postmodernism. But South London’s organic analogue dualities are under threat from a hypercapitalist hunger to continue their project of rationalised – McDonaldized – postmodern homogenuous designed dualities. And to think that hypercathedral of pomo, the glass’d & steel’d mall-centric Redevelopment Project, is going to knock this beauty of a social hub down into dust… Put bluntly, this grand artefact is going to be literally destroyed because the likes of Starbucks and Gap can’t be arsed opening up in a heterodox shopping centre.

This isn’t a call to arms, although I wish it could be (and I am bloody tempted to chain myself to the beautiful red E&C statue when the bulldozers finally come). Rather, I am documenting the faint echo of an already lost possible future. Oh, the pathetic tides we are swept along in.

So, Elephant & Castle is threatened with the ghosttownisation of homogeneous rationalisation. The irony is (and my word don’t they love lashings of it!) that the implementation of this project – “Europe’s biggest” (as was Auschwitz) – will kill what it hopes to recreate. Stupid bastards.

Bloody Sunday, The Saville Enquiry & The/the Troubles

In my Radio Free South London interview with Mr. Reggie Chamberlain-King of West Belfast, he eloquently explained that the continued existance of The Troubles in Northern Ireland, even just in terms as a topic of interest & conversation, of tourist & academic whim, is essentially a continuation of The Troubles.

I expect therefore that he may well be cautios of the publication of the Saville Enquiry‘s report into the Bloody Sunday shootings of 1972, given as it will – and is – sparking off more talk & interest in The Troubles, and according to this Chamberlain-King thesis, continuing the divisions of The* Troubles.

I would like to play Devil’s advocate (for Mr. Reggie Chamberlain-King has indeed played the Devil), Do the benefits if any of this enquiry, be it the quest for truth, justice or retribution, amount to enough of a Pro to counterbalance the Con of this continuation?

In a world of African civil slaughters, Chinese mining fuckgasms, countless alcohol-related deaths and highspeed hit & runs, 12 years enquiry to an incident that occured nearly 40 years ago seems, whilst not unjust, certainly unusual. It is quite clear the enquiry is about the symbolic value of Bloody Sunday more than any value of of human life. And it is, I think, the symbolic life of The Troubles that is the continuation.**

A space will now be left for Reggie to respond, should he at all disagree with me, or alternatively to congratulate me:

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* = I even fear my capitalization of “The” is part of this very process.

** = Which includes this. Fuckchops.

Radio Free South London

Mr. Reggie Chamberlain-King

In this exert from my slot on Radio Free South London (more piratical than a Cornish pasty with a hook for a crust) I interview West Belfast’s favourite intellectual and future Philosopher-King, Reggie Chamberlain-King. We discuss politics on both sides of the Irish-Thames Sea(s). This will be of particular interest to (1) the Northern Irish, (2) South Londoners, (3) fans of hot exotic genius, and (4) all women of breeding age and intact apparatus.

For those of you used to me giving the so-called great & good the run around on my previous radio interviews (including former Prime Minister Tony Blair, professional vague feminist Germaine Greer & disgraced footballer Wayne Lampard) you’re in for a shock. The fabulous Reggie probably wins this heavyweight contest of international jousting. On points.

Wolfgang Moneypenny & Reggie Chamberlain-King on Radio Free South London by RadioFreeSouthLondon

N. Londonian Puppets’ Moves for Confrontation and War Flailed

The British Imperial puppet authorities finally issued the “results of investigation” in which they groundlessly linked the case of the death of the Thames Whale with the revolutionary will of South London despite the accusations and protest at home and abroad. This is an intolerable provocation against the revolutionary will of South London and an undisguised declaration of a war against it. The South London Press says this in a signed commentary.

The commentary goes on: It is also an intentional and premeditated plot to push the inter-Londonian relations to total collapse and ignite a war of aggression against the revolutionary will of South London in collusion with their U.S. and Japanese masters under the pretext of the Thames Whale case.

The Thames Whale case was an unprecedented charade crafted by the group of traitors keen on escalating confrontation.

The “investigation into the case” was nothing but a red herring as it was aimed to zealously spread a rumor about the “South’s involvement in the case” and thus fan up atmosphere for extreme animosity toward fellow countrymen and confrontation with them amongNorth Londoners  of different circles and, at the same time, openly unleash a war of aggression against the revolutionary will of South London in collusion with foreign forces under the pretext of what it called “security crisis”.

A saying goes a club is fit for a mad dog. The army and people of the revolutionary will of South London will never pardon the group of traitors getting hell-bent on confrontation and war, dare taking issue with fellow countrymen.

We do not know empty talk.

The reckless racket of the puppet forces will lead to a dirge of the traitorous clique.

Word!

Why I Refused To Go To The Orwell Prize

I was offered a last minute invite to the Orwell Prize, the increasingly famous political writing award ceremony dancing, er, I mean built upon the memory of George Orwell’s work. I didn’t accept the invitation. In fact, the thought of going filled me with a profound counterrevolutionary nausea.

I don’t need to go to the privilidged core of the International Bourgeois City of Central London to hobnob with a load of self-promoting establishment-reshaping educated intellectualagencia types to be told how bad life is going to be for everyone else.

I don’t need to suckle that untrustworthy info-nozzle. I get my information from the streets. And, recently, a complicated system of demographically questionable focus groups. But predominantly from the streets.
It’s only a few physical miles away from tonight’s privilidged core event, but a metaparadigm shiftwards whole bunch of miles (metaphorically).

Spinning in his grave. Possibly. I don't want to upset any religious types, but I'm not convinced the dead can literally spin.

I remain, dancing, nonchalantly on the cusp. The wrong side of the butterknife. The free thinking cowboy rounding up the joint herd of Truth & Hope in the wildest of liminal zones.

Also, I have toothache.

In Talks With The BBC

I am delighted to announce that FreeSouthLondon are in preliminary negotiations with regard to me presenting a high profile BBC television program.

By “preliminary negotiations” I do of course mean I am leaving obscene answerphone messages demanding to present Newsnight and smearing excrement over Jeremy Paxman’s front door. But we all need to start somewhere. I am willing to go All The Way for South London. You can thank me in the future with statues & daughters.

Peace of cheesecake. Representations to your ‘bourhood.