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.
People dismiss Dulwich as posh. Job done. And, of course, is.
So, when do we start a concentrated bombing campaign against this heart of malignant comfort in the heart of transpontinia?
But there is more to Dulwich than that. Dulwich has estates, nuggets of deprivation. Kids growing up seeing everyday picketfenced worlds of affluent good fortune. Everyday seeing what contemporary logic refuses them. Ivory houses. Driveways stuffed with penis-extension vehicles.
Dulwich is a hub of rub-their-faces-in-it relative deprivation.
Dulwich isn’t “nice”. It is deeply insulting to the human race.
Dulwich is South London’s premier candidate for redevelopment in the FreeSouthLondon Urban Unplanning report First Against The Wall.
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.
The Lambeth Country Fair has been deemed a triumph. Locals loved it. Lots of people came, including many from over the Thamesborder. My associates over at the Revolutionary South London Tourist Board were ready to declare it a success.
But I urged caution.
I made the unusual decision to attend the Country Show in cognito. Normally I will be seen at such events in full revolutionary uniform, meeting, greeting, pressing the flesh & recruiting youngsters to our guerilla training programs. But I was very cautious of giving any indirect support to the event.
You see, my suspicions – subsequently confirmed in Brockwell Park – were that there was something retrogressive, and indeed counterrevolutionary, about the aims of the Country Show organisers.
I am, surely, not the only one to have noted that the South London Borough of Lambeth doesn’t have any countryside. Indeed, it is a glorious slab of granite citydom.
It is therefore highly bizarre that we should see such a celebration of the country pitching up in the heart of revolutionary South London…
The Famous Lambeth Countryside (stolen photograph)
The story of human civilisation is a tale of the process of urbanification. Those who live in cities are simply more highly evolved then their country bumpkin cousins. Sad. But true.
It is the role of the enlightened South Londoner to recognise and glorificate their urbanhood. The South Londoner wryly smiles as he breathes in the smog, views the grey, smells the grime and hears whatever the onomatopœia of urban noise is.
(Or she.)
What I have now realised – all to late to stop it via extraparliamentary methods – is that the Lambeth Country Show is a big stinking cowpat of propaganda against the very citydom of South London.
And to what purpose does such propaganda serve? To repress the revolutionary urges of our half-city. To foster a false city consciousness that South London is merely a peripheral entity, existing for the benefit of Imperialist Central London and the Hegemonically Powerful North. To cultivate the misapprehension that South London is not able to go alone, to break free from its shackles. To foment the poisoned ideology that, like the dairy farmer is to Tesco, we brave transpontinists are little more than slaves to the Central Hub. And, indeed, to make the South Londoners an even more backwards race by the promoting of a romantic anachronistic idyll (which never really existed).
It is the creation of both a transpontine and generally city shame, embarrassment, self-loathing. This is a phenomenon I will call cityguilt – the latest weapon of control.
Comrades, you must avoid the artificial shames of this multifaceted guiltfare.
Do not hate the city and consequently yourself for being a maggot within it. Embrace the city. It is the result of thousands of years of human progress. Roll around the filth with an openmouth, begging, “More! More! More!” Celebrate traffic jams with euphoric dancing. Bask in the shadows of high rise estate blocks.
Pro-actively reject the idyllic countryside lie and fight back against other encroachments they make into citylife. Avoid farmers’ markets. Boycott ITV’s Emmerdale. Make nuisance calls to the Countryside Alliance.
And, most importantly of all, stay vigilant for further hegemonic attacks from our northern enemies. As the revolutionary will surges higher, deeper and harder throughout our future-republic, their attempts to keep control will become increasingly tenuous and desperate and baffling. We left ourselves open to attack this weekend. Our fledgling national identity went out in a miniskirt and the (British) judge will say we were asking for it… Trust no-one. Except me.
Nationalistic Love,
Big Wolfie – sleeping with one eye open so you don’t have to.
South London has many enemies. North London. The British Imperialist State. Postmodernists. Spanish Royalists. The old bill. Milton Keynes. Smart-Alec satirists like Chris Morris. The hitherto unrealised threat of SS Zombies.
But if there’s one threat that appalls me most, it’s the drug threat.
Too many times I’ve seen a potential freedom fighter drugbuggered in a fuckshop doorway, startled, halucinating, begging for lecoup de grâce…
Too many times I’ve spent myself in the desperate mouth of some wide-eyed crackwhore. A wasted potential wife and mother of revolutionary cannonfodder. Tragic…
It’s heartbreaking for a revolutionary nationalist to see his people end up like this. Every drug-related death in South London is a splattering of vomit-choke on the sacred transpontine flag.
Over the last decade I have been involved in numerous anti-drug efforts within our glorious half-city.
Transpontine Anti-Rectal Transportation (TART) was a movement aimed at raising awareness and general panic about the smuggling of drugs by placing “packages” (packages of drugs) in the anus of a drugmule who would then fly into Gatwick and spread drugfilth round South London.
South London: Achtung! Coke Kills (SLACK) was another awareness-raising drive centering around the white powdered devil, cocaine. Briefly reached the nationals after we staged the death of a 6 year old girl in Camberwell. (NB: allegations that I stole the money raised in Liverpool following the girl’s “death” were never proven, so please stop e-mailing me about it).
Heroin Only Troubles Proletarians And Not The Suburbs (HOTPANTS) is a brave and on-going campaign loosely inspired by Theodore W. Adorno. It is aimed at protecting South London’s revolutionary heartlands from “smack” whilst encouraging it to run riot like a syringed demon through our decadently bourgeois outskirts (Richmond, Purley etc.) so that it may encourage the creation of an elite revolutionism akin to the hedonistic culture of Weimar Berlin. Or, at the very least, stop the fuckers voting Tory.
But now, the drugs have evolved. And so must our efforts.
Here’s our new enemy: http://www.i-doser.com/ Looks silly, doesn’t it…? Might even be a practical joke. But it isn’t. These sick geek bastards have somehow managed to digitize the effects of various drugfucks into mp3 audio files, which they sell. And not only sell, but sell AT A PRICE.
So, what happens? i-Dosers, as the addicts are known, lay motionless – presumably starkers naked as well – with headphones on while listening to some crazy shit called “binaural sound clips” from the online filthdealer, for 10-minute periods. Possibly more. Give them time and I’m sure we’ll hear reports of whole fortnights spent drugfucked listening to a Wagnerian Ring Cycle of bleepbleepbleep braincraze. And just imagine the pressure sores from the headphones.
And how long until the phrase overidose comes into usage? Well, there it is. I’ve fucking coined it.
Here’s a video of a young man getting headfucked off his tits…
Doesn’t look fun, does it kids?!!
So, come on my transpontine motherfuckers! We need to do something about this latest threat to our revolutionary potential. E-mail me at freesouthlondon@gmail.com (I’ll have the drugfilter ON) and we’ll arrange the trashing of a computer shop.
I’m going to spend the weekend going round South London throwing a warm blanket round anyone with headphones and then take them to the temporary i-Doser Rehabilitation & Re-Education Unit at the Anarcho-Situationist Commune.
Note: Mr. Moneypenny would like to state that cannabis, marijuana, skunk, funky cigarettes etc. are NOT drugs. They are important parts of our transpontine culture, and to fight against it is akin to genocide. And Mr. Moneypenny would like to further rally against recent allegations that he got very stoned the other night on a mere half of a small joint. That is an insult to his Caribbean heritage.
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:
Free South London today, in a blaze of publicity and with the authentic roar of the oppressed, pledges its support for our most glorious comrades, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea national association football team in the forthcoming imperialist pig-dog showcase of postmodern hypercapitalist slag-bitchery, the FIFA World Cup.
Free South London, being the true representative voice of the transpontine proletariat, is both humbled and inspired by the bravery and skill of the People’s Footballing Representatives as they prepare to do battle with: Brazil, the samba lackeyes of imperialism, sold out to the highest bidder (Nike) and red-raw from the subsequent rape. Ivory Coast, a nation born of European colonialism and founded on the exploitation of the elephant proletariat. And Portugal, the birthplace of vile colonial expansoploition, aka mindrape.
Our stupendously splendid comrades-in-feet have not even been put off by the hideous bourgeois imperialist prejudices & cheating of Überführer Sepp Blatter, of the monolithic ideological trans-state apparatus that is FIFAcapitalism.
We will laugh, howl, delight and stamp in joyous teleological unison as these counterrevolutionist whore-tarts succumb to the modernist supremely-planned tactical brilliance of the Democratic People’s Republic Korea, powered by a new superdrink.
With this in mind, comrades, then I heartily submerge you to join myself and the SLNK South London North Korea Supporters Club on Tuesday the15 th of June at Mango Landin’ in Brixton (twinned with Pyongyang) to witness the Brazilian national team be given a beating so profound both they and all international capitalists will taste the bitter tears of defeat and suckle on the plagueridden teat of shame.
FREE SOUTH LONDON 