MY 11-STEP INDUCTION INTO THE CULT OF CORBYN (PART 3)

Reading Time: 5 minutes


THE GOLDEN DAWN; CAMDEN CHAOS-MAGICIANS; AND THE WINTER OF MILD DISCOMFORT


By Stevedore McCormack (sic)


STEP #8: MANCHURIAN CANDIDATES AND LOW-GRADE PATSIES


Kenneth Pringle took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled a mighty cloud of smoke and delivered his coup de grace: ‘I am now 100% certain that Stephen Kinnock is a mind-controlled asset. His wife, Helle Thorning-Schmidt is his de facto handler; just as Glenys was his father’s mind-control handler. It is generational; they like to keep it in the family.’ He registered my open-mouthed expression.
He sighed, crushed his cigarette out on the Formica table-top and leaned back.
‘You remember the Westland Affair?’ He asked, patiently
‘Vaguely’, I replied. ‘Wasn’t it something to do with helicopters?’
He chuckled. ‘Thatcher was on the ropes, it was up to Kinnock to merely pick his spot and bury her. By all accounts the Iron Lady was ashen as she took her seat on the front bench. But somehow, miraculously, Kinnock blew it. It was an open goal and he managed to hoof the ball right up into the gallery. He waffled on and on about nothing – it seemed to onlookers like the mutterings of a madman. It made absolutely no sense. That is until – until – you realise this: Glenys, his erstwhile wife and handler had suggested a game of cards to calm his nerves beforehand’.
He sat back triumphantly, and waited. Unfortunately, once again I had absolutely no idea what he meant.
-‘I’m sorry, a game of cards?’ I shook my head, really none the wiser. He sighed again.
‘I take it you’ve never seen the Manchurian Candidate, with Angela Lansbury?’ I had to admit I hadn’t, so that night I downloaded and watched it again. I now believe I understand why Kenneth Pringle placed so much importance on that seemingly innocent ‘game of cards’

(Above) Glenys Kinnock, 1986


But why would Glenys Kinnock want her husband to fail? …


Ultimately Kenneth Pringle is in no doubt that Kinnock’s one and only job as Labour Leader was to put all the ‘cards’ in place: expel militants; float the idea of ditching Clause 4; and hold the seat until the right ‘candidate’ was put in place. For all this to be accomplished the country had to be allowed to lurch further to the Right, this was in order that Labour’s rightward lurch would seem lesser in comparison. Ultimately Thatcher had to be allowed to remain in power for as long as possible.

(Stephen Kinnock and father Neil; pictured with their respective handlers)


STEP #9: THE CAMDEN COUNCIL/ ALEISTER CROWLEY CONNECTION


One ex-Camden Labour councillor I was introduced to claims he witnessed, on several occasions, magickal rituals taking place in the basement of Camden Town Hall. These ceremonies, he insists were often presided over by Frank Dobson, who was regarded as a kind of ceremonial high-priest.

(Above) Frank Dobson: High-Priest and chaos magician?


“Initially Camden was a very socialist borough”, explains the ex-councillor. “The ceremonies were power-rituals, but they were generally intended to further the socialist cause. Then one day Frank wasn’t there and in his place, wearing Franks’ robe was this younger, slimmer man. Suddenly the candles were darker, the whole thing was darker: the energies I mean. We were being steered away from these gentle Wiccan ceremonies and toward something far darker and insidious.
“Who was the young man?” I asked.
“He soon went on to be communications director for Neil Kinnock, that’s all I’m saying”

(Above) Neil Kinnock receives instructions from his Communications Director.

 

STEP #10 – THE CORBYN-CONNECTION


Whilst all of this was fascinating I was still no nearer to cracking the enigma that is Jeremy Corbyn, and neither, it seemed, did either Pringle or Meeks.


Kenneth Pringle did however permit me an afternoon to trawl through his extensive notes whilst he was attending the Truth-Seeker Expo at Chelmsford. Having tried to make sense of his extensive notes on the Labour Party-occult connections (Barbara Castle as the Scarlet Woman anyone?); eventually I stumbled across this intriguing piece of paper:

It seems Pringle was indeed at some point following up some intriguing leads, but for some reason they seemed to have been halted (or maybe he had become distracted; there seemed to be an inordinate amount of research into Hazel Blears for instance). To my untrained eye his ideas did appear a little far-fetched, but then again I was by this time so far through the looking-glass I had no idea of what the truth of anything was anymore.


STEP #11 LABELS…..


The question I started out seeking to answer somehow got lost along the way. The question was, am I part of the Cult of Corbyn? It is after all, an accusation bandied around by various worthies such as Dan Hodges; Julia Huntley-Brewer; and even esteemed authors such as J K Rowling.


– In truth I feel I am no closer to a definitive answer (and I worry that this may be due to my successful brainwashing). Yet upon reflection it now seems more likely that I am, (along with so very many other Labour members) merely a hapless pawn, a pawn like so many others who is caught in the crossfire between two eternally warring camps.


Perhaps I need to turn to metaphor to get closer to the truth. So, with that in mind, imagine this:


Two shadowy wizards are perched high upon facing mountaintops. No one knows how long they’ve been up there. In different guises, perhaps they’ve been up there forever; throwing magical lightning bolts at one another. Currently upon the right-sided mountain is the wizard Mandelson; steeped in the dark magic of Crowley; his thunderbolts are composed of media spin and soundbites. Upon the left is the wizard Lansman; versed in the arcane magic of the Kabala; his thunderbolts are comprised of social media memes and carefully targeted cyphers.


Ironically the faction once known as New Labour employs the devices of Old Magic (via old media), whilst those who are decried as representing old and hopelessly outdated Labour, conversely use the devices of New Magic. Each side are wedded to their own visions; both camps are immovable; each accusing the other of encouraging cult-like devotion.


We each pick our side; we each employ our own trusted, if lesser weapons.
Yet all the while, as this unseen and eternal war rages, there is a man who engenders both hatred and devotion. He is a bearded man, and he looks remarkably like David Nellist.


Now finally, picture this:


It is night-time, and in a relatively modest kitchen in North London, the bearded man screws shut the seal on yet another pot of jam. He slowly and carefully wipes his hands upon his tracksuit trousers and crosses the kitchen in order to turn out the kitchen light, but he does not exit. Instead he walks back into the now darkened kitchen, cups his hands around his face and peers out of the window. He allows his eyes to adjust awhile, until he can see the few remaining stars not quite obliterated by the glare of the sodium streetlights outside.


He hums a tune; the tune is unrecognisable at first.


Tum-dum-te-dum
Dum tum-te-dum …
He starts to sing softly at first, and now the song becomes evident….

Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We’ll keep the red flag flying here


He pulls his face back from the window, lowers his arms and smiles secretly to himself.


He exits the kitchen.


All is quiet and still now within the darkened kitchen, until -the solitary jar of jam is briefly illuminated by the flashing lights of a passing police-car, or maybe an ambulance. Upon the jar there is a sticker, and upon that sticker is written one word.


And that word is…


Quince

 

You can read Part One of My induction into the Cult of Corbyn here, and part 2 here

By Steve McAuliffe

You can read more from the collective here, or listen to a range of left views on our podcast

MY INDUCTION INTO THE CULT OF CORBYN (Part 2)

Reading Time: 3 minutes

 by Stevedore McCormack (sic)


Read Part One of the Cult of Corbyn Series here

I have a confession: on marches and demos in the 80’s I never quite knew who I was listening to up on those makeshift stages. I often got confused between Dave Nellist and Jeremy Corbyn (I suppose in retrospect it must have been the beards).

Jeremy Corbyn (left) with Dave Nellist (on the right)


Nonetheless, Corbyn and/or Nellist always seemed to be present at these events; firing up the righteous anger. Whether it was calling for an end to racism; an end to apartheid; supporting the miners; or opposing Clause 22, Corbyn/Nellist was always present it seemed. They were fringe-players; protest leaders within an increasingly pro-monetarist party (at least that is how it seemed to us). I mean, who would have thought that three decades later they would go on to shock the world by becoming leader of the Labour party?
But I digress….

 


STEP 6: THATCHERISM AND MILITANT MIND-CONTROL


A decade before Neil Kinnock triumphantly took to the stage like a deranged fool, pumping the air and proclaiming ‘well all-riiigh’; all- riiiigh’!!’ To a delirious and equally delusional crowd, Labour was in disarray. Gerald Kauffman, (seemingly oblivious to Proust’s opus ‘In Search of Lost Time’) had described the 1983 Labour Manifesto as ‘the longest suicide note in history’.


Meanwhile Michael Foot was accused of wearing a donkey jacket to the Cenotaph, despite the fact it was actually a rather expensive coat (one which the Queen Mother herself had even complimented him upon); and all the while the dreaded Margaret Thatcher was merrily scything her way through the Industrial North and preparing for an unnecessary jingoist war in the Mid-Atlantic.


During those dark days of Thatcherism, all seemed lost for those of us who were ideologically positioned on the left. But all the while, behind the scenes, the militant wing of Labour was biding its time, and plotting. A certain Mr Corbyn would be at the centre of this ‘long march’ to power; as too would a man once famously described by the Daily Telegraph as, ‘the embodiment of purest evil’, John McDonnell.


STEP 7: THE WAR FOR OUR MINDS (THE INTERNET AND MCDONNELL’S TIME MACHINE)


I remember one of the Ruskin lecturers telling us that within little over a decade’s time the political information war would not be fought through our television screens, or via the pages of the newspapers, but on the internet. A few of us laughed at the very idea. For back in 1997 the internet was still something of an unknown quantity to many of us. I think we just assumed that too many people would be far too busy wanking to bother with politics.


Little did we know that many would perfect the art of doing both simultaneously.


Whilst the left, through so-called grass-root-movements like Momentum (via Twitter and Facebook) have perfected the art of the soundbite and meme, there has been a potent counter-thrust from the alt-right. They have successfully infiltrated so-called conspiracy sites like TruthGun.com
One blogger in particular, the now-infamous ‘X’ has become something of a legend in alt-right circles.


In April of 2017 ‘X’ posted a typically cryptic yet incendiary thread via one of the open forums on TruthGun – the thread soon ‘caught fire’ and many ‘Truthers’ -who had long decried the pernicious influence of Cultural Marxism – began to believe that the ‘Shadow Chancellor of the United Kingdom’ was, and is, in possession of a Time Machine. The thread ran as follows:

Proof.
Marxist Chancellor of UK government (in waiting) has possession of device to make good on his word
See 2010 speech to Union congress
Leading ‘Blairites’ know he has this thing, hence terrified.
Hence trying to remove the Bearded King
Think Iron Lady
Think grassy knoll
Think reality altered
See patent below.
Now imagine UK future altered to accommodate Marxist future. Long time in planning
Fruition imminent.
END MESSAGE

Beneath his seemingly cryptic message was a copy for a patent (see below)

The patent (above) is breezily headed ‘Time Machine’ and it supposedly displays the signature ‘John McDonnell’.


According to X, ‘the shadow chancellor has yet to confirm or deny whether the signature is in fact his, as many have claimed’.


If we follow X’s advice (as many did) and go back to the headlines of 2010, we see that yes indeed, John McDonnell did ‘jokingly’ tell members at a union hustings that if he could have just one wish, it would be to possess a time machine; then travel back in time to the 1980’s; whereupon he would happily assassinate Margaret Thatcher.

Thus in alt-right circles many to this day still believe that the endless smearing and attempted coups from within Labour’s ranks are not intended merely to unseat Corbyn, but to prevent a Chancellor of the Exchequer from gaining power and utilising his dreaded Time Machine.

Stephen Kinnock MP. What does he actually know?
(TruthGun July 2017)

COMING SOON: THE THIRD AND FINAL PART OF ‘MY INDUCTION INTO THE CORBYN CULT’

 

By Steve McAuliffe

 

You can read more Ungagged Writing here, or listen to a range of left voices on our podcast

The day of the Royal Baby Drop (An on the spot report)

Reading Time: 8 minutes

We’ve been on the scramble for the scoop. The run down of just what happened in that fucking hospital. And they’ve closed ranks. Even the Middleton’s uncle Pauline wouldn’t say a bastard thing. Johnny and I absolutely barked questions at Witchell and plied the greasyshit with@_Ungagged‘s annual entertainments budget (a fucking tenner. There’s nothing entertaining about Ungagged!) Luckily the fucker loves Tonic Wine. Johnny and I polished off a bottle of Gordon’s as we drilled him, but to no avail. He just kept crying, “I was once a war correspondent! ” and was sick over his shoes. “Fucking get him more booze! ” I shouted, and Kirkwood the weather showed up just in time with the BBC. “I’ve pointed at weather pictures for twenty years,” petty cash cheque book.

The next thing I see are two walking Union Jack’s saunter into the pub, as if madmen like that are entitled to fuck with our brains! Johnny shot up, grabs a fucking dolly, YES A FUCKING DOLLY! from one of them, opens the door and throws it like he’s a fucking All Black. One of the horrors, grabs Johnny and starts shouting filth that sounded like, “Yoir aw fukin ripublicin muthdirin batathrd!”

The bar was in uproar. Witchell was sobbing, Kirkwood was taking the opportunity to grab a few bags of salt and vinegar and the Murdoch mob almost had their old chaps polished to nothing.

Weatherall, the barman with the wit of a fucking cow on Mary Jane, crashed through the plywood bar door, grabbed the screaming Union Jack Jock and threw him after his fucking doll. His little side kick squealed something Glaswegian and ran out. Thing is, he forgot HIS doll.

We are in lock down while we decide a course of action. More later. Out.

Next Morning…

Fuck. Things degenerated last night. The Prince Doll is in a secret location. Weatherall guarded the premises all night, while we debated our next course of action over three bottles of gin, a bottle of vodka, and many reviving euro-lagers. Let’s see how this plays out…

Later…

All taking turns watching the door. Shut-eye in the toilets only. Staying alert. The madness that has overcome the nation could be infectious. The Prince Doll owner has been seen again outside, grinning with other Windsor Worshippers. It’s only a matter of time. Witchell has been given leave to chase the next story. Could be a death, anniversary or birthday, WHO KNOWS? We plan to stake out the Albert Hall, The Mall and that fuckng hospital. And the brewery isn’t due for a day and a half. Ends. (More later, as it happens)

Much Later…

Prince Doll owner broke through our defenses. Weatherall had to open the cellar for a local plod – a few bottles keeps them from dispersing our late night journalistic plenaries.

I was on point, but had been reviving Johnny with one of those caffeinated alcho-fizz concoctions  – he’d fallen asleep during a particularly frantic description of the scrum around the Duke of Wessex opening ceremony at a state of the art traffic cone emplacement training facility in Hull, by Roderick, the intern at Halt! magazine, the industry publication for traffic diversionary logistics.

He missed the sorry tale of Wessex fending off questions about his great nephew. According to Roderick, Wessex seemed to know as much about the sprog, the mother and the father as he did traffic cones, and almost ran through the grinning mob of halfwit local press nine-to-fivers.

Anyway, as I was administering said pick-me-up, the union flag clad working-class chap walked across the fucking Rubicon River like a triumphant, cross-eyed, vacant looking version of Caesar returning from his victory over a fucking deer filled forest.

The chap walked unadulterated to the bar, annoyingly after 27 hours of our strategy and rotational keeping dick. Johnny immediately came round stood up and without saying anything, ran straight out of the bar! With Weatherall in the cellar, Witchell already digging for the next Windsor event, and everyone else fucking sleeping, I was left to deal with the threat! More later. ENDS

30 mins later…

London, 2018.

And a grown man dressed in a Union Flag three piece suit and tie, is sobbing into a pint of British Lager. He’s lost his doll. His baby doll. Not just any doll, but a Prince Windsor Doll. I have a dilemma. I need this scoop. I need to get to the heart of darkness.

But, I know who has the doll. I don’t exactly know where the doll is, but I know where the person is who hid the doll. He’s in the cellar, with a police officer. And I’m here, with perhaps the most dangerous Scotsman in London.

What would you do? I’m a journalist. I’ve got to understand. Or at least, I must report. I’ve got to find the facts. I’ve got to stay neutral. I’ve got to get on that dingy and navigate the Nùng and befriend this Colonel Kurtz. There is only one thing to do.

30 mins before…

I got up from the table and moved slowly towards the gammon dressed in a deckchair. He was grinning. They all grin. Or weep. Or curtsy. The Windsors think most of us do. Their public either chase them on fucking mopeds or weep, grin or curtsy. They really do think we are cunts.

The Dolly man walked over to the bar. And waited. Grinning. And I knew Weatherall and the officer were sampling a few Jameson’s.

“Yes?” I was trembling. I had walked through crowds of them at Royal do’s before.

But they are distracted at those. This was an isolated one, and we HAD to talk… I needed to find out. Where does this madness start? Is it dangerous? Can anyone catch this… This condition? “Ahm doon tae see tha we’an.” He spoke. He could speak.

“Do you like booze, my good man?” I replied.

I felt stupid. Somehow inferior. This man was here, displaying for all to see, all that he was. An honest man. And here was I, about to dissect him & read his entrails. He looked me up and down, and smiled wider.

“Yoo tha barman?”

“No, but I can get you booze,” is all I could reply.

My mind was all over the place, and it’d been half an hour since my last gin.

Fucking war correspondents? Fuck them. War is predictable. Soldiers, drones, terrorists even-they have physical laws.

A Scot dressed in a Union Jack in Ye Old Cheshire Cheese is something the late Stephen Hawking could never have predicted. More later… ENDS.

Continued…

Nature’s gentleman. Le bon sauvage. Here he was, standing, a human labarum. The very essence of all Royal Propaganda, since Julius Caesar and before, had created. This was not a man, but the epitome of the fealty Aristocracy ventured to create since the legions finally left the Britons, defenseless and ready for exploitation. I poured him a Lager.

“Do you dress like this every day?” This was me dallying around the edges. But I had to work around the circle to find a gap in the defenses. I needed to know his purpose. His raison d’etre.

What culture was this? Was there a place where such nobility roamed?

“Aye man. Me an ma da, we are Sco’linds biggest Royal fans, man.”

I was in danger territory here. I could tell this warrior could turn on me if I pressed the wrong keys. I could sense this man was highly tuned. His senses were on alert. He knew the doll was here. At this point, I have to tell you, it was not my intention to torture this soldier. My intention was to help. And giving him the doll was not a kind thing to do. And I knew.

He was playing with me. This could end in violence. I almost collapsed with the weight of what was happening. It had to stop.

“You are here for the doll,” I said, unwavering from my mission. I had been deserted by the corps. But I was going to take out the machine gun myself.

“Aw pal, hae ye saw it, ye ken whurr it is, like?” His language, his sentence structure was unfamiliar, but I was getting the gist. His eyes bore through to the back of my head. This gladiator was close to winning. I was sweating, and almost ready to cave in. But I pushed on.

“There may be others who do. But I am not obliged to say, dear chap.”

I turned away. I couldn’t bear his fucking eyes! Heavy, empty, like the blackest part of the universe, sucking in light, but unseeing. I poured something into a glass. Fuck knows what it was, but I downed it.

“Ye ken whurr tha babbie is?” I was trembling. I poured something else and downed it.

“ITS DEAD! THE PRINCE DOLL IS DEAD!” I turned & looked at him, ready to grab the ice bucket in my defence… And the fucker cried.

This was a weapon I had not thought about using.

This was a man with an armoury like the Tower of London, and he chose his weapon well.

“FUCK!”

I thought about throwing up down my shirt. I thought about pissing myself. I thought about playing dead. But none of these could out manoeuvre his globular tears splashing in the pissy British Lager.

And then Witchell walked in. He looked as if he’d been wrestling with Katie Melua’s new album. His brow was pinched like a dehydrated pugs anus. And he spotted the sobbing wild man at the bar. It was too much. I tried to shout,

I WANTED to shout, “NO! THINK OF THE SCOOP!” But Witchell was on him like Trump stuck in a lift with Macron. Only the passion was played out through Witchell’s long nails, gouging, scratching, ripping at the bust mattress that had been Scotland’s only Royalist.

As they clawed, screamed, slapped and flapped, I knew I had to wait. Witchell was the professional. If anyone knew how to get to the essence of the story, it was him.

The name of every Royal baby in living memory has been announced by Witchell.

His disappointment this time is so great in being involved in another story that, this time, will go with him to the grave. Louis was not to be his. This was given to the new boys on the block The Sky News Sharks. The propagandists employed by Putin. CNN. The wannabe Jennie Bonds of the Alternative Media. Breitbart heiled a new leader of men, Buzzfeed proclaimed the name ten minutes before Kate was told she came up with it.

And Witchell was behind bars, sobbing the name “Louis,” like a dying Charles Foster Kane.

How did it end like this? Well, the Royalist Scottish walking Union Jack wasin Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, searching for his baby doll. I was raiding the bar, unable to carry out my duties as an investigative reporter. The fucker had defeated me like no one since Diana had.

This symbol of Royal power-the essence of power- the axle around which the whole British system turns, stood crying into his pint knowing the rest of us had to turn as he did. No power in Britain would exist without this man and his doll. And he couldn’t have it. This man denied the chance to demean himself, kissing and caressing this battery operated Prince “Louis” Doll could bring down the whole institution of hereditary power.

Or not.

We knew this was a test.

But, Witchell, frustrated by the younger, e-journos beating him to Royal announcement after Royal announcement was too much. He saw his scoop dead, drowned, shattered. And there in the bar, stood the diversion, the image that encaptured all that was wrong with the succession of new media “journalists” sitting on his rightful throne, the one he had taken from Sergeant Major Jennie Bond after she had retired.

He grabbed Union Jack Jock by the neck and pulled him off the barstool, just as Weatherall walked in from the cellar with Constable Barns, who was grinning from ear to ear holding the fucking doll aloft!

 Everyone froze.

I’ve never heard a silence like it.

Almost as quiet as the News of the World Christmas do, 2016.

I ducked behind the bar, saving the nearest bottle of something, unscrewing the lid and glugging  something sickly sweet down my gullet.

When I awoke, Weatherall was brushing up glass, and the bar seemed to have lost the seige atmosphere.

“What happened?”

“They named it Louis.”

“Fuck.”

“Mr Witchell, the doll man and the doll are in custody.” And bail was posted by a Mr Cambridge, showing how our press, our public and tat are bought, recycled and trussed up by our betters.

ENDS

Prick Knobinson, Royal Correspondant 

Tattooed

Reading Time: 5 minutes
[CN: Nazi atrocities, revenge]

image5
Sandra Webster

This story originally appeared in The University of Glasgow’s Creative Writing Showcase, issue 26

 

Gunter Hollinger had many regrets in his life. He had never married nor had children, he had seen little of the world apart from his corner of it.
Now nearing the end of his life he also regretted the time in the camp. Every night when he closed his eyes his dreams were full of the faces of those he had encountered on their arrival at the camp. These were the lucky few who lived to die another day still in shock, half
hoping that their mothers, wives and children had been taken to the Kinder camp.
That first day, after they had been shaved and deloused and stripped of their humanity, they would offer him their arm and he would record the number by which they would now be known. Gunter was proud he was one of the lowest numbers – 000047. The last one he
tattooed was 865879. Between these numbers only 200 survived to tell of the atrocities.
Gunter, as one of the survivors, had been a witness at many trials where the guards and Kapos had been brought to justice for their crimes. There was never any doubt that Gunter was a victim too but he always felt responsible. He could have been more gentle, been kinder, not cooperated.
It only seemed fitting that after the war he would continue to tattoo. He opened a parlour in a local town. Some of his first client were the ex camp inhabitants. They fell into two groups. Some, like Gunter, did not flinch from letting others seeing their tattoo as it
served as an external mark of the collective guilt of a society. Others wanted to forget the past and for them Gunter gently covered the numbers with faces of loved ones, or flowers. He looked at each person and gently reflected their soul into the tattoo, trying his best to cover over his own guilt and that of the other tattooists.
Some people who did what he did called themselves ‘tattoo artists’ but to his clients and himself he was always ‘the tattooist’.
Although Gunter never regarded himself as an artist, his reputation grew. Now in his fifties he was the owner of a very successful business. People came from all round the country for one of his special designs. He had a gift for looking into their minds and removing from it the
perfect image that would suit only them. No matter how successful he became though, he could never forget the little room in Treblinka where he had first honed his craft.
One day a man came into his shop. A decade older than himself perhaps. He looked at the drawing books while Gunter finished the tattoo of his last customer. Gunter thought he didn’t look like one of the clients from the camps but he had the look of a survivor about him. He didn’t seem to be comfortable in his own skin, as if like them he carried an invisible load on his shoulders. When Gunter was finished he asked the man to sit down.
‘Please Sir, take a seat, can I get you a coffee?’
The man looked at Gunter and shook his head.
‘No thank you, I have had so many cups of coffee today. I have been so nervous you know?’
Gunter smiled. ‘Don’t worry Sir. I have tattooed so many people.’ He pointed to his head. ‘And each of them is stored right in here. I have not had one complaint yet.’
‘I like your work,’ the man replied. ‘But I have a special project for you.’
‘All my work is special Sir. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back, and in thirty years I have never had to make a refund.’
The man shuffled uncomfortably in the chair.
‘I have a secret,’ he said. ‘Something I regret in my youth. It was youthful high spirits – you know how the young are – but I want it covered over before I go to meet my Maker,
which will be very soon.’
He rolled up his shirt sleeve and showed Gunter a very old Waffen SS blood group tattoo in Gothic script just above his right elbow. B to show his blood group, in case he required a transfusion. Gunter sucked in his breath and tried not to react. Such Gothic blood tattoos were very rare and among the oldest of the Nazi tattoos he knew of. This meant the man was not just a recruit but a volunteer to the Waffen SS as early as 1937. Well before the
rest of the country had jumped onto the Hitler bandwagon.
Gunter was aware of his less rare tattoo and was glad it was cold and he wore a long shirt and coat today.
‘I have never seen one before Sir, how unusual. What would you like me to do?’
‘I want it covered over,’ the man replied. ‘I do not want to go to my grave with this. Can you help me?’
Gunter worried if this was some sort of trap. Did others know about him, was he being threatened? He refused to be frightened of such an old man and took control of the situation.
‘Of course Sir, but it will hurt, being where it is, and will take some time. Do you have a design in mind?’
‘I’ll leave that to you. Just do it quickly so I can leave it behind. I know you are the best so please do this for me.’
Gunter prepared the needles, trying not to tremble. He had waited years for this opportunity to put right the past. This old man was his ticket to karma.
‘My gift is to cover up Sir, never fear. That mark will be obliterated and covered with my art.’
The man was flustered. ‘Yes, yes, I am in a hurry, just get on with it.’
In that instant Gunter knew exactly what he was going to do.
He sprayed the alcohol onto the man’s arm. Felt him shiver with its cool touch. Then he poised with the needles above him. This was going to be his masterpiece.
Being directly on the bone, the needles caused the man severe pain. He held it in, as Gunter knew he would.

Gunter enjoyed feeling his pain, causing it. He had not been gentle with his first tattooed ones and now he could inflict a little on the man. Usually he talked and
chatted while he worked, but an almost supernatural force took over him and he had no desire to make small talk with a man such as this. Nothing in common but a brand on their skin they had both had to accept.
At last he was finished. He looked at his work and was proud of it. The man looked nervously down.
‘You have finished at last, may I have a look?’
‘Of course Sir, let me get a mirror.’
The man looked in the mirror at the image Gunter had created of his soul. A man in a Nazi uniform, wearing a pair of jackboots, stood on top of a pyramid of small crushed, bleeding bodies.
‘I have covered over your brand to your satisfaction?’
The man looked at Gunter and smiled.
‘I have at most a week to live. I hope when I go to meet my Maker he will be satisfied with your work. How much do I owe you?’
‘For this there is no charge Sir, for now we are equals.’ Gunter smiled. ‘Good Day to you Sir.’
Gunter turned his back, and when he looked round the man had left the shop.

BLAKE’S WAKE

Reading Time: 2 minutes

 

image1
Steve McAuliffe

Corridors and doors; strip-lighting; more corridors; fast-walking, important walking. Blake was escorted at top-speed. Blake was on his way to see God.
They led him into a bullet-shaped capsule then followed him in… Whoosh of doors. The windows were tinted thus Blake could not see out. He knew they were travelling at great speed however, although there was no movement or sound to indicate that fact.
Then things went a little trippy. He felt drugged, although pleasantly so.
Somehow he knew he wasn’t in danger, so he closed his eyes.
The last thing he saw was an angel escort smiling back at him, the golden crossbow resting against her shining breast-plate … and then ….
When he awoke he found himself walking: down another corridor, flanked by the same angel-security. The way their heads darted from left to right reminded Blake of Secret Service Agents – like in the movies. These corridors were wider, taller than the previous ones. There was piped muzak -Elton John, he thought, though the title eluded him (something about a horny-backed toad?)
Blake suddenly felt lighter, full of humour, good cheer you might say.
You won’t put me in your penthouse … I’m going back to my plough…
He smiled to himself … and then …. A voice
‘God will see you now’
Blake awoke with a start. He was slumped on a leather sofa. An angel with a striped tie was stood over him.
‘So he really wants to see me?’ He croaked, somewhat groggily.
The man nodded, adjusted his collar and glanced at the place where his watch used to be. Blake stood, and allowed the angel to lead him to the doors.
The doors were huge, wooden; heavy wood, dark wood.
These were important doors.
Blake’s legs went weak, his mouth dried.
Supposing God didn’t like me?
I mean, the man with thin lips at the Great Library took an instant dislike to me, even though I’d gone out of my way to be polite to him.
The mighty doors opened silently, of their own accord.
Blake gulped.
Bright light emitted from the widening gap in glorious sunbeam-like rays. Blake expected harps and heavenly choirs, and thus they sounded in his head. He was frozen to the spot, and somehow the doors were now behind him. He was in the room.
He was in God’s room.
Bloody hell.
The light slowly dimmed, the heavenly chorus subsided in his head. And then, God spoke unto Blake:
‘Welcome Blake!’
Blake looked around, he could see no one. The angel with the tie nudged him and nodded toward a small door off to the side. God was behind that door.
‘How do I address him?’ he whispered to the angel
“You may call me … Lord” thundered a reply.
The suited angel leaned in and whispered ‘the Lord is all seeing and all-hearing’
‘Then why do I work in surveillance?’
The tie gasped, Blake froze.
Oh shit.
“Because I choose that you should work in surveillance!” thundered the voice behind the door.
‘I’m sorry’
‘-MY LORD!’ corrected God.
Blake had not got off to a good start. The tie was shaking his head at him.
‘What can I do?’ thought Blake
“You can start by telling me the truth about yourself” replied God.
‘Did he just read my mind?’ thought Blake
“Yes” replied God.
All of a sudden Blake regretted his ambition.
And he regretted his imagination.
But most of all he regretted his Catholic upbringing.

 

 

NoseBlind

Reading Time: 1 minute
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Sandra Webster

Sara sat in the clinic. She looked at the pretend smiling faces and their intake of Breathe  as they realised her class. She had grown up with this, it had became law when she was a baby. The smell depended on your designated class.

This had affected her all her life. Her teachers, her classmates looked down on her. She had a visible smell that betrayed who she was. That scent did not represent who she was though. She had lived and ignored others disgust. She was proud to be Sara. Which was why it was strangely ironic that she was at a noseblind clinic.


“Miss Sara,” a face in a mask. “Please come through”

Sara got up and smiled. She followed the doctor who did not smell.


The room was white and clinical as Sara expected. The doctor said;


“Hello, I am Doctor Sami. I can smell you of course, the 2020 act, but we can help. You are successful and one, only one, injection will set you free. Can we help?”


Freedom,’ Sara thought, from a life she had been a prisoner in. How many could not afford this treatment though?  She had to make a decision.

She took a deep breath.

“Yes” she said.

A Gift Comes Calling…

Reading Time: 3 minutes
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Neil Scott
This story also appears on Neil’s blog
As the scientists looked at each other in disbelief, outside their Lower Withington building across the street, Corey stood up, turned his head from side to side, stretched and took his first tentative steps in the 31 years he had been on planet earth.No one had ever wanted Corey, not even his mother, who had abandoned him on the steps of the Cathedral, just a mile or so away from the spot he sat every day in his wheelchair, begging for change. On the run up to Christmas people felt guilty. Those people who walked past him trying not to meet his eye, as he said, “Have a good day.” He could afford to eat something most days.

His usual day would be like nothing these people had ever experienced. His Christmas would usually be a fight for food, a bottle or two and a fusty mattress in a spike (he called it that name, laughing, because the others in the dosshouse had no idea what he was on about), and middle class liberals assuaging the guilt they had for voting for less tax and a massive “defence” budget, served food on their once a year penance; food the local supermarket usually threw into the skip that his hungry, misshapen bones wouldn’t let him reach.

It had been reported as a rock, around 400 metres by forty, “Oumuamua,” “The Messenger,” and it had shot past earth, steady, silent and faster than anything that had ever been recorded in the solar system. And the scientists heard the warming, comfortingly embracing noise in disbelief, as everyone did.

Report of “Alien Spacecrft,” December 2017 HERE

Corey wasn’t the only life changed when the signal enveloped the earth. Opaque eyes saw colour and faces for the first time and cacophony, orchestra and whispers vibrated auditory ossicles newly formed in old ears.

Jessica, whose life support had been switched off while her family wept around her hospital bed in Belfast, suddenly sat up and laughed. She was 97 years old, and wanted to dance and no one, not even those expecting her demise were going to stop her.

Five year old Michelle clicked her knees back into place and the screams of her mother stopped as she emerged from under the fifteen year old Ford Escort, driven by the suddenly sober Iain MacHick who hadn’t seen her run onto the road to try to catch her pink rubber bouncy ball. MacHick cried, and was glad he would never need alcohol again to feel equal to the task of living. Michelle had learned not to run onto the road. Her mother glared at MacHick, took her child by the bloodied, but uncut hand and walked away from death.

All over the world, sickness, illness, inabilities and disability disappeared.

John, who had always wanted to examine the stars ever since he first watched Power Rangers twenty-five years before this moment, cried as he read the message on his screen. It had affirmed the message in his head. The knowledge he had regained. The lost feeling, he had lived with all his life, a background noise that everyone had fought, grabbed, self-medicated and stolen for, to muffle. Screens across the world were carrying the same affirmation of what everyone all at once knew. The knowledge they would gain later had yet to filter to them and TV producers and directors puzzled over who had intercepted their signals and minds.

Tina and Kodi pointed at the interactive smart board in Mr Kumar’s class. Mr Kumar was explaining how to use a speech bubble, when the board seemed to switch itself on.

Most of the class of eight-year olds could read the message when it first flickered onto the screen. And then they all could, even Demi, who had never been able to read her own name.

Demi knew it was a Christmas Gift. A Gift from Santa, who Jack had said that morning didn’t exist. She knew he did and he had given her the gift of reading by switching on a part of her brain that she had until now, not explored.

No one panicked, and everyone in shops laughed at the stupidity of the money they no longer needed.

Debts disappeared as they all knew, suddenly, how ridiculous the notion that people owned things.

The world started to feed itself and heal, and the hoarders and those who had accrued billions of everything were forgiven as prisoners were. They had not known what they were doing. They had been forced into a system that really was absurd, sick and had nearly killed the world by mistake.

People rushed to ensure no belly was empty. The horror of the old system hit everyone at once and they became free.

And the message that came with the cure, the first contact, the reawakening, the resetting of Earth became a message they all understood from the second the long cigar shaped craft enveloped their senses as it sped through space towards other galaxies long forgotten and left in the cold.

“Welcome back to the Universe. Sorry we took so long.”

Nuremberg

Reading Time: 6 minutes
The sky is low and grey and wet today. I walk as fast as my middle aged legs will take me towards the warmth of the overcrowded train, meeting no-one’s eye from the moment I leave my warm, tidy flat.
Last night I watched TV as I do every night. It doesn’t entertain me. I don’t seek entertainment. I don’t seek peace. I seek enough distraction there in that quiet, musical-less space, until that feeling I will shut down for the night, and begin the day again as soon as my body has had enough of Morpheus’ gift.
Sleep is a gift, something to take me away from the gift I share with the Nazi’s children on the documentary I watched. One accepted his father crimes – his father and mother both being cruel to him; distant; afraid of love. And both stealing and killing from the interned; those they had marked with a star and damned. The other, brought up in a loving Nazi’s home, unable to square the kind father with the man who had commanded executions and torture.
My own guilt is not so easy to either stand firm and say, “I did that. I am a horrible mass murderer;” nor is it easy to say, “I am generally a nice person – I fight the system I’m caught in…”
Because here I go again, pushing against the wind and rain, avoiding the rush hour tyres throwing puddles towards me; trying to focus only on the next part of my distracting routine; buy a newspaper and a black, ultra strong coffee from the vendor on the platform. The same smiling face, surprising me every day by asking me asking me if its my usual I’ll be having – someone so young, hopeful and stuck in a routine and I know, satisfyingly, she won’t think of me until my soulless eyes gaze upwards towards her again tomorrow.
I’m earlier than usual. This is not good. This means a wait for the train that can only be filled by reading something from the paper at the side of the track, opening a newspaper and holding my coffee.
I slow my pace. Maybe if I walk slower and concentrate on surroundings; watch other wet drones head towards their places of work to earn their heat and distracting TV and packaged, microwaved, reconstituted food; perhaps that will distract me.
My glasses are covered in droplets, my peaked cap losing the battle with Scottish rain that defies gravity and falls in impossible angles. I want to be under the cover of the shelter at the train; I want the brief human contact to be over. I want my coffee and a paper to distract.
And the guilt washes over me. The deaths I have caused, the suffering, the total breakdown of humanity I have created and continue to create for my heat and soup.
I think of the children battling for their lives, the mothers who will cry blood over the bodies of their sons because of me. Because of what I do, every day, to buy stuff some other poor person has been forced to create in order to afford heat and cheap food.

Nuremberg was the height of humanity and logic after a war and after the liberation of the death camps – fair trials of those who were responsible for decisions that meant the extermination of millions of people. The world was able to work towards a cleansing because the Nazi’s – the murderers – were carefully tried; given time to realis their part in the machine of death they had created, alone in their cells or in the dock; and the guilty were sentenced – their sins purged, leaving only time to heal what they’d done.

Every day I make this journey, knowing that somewhere in Syria, Yemen, Iraq, and other theatres of war, death, annihilation people will die because of my alarm wakening me this morning. Because I have this routine, because I fill the silences with distraction and wont forgo my heat, food and peaked cap.
I arrive at the station, and cross the bridge to the centre platform. And I look up at the girl, and she says, “same as usual?” And I nod. She fills the coffee filter, twists it around, pulls the lever and sets the paper cup underneath the trickling brown liquid and turns and lifts The Guardian from her rack and hands it over to me. The same distracting, satisfying routine as I stand here, water dripping from my cap. I take off my glasses and wipe them with a serviette and she smiles.
She smiles at the mass murderer, the man who today will take the decision to carry on in the system and create death; blast communities into the stone age; tear children apart; vaporise mothers, brothers, sisters, old and young.
Her face changes and I realise I am crying. The routine has been broken and the wall has been breached, for a small time. My regret spills out for a moment, acknowledged by this girl.
“Are you OK?”
I look at her, and I go cold. I’ve slipped. She does know me. She looks at me as if her world has crumbled, embarrassed. This exchange has gone beyond the usual mumbled “Good morning,” and “Thanks.”
I stare, horrified, but out of control and I sob.
She looks from right to left. There is no queue. And everyone is facing the direction of the approaching train.
And I think, “What will I do?”
And I say, “What will I do?”
And she says, “What has happened?” Her action of capping the coffee cup with its lid, wrapping it in a serviette and moving it through the space between us is retarded, she is moving through a starch thickened atmosphere, created by my spasmodic sobs.
The train pulls in and eventually I reach for the coffee, delve into my pocket and thrust the fiver at her. I usually wait for change but I turn and make for the train.
The day goes as it usually does; I read the paper on the train – death, destruction, bad decisions of political people, singers screwing and footballers failing or not. I kill thousands through my work. I go home, picking up pizza on the walk to my house, and live the brightness of the One Show, find a documentary about Stone Henge, watch a chewing gum Netflix series I never remember the name of, get sleepy and barely make it to bed before I fall asleep.
My uniform is dry, and the morning outside is cold, icy, misty. My glasses steam up and I wipe them on my cuff.
The acrid taste of the exhaust of the rush hour traffic fills my asthmatic lungs. But I think, “at least it isn’t phosphorous or the sharp metal rain of fragmentation or shrapnel. I know the difference between these words, as I should in the killing business.
I made sure this morning that I filled my cereal bowl a little more and had two glasses of orange juice – just to ensure my timings are right. I wont have to slow my usual pace.
How will she react? I need the coffee and I need the paper, otherwise, my head will be filled even further with the screaming, dying children than it usually is.
I can’t avoid her, I cant avoid the routine. But I’ll just keep it to my usual interaction; walk towards the kiosk, smile a “Good morning,” and she’ll give me my usual and I’ll board the train, keep my head down, buried in distraction and the day will eventually pass.
As I walk, I try to think about the man explaining the acoustics of Stone Henge, the ancient sounds that those people once must have thought were the amplified voices of the sky Gods. But my mind quickly flicks to the dirty faces of the refugees walking through the muddy fields, unwanted after the ordeal I have put them through. Hated by people across Europe for daring to leave the burning metal and forces that rip them apart.
And here I am walking to the place I make the decision every day to go to. A place where decisions are made to help create the perfect white hot metal storm to rip through their houses, churches, mosques, shops, schools, weddings…
I arrive at the station. I feel relief as it distracts; this problem I created yesterday, and my solution of ensuring there is less time to think at the kiosk. Less time to dwell.
I approach the kiosk. She looks down at me, I smile and say, “Good morning.”
And she doesn’t say the usual, automatic words. The meaningless exchange, the exchange we have every day that can be forgotten as soon as it has played out has been broken, as if someone has drawn a chisel across a record.
“How are you today?” She says, looking concerned.
I don’t now what to say. I open my mouth, and I want to say, “A large black Americano with an extra shot and a Guardian, please,” but I cant.
Yesterday comes flooding back. My grief at that moment. The slip. The chink between the veil of pretence that all is normal opens. And I freeze. With my mouth open.
“Is everything OK?” She says.
I look from right to left. No one is looking. Everyone is ignoring the world around them; engaging in important distracting trolling on their phones; reading papers; watching the tracks; watching the time table.
She is looking at me kindly. 
 
I think, “What’s wrong is I kill thousands of people every day; men, women and children…”
I say, “What’s wrong is I kill thousands of people every day; men, women and children…”
Her brow furrows. “Are you OK?” She says again.
I say, “No. Im not. I take part in the butchering of families and communities. I buy my coffee and my Guardian from you and heat my house and buy my crap food with the proceeds of my murders.”
And I sob and walk away.
And the train arrives and I get on the train, crying. I have no distracting Guardian; no coffee to give me a distracting focus. I think of the lives I will end or destroy today.
I get off at my station and walk the short journey to my work and I clock in, and go to my machine and load it with wire, start it up and press the button that makes the ball bearings fall into the tray I inspect and pass on to the next guy…
There will never be a Nuremberg for me.