I'm putting on a play about our current world. I won't be giving any of the actors scripts so they'll have to improvise any old shite that comes into their heads. I'm hoping for some monologues that make little sense, but sound powerful anyway - in a strange way.
I'll also cue light changes and sound effects and pull up and down the curtain at entirely random times so as to disorientate the cast and audience alike.
The whole show will finish with the theatre catching fire and everyone being directed to fake emergency exits that all lead to the toilet.
It'll be just like real life. It'll be very realistic.
Then of course there is the encore. Played by the final living actor, burnt a gaudy orange, coughing and sooty upon the remnants of the stage. The last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste*, sans everything.
People are saying that Edward Snowden
is a Russian asset. This is wrong. Edward Snowden actually still
works for American intelligence. I swear. And all the surveillance
stuff Snowden said that the NSA can do, all the listening on your
laptops and devices, all that stuff is a load of shite. The NSA can't
do any of that. It just wants us to think it can so we don't act
against the U.S.A.'s interests. The NSA doesn't really need to watch
us. The NSA just needs us to think that it can watch us, so it got
Snowden to tell us that this was the case, which it really isn't.
Snowden is now living in Russia and
he's spying on the Russians. The Russians know that he's a spy
though. So, when Snowden is around, the Russians talk a load of shite
about their supposed deep surveillance of the U.S.A. Snowden then
reports this shite talk back to the yanks and the yanks pretend to
believe it, but they don't because they know that the Russians are on
to Snowden because that was the intention of the yanks all along. The
yanks want the Russians to waste all their time making up pretend
espionage stuff to trick Snowden with. That way, reason the yanks,
the Russians will have less time to come up with real espionage
When it comes to real espionage,
there's actually no such thing. No one has the time. They're too busy
cooking up the fake stuff. Strictly speaking, there are no such
things as actual spies. Well, there are spies, but their job isn't to
spy. Their job is to give the people they are meant to be spying on
the impression that they're spying on them. Really though, there is
no spying going on at all, but everyone thinks there is, so they
don't make any plans. The plan is to make the enemy think you might
know what the plan is, so they scrap their plans, should they have
any, which they don't because they haven't the time.
Are you still with me? Has confusion
got you in its grip? It's all about confusion at the end of the day.
The intelligence agencies are mad for the confusion.
Did you know that back in a simpler
time, during the Cold War, the Russians used to use props in their
military parades? They'd have a huge big fake nuke, a thing that
doesn't exist at all, a big fake warhead in a parade and they'd know
that the yanks would see it and then go and waste all their time
trying to research what it was and how to make one of their own. The
yanks would waste a load of time and effort that could've been
expended on developing real nukes. That was typical of the shite that
went on in the world of geopolitical espionage. Of course, if such a
thing was attempted today, the yanks would just give the Russians the
impression that they had wasted all their time when, in fact, they
would've known that the nuke was fake all along. And the extra twist
on top of this would be that the Russians would know that the yanks
know the nuke is fake, but the Russians would be happy enough because
the yanks would still end up wasting a load of time and effort on
giving the Russians the impression that they were wasting a load of
time and effort.
Do you see my meaning? Is what I'm
trying to impart clear to you at all?
Look, it's like this, spies know that
reality is irrelevant. The world of spies is a post-reality world.
It's just trolling really. Troll and counter-troll. If James Bond
films were realistic, Bond would just be going around saying he
bedded all those women and blew up all those secret bases, but the
reality would be him sitting around in hotel lobbies trying to look
suspicious but feeling kind of lonely and wondering what it's all for
and if there is such a thing as anything at all and he'd frequently
check his reflection in panes of glass to make sure that he's still
there and, deep down, he'd be hoping that one day he won't be. Or
maybe, like David Shayler, Bond would see his reflection and declare
to himself 'I am the messiah and hold the secret of eternal life.'
It's hard for spies to keep their feet
on the ground. That's why they're advised to keep weights in their
footwear. This also makes them easier to sink, when they need to be
disposed of. We'll all have weights in our shoes soon enough.
Donald. You probably know this. I'm everywhere, even here now. Yes,
I'm Donald. You've heard all the jokes and theories about me. About
why I am where I am. The cultural and socio-economic reasons and, you
know, that stuff. Blame it on neoliberalism or racism or reality TV or, well,
I'll tell you something though.
Something people don't talk about so much. Something I know very
well. Something even I don't talk about. Let me tell you this. My
father gave me everything, or at least an awful lot, and that left me
feeling bad. Really, believe me. I felt really bad. I felt like I
never made anything for myself, you know, so I needed to do that,
right. You understand me. OK. So, I needed people to take me for me,
but I didn't know who 'me' was right, so I gradually became this kind
of a thing and I put this thing that I became out there and here I am
and, you know, I'm very successful. I mean, I say that I'm successful
all the time and people say that I'm not. They say I lost a lot of
money and all of this, but I'm not talking about money. I'm talking
about real estate, mental real estate. I own property and that
property is in your head. It's mental space and it gives me value. It
makes me feel great too. I feel very valued. I like feeling valued,
right. Don't we all like to feel valued? You know it. You know we do.
Valued is something that my father never made me feel. I had to do
that for myself and I was very successful at it. I built a home in
everyone's mind and that gives me value and now I'm trading in that
value and do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy the
world. The whole world. I'm going to take the world, another thing my
father couldn't give me by the way, and I'm going to destroy it and
then I'm going to see what happens. Maybe I'll find out who I am
because, you know, that's the one thing I really don't know. That's
the one thing I never figured out and I guess by destroying
everything I'm going to discover it, right? Sure. I'll destroy
everything and by that I mean absolutely everything, believe me, I'll
destroy it while you guys cheer or boo or whatever, like I could care
less how you feel about it by the way, as long as you feel strongly
about it, and then, when everything is destroyed, you'll look at me,
Donald, and I will look back at
you. I'll look straight into your eyes, straight in there, and I'll
say 'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'
That's what's going to happen folks,
believe me, and I know that my father may not have been proud of what
I'm destined to become, but boy would he ever have been impressed.
I visited a nation called 'Nation'.
Needless to say, the citizens of this nation were called
'Nationalists'. Initially, I thought Nation was the most
unimaginative country I'd ever been too. The streets were all named
'Street Street' and the cities were all called 'City'. The postal addresses
were a disaster. Every house was unnumbered and had the address
House, Street Street, City, Nation. Mail rarely arrived at the right
place. When I pointed this out to a Nationalist he laughed and said
'au contraire my friend, in Nation the mail cannot help but arrive at
the correct destination.' This Nationalist then took a sip of the
national drink, which was a drink named 'drink' that was usually
enjoyed with the national meal that was a meal named 'meal'. Also,
this man was called 'Person' as were all people in Nation.
Rather than lack of imagination,
Nation's reason for naming things after what they were, even if there
was lots of the same thing, was to prevent difference. It was
reasoned by the founder of Nation (and the very first person to take
the name 'Person') that difference was the cause of all conflict and
therefore everything must be the same.
However, the problem of difference is
difficult to overcome and it eventually reared its ugly head. What
happened was this, one day two people called Person had a
disagreement about which was better, drink or meal. Person and
Person's disagreement grew to a row that caused a fist fight and then
their relatives got involved and it was person against person, or
Person against Person as the case may be and indeed was, in this
case. This brawl grew and grew and resulted in a short lived civil
war. It seemed that everyone in Nation secretly longed for the
excitement and stimulation that only conflict can provide, and this
desire was overwhelming. Where it comes to conflict, people just
can't help themselves. Even if the people are all called Person.
Eventually everything was wrecked and
ruined and shite and everyone got sick of it and wanted things back
the way they were, so everything went back to the way it was – but
with one big difference. Steps were taken to ensure that war would
never reoccur in the great nation of Nation. It was decided that
everything - the people, the houses, the streets, the cities, the
drinks and the meals - all of it, would be renamed 'Thing'. Even the
nation itself was renamed 'Thing' and, so far, this seems to be
working. It's even harder to get the mail to the right address now,
addresses invariably being Thing, Thing Thing, Thing, Thing, Thing,
but no one seems to mind. Despite the inefficiencies, the things of
Thing are content enough to just get on with doing their thing.
...everyone woke up and moved their
lips to speak but the only sound that came out was the sound of a
klaxon. An alarming, blaring, enraging, fucking klaxon.
And everyone cleared their throats, but
it did no good.
And everyone rinsed out their mouths,
but it did no good.
And everyone sucked a lozenge, but it
did no good.
And everyone was very unhappy because
they thought they would never get the chance to insult each other
So everyone went on the internet, to
type their insults into cyberspace, but when they placed their hands
on their keyboards everyone saw that their fingers had turned into
logs of shit. Ten logs of shit was all they had, five per hand. And
everyone was startled to see their shit fingers and everyone screamed, but all they emitted was a terrible klaxon sound.
So there everyone was, honking and
weeping in front of computers that were covered in shit.
But after a while, everyone adjusted
because people can adjust to anything. The human race is a very
And in no time at all, it felt like
nothing had ever changed and everyone just carried on. Instead of
insulting each other they just honked at each other and instead of typing callous and cruel remarks into the internet, they just smeared
shit all over their computer screens.