"I Pledge Allegiance"

I have three major issues with this alleged "pledge of alleginace" that the Government wants to bring into use:

1. I have an issue pledging unfaltering allegiance to any ideal, people or belief when all three are subject to change. I have no problem with the Queen but I will not pledge allegiance to a group of inbred tourist attractions, and I will certainly not pledge allegiance to "Almighty God".

2. The whole thing smacks of another quick fix marketing ploy by this useless, wet Government to try and get people like Daily Mail readers off their back. Anyone that can't see through their smoke and mirrors and look at the real issues such as the bubmling of every data-centric scheme, failing economy, the growing Government desire to monitor every move one makes under the guise of keeping you 'safe', the overstretched, depleted military, the health service buckling under its own incompetance, the general social disillusion amidst the population, growing divides amongst communities and a cabinet of ministers who are more ineffective than a tissue in a gunfight, is deluding themselves by thinking this will mean anything.

3. Apparently the intent of this "Pledge" is to make people "proud of being British again". I have a small suggestion for the Government; instead of wasting time on vague, pointless incentives to make people proud of their British heritage, DO SOMETHING THAT ACTUALLY MAKES PEOPLE PROUD TO BE BRITISH FOR ONCE. The only sense of pride this country has is in its history, because we have nothing else to be proud of. Take this for example; the Government grants hundreds upon hundreds of asylum applications every year from people who are under no danger in their own country and just want to come to Britian because its Britain. They have turned down the application of a young man who is running from the very real threat of being deported to Iran and executed just for being gay. He has tried to apply to Denmark for asylum, but they too have turned down, and he now faces being returned here and then deported. Had he been granted asylum in the first place - this man who has spent the last few years studying and qualifying at a university here - he would not be in this horrifying predicament. Where's "diverse Britain" now?

So, should the "Pledge" ever come into action, you can be damn sure I won't ever be swearing by it. The Britain of today is one full of good ideas, but inept practitioners, more interested in themselves than their responsibility to the people that employ them. If you're proud of your country you have to be proud of all of it - present as well as past. And right now, the past is all the British have left to trade on.

"That Offends Me"

I can't provide a link to the story that inspired this article, but here's the jist of it: In Ireland a restauranteur successfully sued a critic for an unfavourable review that was published. On appeal by the paper it was printed in the judge overtunred the ruling and ordered a retrial.

Have we become that weak now? Have we become that wet and soppy about our feelings that we can't even stand up to a little criticism? By a professional critic? Good grief. First it was the religious that whined incessantly about having their feelings hurt. Then ethnic minorities. Then sexual minorities. Now its everyone else. Muslims whining about Muhammad being defamed. Catholics crying about Jesus being blasphemed against. Homos moaning about someone using the word faggot or blacks pissing about being called "articulate" (apparently it's a backhanded compliment because white people secretly think they all still "Tawk'en lik'en dis Masser')

I hate to break it to anyone who doesn't know this already, but having your feelings hurt is aprt of life. You will meet people in your life that for some reason unknown to you, will just not like you. And there are some people you will meet that you just can't stand. Now that goes for EVERYBODY and just because they happen to be black/Jewish/gay will not make you a racist/snti-Semite/homophobe. It just makes you normal. (Unless everyone you hate is black for example, then you've got problems).

The most unbelievable thing about this farce of a trial is what it is essentially saying; that a review by any critic should only be favourable, lest it seem upsetting to the person/institution it slanders. Now, with retaurants, art, theatre, film, music, everyone is entitled to their opinion. And if one person happens to think that you're food/film/play/album/painting/book is the artistic equivalent of Pol Pot, then they have the right to say so.

I thought everyone was entitled to their opinion? Apparently not if it might tread on any toes. As the great Steven Fry said: "It's now very common to hear people say 'Well I'm rather offended by that.' As if that gives them certain rights. It's actually nothing more - it's simply a whine; no more than a whine. 'I find that offensive.' It has no meaning, it has no purpose, it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. 'I am offended by that.' Well so fucking what."

This more or less sums up my whole theory on the matter. People whining about offence are people that are merely seeking attention for other like minded saps. Quite frankly if someone wants to hate me, my work or who I am, I don't care. If a critic has a problem with a book I put out then good for them. I may not agree with it, but good for them for having an opinion. I certainly will not whine about their unfair judgement, or as so many "celebrities" do these days, attack the reviewer as being a wanker. Get over yourself. You are not prescious or special, you're just another human being. We all have feelings and we all have opinions, and the sooner you learn to let them get hurt and grow from the experience, the better.

God, Death & Hope

"
If you read history, you'll find that God is one of the leading causes of death. Has been for thousands of years. Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Christians, all taking turns killing each other cause God told them it was a good idea. "The Sword of God", "The Blood Of The Lamb", "Vengeance is mine". Millions of dead motherfuckers. Millions of dead motherfuckers; all because they gave the wrong answer to the God question. "Do you believe in God?"
"No."
BANG. Dead.
"You believe in God?"
"Yes.""You believe in my God?"
"No."
BANG. Dead.
"My God has a bigger dick than your God!"
"
George Carlin



But just think; maybe in a thousand years time, long after we're dead, our descendants will live in a world free from religious extremism. Like the 4000 year reign of the Egyptian faith, or the 2000 year reign of the Greek/Roman faith, all religions eventually die. The Egyptians never thought it'd happen to them, the Sumer never thought it'd happen to them, the Vikings never thought it'd happen to them. 2000 years of Christianity, 1600 years of Islam, 5000-6000 years of Hinduism (which seems to just keep on going), all religions die off eventually.

No matter how many people have been absolutely convinced of the truth of a faith, no matter how many thousands or millions or billions have been condemned to a hell they never knew existed, simply because they didn't know the right words, they all die in the end. Priests, holy men, believers, extremists, fundamentalists, they all end up having their attention diverted elsewhere, all end up shaking their heads at the old mystic superstitions, and all end up believing in something else.

Maybe one day in the far off future, it won't be Christ or Muhammad or Krishna that their believing in. Maybe, just maybe, it'll be ourselves.

Soft Spot?

LONDON (Reuters) - Multicultural Britain is a "soft target" for terrorist attacks because its aims, values and political identity are divided, a leading defence think-tank said on Friday.

In a report strongly rebutted by the government, the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI) said: "We look like a soft touch. We are indeed a soft touch, from within and without."

The report, based on the findings of former military chiefs, diplomats and analysts, concluded: "The country's lack of self-confidence is in stark contrast to the implacability of its Islamist terrorist enemy."
…
"The United Kingdom presents itself as a target, as a fragmenting, post-Christian society, increasingly divided about interpretations of its history, about its national aims, its values and in its political identity," the RUSI report said.

"That fragmentation is worsened by the firm self-image of those elements within it who refuse to integrate.

"This is a problem worsened by the lack of leadership from the majority, which, in misplaced deference to multiculturalism,' failed to lay down the line to immigrant communities, thus undercutting those within them trying to fight extremism."
…
Labour MP Keith Vaz said the report was wrong to blame multiculturalism for fostering terrorism."I think one of the problems with this report is that they've not actually looked at our multicultural society to see what benefits it has given the country. It hasn't been a soft touch for terrorism," he told BBC Radio.



What an interesting little nugget of journalistic gold this turns out to be. The responses to this will be interesting. On one hand we will have Daily Mail readers and the like, rubbing their hands in glee, crying “Yes! Yes! We were right! Multiculturalism is terrible!” On the other we will have “public” organisations (highlighted by Keith Vaz (who I’ll come to later)) like the Government who will decry the study as hogwash.

The study reveals a two-fold truth about modern British society. The great experiment of multicultural Britain has not worked. This is a fact. I have written about it several times in the past, and I do not believe that having tolerance and diversity shoved down our throats, endlessly highlighting everyone’s differences and foibles while ensuring that no dares upset anyone else, is not bringing the people of the (allegedly) “United” Kingdom any closer together as a people. Quite the opposite. It is driving us apart. The religious become ever more cocooned within their faiths, immigrants are not tasked with having to fluently speak the language of the land (resulting in them keeping to extremely insular native speaking groups), the mention of skin colour always comes in the most sickeningly apologetic fashion, and no white straight married English born father dares even open his mouth any more on any subject other than sport or cars. Even talking about other white people can cause outrage these days, with Wales or Scotland having semi-constant chips on their shoulders about some barely existent television “personality” (a contradiction in terms in most cases) cracking a joke about them. The only thing that the Union is still in a majority agreement over is that they all still hate the French. (And I disagree with them on that).

But the overlords in Whitehall continue to press ahead with their dogma. If no one ever feels hard done to, no one can ever be upset and thus we’re a good Government (putting aside the massive distrust, regular scandals, civil liberties infringement, culture of spin and general incompetency that they have come to embody under Blair & Brown). This is wrong on so many levels. Firstly, it is only minorities that seem to be privileged to this kind of protection. Take for the example, the uproar caused over “Jerry Springer: The Opera” being broadcast by the BBC. Christians hated it. Plenty of people (and many prominent public figures) said “Get over it, change the channel and shut up.” Now, contrast this with the furore over the Jyllands-Potsen Muhammad cartoons. I didn’t hear a single public figure utter a peep. No one in a prominent position said – as they should have – “Get over it, don’t read the paper and shut up.” The spineless Jack Straw even had it outlawed for British papers to reprint the cartoons, fearing it might upset or offend British Muslims. France, Germany and plenty of other civilised nations reprinted them in protest. They made it clear to anyone who was protesting against free speech and freedom of artistic expression that it wasn’t going to wash in their land. So why the British climb-down? Why did the British not care about upset Christians, but wet the proverbial bed over angered Muslims?

Diversity. If no one ever feels hard done to, no one can ever be upset and thus we’re a good Government.

My opinion is that both groups should have shut up because they’re outraged based on a belief system that not everyone else shares, so it’s tough luck. (Blasphemy in a religion only applies to followers of that particular religion. Jews don’t call Christians blasphemers for eating pork, so Christians shouldn’t call atheists blasphemers for saying there is no God). The outcome of both debacles however, was this: Christians who were outraged felt that the establishment didn’t care about them, so withdrew just a little bit more from an active role with non-Christians. Rational Muslims who were upset over hardline radicals calling for the beheading of infidels felt that the Government was pandering to nutcases and withdrew just a little bit more from an active role with non-Muslims.

Another good example would be the Government sponsored rebranding of “Islamic terrorism” to “violent extremism”. Now, if it was a group of non affiliated Arabic psychopaths who were threatening to kill people, who were being unjustly branded as Muslims just because they’re Arabs, I would understand. The problem here is that the psychopaths trying to kill innocent people ARE Muslim. Just as we would call the Westboro Baptist Church (God Hates Fags/God Loves Dead Soldiers) lot Christian nut jobs/fundamentalists/psychos we have to call these Muslim nut jobs/fundamentalists/psychos the same thing. They read and follow the teachings of the Qur’an -they have an extremely literal interpretation of it, but they still read and follow its teachings – they pray five times a day, they believe that Allah is the one true God and that Muhammad is his Prophet. They are Muslims. Insane Muslims, but Muslims non-the-less. You cannot change what you are calling them just because it may upset the vast majority of Muslims that are not psychopaths. That distances them from confronting the fact that these people come from an extremist branch of their religion, and are speaking on behalf of all of them. It is their job to be openly critical of them, condemn them and do something about them as much as it is a Christian’s job to be openly critical and condemning and do something about the WBC pigs.

Of course, whenever multiculturalism gets bought up, the first thought into someone’s head/topic of conversation is Islam, because it is the hot topic with most coverage. I have just provided a perfect example of this as my last three paragraphs focussed on nothing but. However there are other aspects that disprove or affirm multiculturalism (depending on your perspective). Britain’s Indian and Chinese communities (I will not refer to their specific religions because it is only the monotheists that feel the need to do so), have been here for decades. Never a peep was made from them about their objection to having to work in a shop that sells beef. Never was a drive made by public services to print information on signs in their native language. Never was the word “diversity” or “multiculturalism” used. Granted, racism was tolerated a lot more throughout society, and they should never had had to live with that, but throughout the late eighties and nineties, when racism was regarded as the vile filth that it is, there was never, ever a problem between the Government or the communities. Everyone managed to live together side by side, black, white, brown, yellow, green, whatever.

So what was different then? Differences were not harped on about, emphasised and celebrated all the time, that’s what. There were no quotas for employers to ensure that a certain per cent of their workforce was of a specific ethnicity (the concept of institutional racism is difficult here, but employers should be tackled on why their workforce is the way it is, not made to hire a specific number irrespective of their eligibility), there were no lawsuits against Tesco making sure that Hindus didn’t have to handle beef at the checkout. They understood the way things were, and if they didn’t like it they didn’t do it. That is multiculturalism working. Just left to do its thing, no complaints, everyone being able to get along. “If you’re not interested in this aspect of my culture, fine. I don’t particularly care for that aspect off yours. We both understand and are happy” Bigots were still dealt with in the firm handed fashion that they should be, racism was not as big a problem. There were no divided communities.

"I think one of the problems with this report is that they've not actually looked at our multicultural society to see what benefits it has given the country.” This is what Keith Vaz said, and I would pose the question to him and you: Since multiculturalism has become a Government sponsored initiative name me one benefit it has given to society.

I can think of none. It has divided communities, pushed ethnicities, sexualities and capabilities apart further and further. It has demonised the majority and made the minority above any question of wrong doing. It has increased tensions between groups because a white skinhead that doesn’t particularly care for brown people can no longer just ignore them, privately hate them and go about his business. Now he has to celebrate them. He’s a fool for hating someone based on skin colour anyway, but what’s going to make him angrier; their existing or he being forced to celebrate their culture?

That’s what leads to a country that is a soft target for terrorism. Communities don’t help each other out, they do quite the opposite, they avoid one another and stick solely with their own. Many towns in areas of the north are developing clearly segregated white areas and ethnic areas. White people are complaining that they are in danger of becoming a minority in Leicester (who cares? If you don't like it, move). Muslims find they have more in common with terrorists that may kill them than they do with the people they acutally kill. Multiculturalism is driving a wedge through this country. A big, multi-pronged wedge. Identity is becoming more based on your cultural make up than who you are, allowing terrorists to slip unseen through society, hidden the veil of being Arabic/Indian/Russian/Chinese/Romanian/Polish etc. People are so afraid of being upset by something that may offend their sensibilities that businesses and institutions are trying to avoid them. Policemen have been advised to ask community leaders for advice before arresting an Islamic man. And they are. "We don't want to riisk upsetting the community." They say. "What you should be doing is telling the community to start behaving like adults and understand that police aren't out to arrest all of them, just the one suspected murdering psycho in their midst that's giving them all a bad name." Say I. You're not apologising to people, instead you're telling them to grow up.

And that’s what we need to do. Grow up. Develop a backbone, stand up and speak for yourself as an individual, not as a sheep. Not as part of a group of solely like minded people. Stop being offended by anything that contradicts your sensibilities. Stop tolerating others like you being offended by anything that contradicts your sensibilities. Stop letting others tell you what you should and shouldn’t be offended by. You’re an adult, with your own opinion. Use it.

“Are we in this thing alone, or are we in it together?”




HUMAN : TOGETHER

Torture: The Problem

Government Sanctioned Torture: The Problem

This is a vague follow up to a question I posed some time ago to friends on Facebook; “Do you agree/approve with the state sanctioning torture as a form of interrogation on persons who may be a threat to national security?” The comments that were returned - public and private (as a result I will not name any names) – proved interesting, for there seemed to be no definite consensus on whether it was agreeable or not. A lot of people seemed to raise the logical issue as a major point that it has not been proved to work; that the victim will tell the interrogator anything in order for the ordeal to stop. The question of morality seemed to follow next, which seemed to take into account the concept that if the torture was guaranteed to get results, then it was harming those who intend to harm you, and therefore was perhaps a little more forgivable, but still diminished your side’s argument. I even had a couple of opinions come in that it was okay given that “the enemy” had murderous intent toward Westerners and our way of life and thus they essentially excused themselves from any kind of Geneva convention type reprieve (though I’d wonder what these peoples opinions on Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo Bay would be).

My two cents are as follows: Torture as a form of interrogation is wrong. Any information gained through methods of torture during an interrogation should be disregarded.

My reasoning: The concept and act of torture in any form Is and should be reprehensible, from both a physical/psychological and moral standpoint to any civilised person. Morally, I believe it reduces the West’s self regarded position as a force of good to absolute rubble. We cannot preach to and lecture other countries about the importance of recognising human rights acts and Geneva Conventions when we turn a blind eye to them whenever we find it to be in our own interests. The only way to claim the moral high ground is to prove you have sufficient morality to be there, and not just when it is convenient.

I honestly believe that we have to have to moral and testicular fortitude to resist such cheap forms of interrogation. I honestly believe that we open minded, progressive members of a liberal, (partially) free, democratic and Western society owe it to ourselves to reject the notion that any kind of torture as an acceptable method of interrogation at every turn. Just because organised people in other parts of the world want to kill us does not mean that we should stoop to their level in a way of defending ourselves. Fire is not fought with fire, as many people would argue; it is quenched and defeated with water – its antithesis. For example, they force hostages to commit horrendously degrading acts, make them endure solitary confinement, beat and physically abuse them. So we resort to solitary confinement, sensory deprivation and water boarding. In response they begin decapitating hostages, so we incarcerate them on a desert island near Cuba and throw away the key. They line babies clothes with semtex to create mobile, remote bombs to assasinate unsuspecting victims (regretfully, this is no exagerration; this was how militants attempted to blow up the late Benazir Bhutto on the day she returned from exile to Pakistan), so what do we do in response? We have already lost any semblance of moral high ground, we are already plumbing the same barbaric depths that they are, so do we just carpet bomb a city? Kill all our prisoners in the most gruesome, fear inspiring way? What do we do? While this idea remains hypothetical, the events mentioned are, of course, real on both sides of the conflict. Violence only begets more violence, and the West imitating its enemies not only destroys its moral credibility, but also turns it into the exact same thing it is attempting to prevail against.

On the Western side of the torture debate, the practice of waterboarding is regularly mentioned; a process in which the victim is subjected to an experience where they believe they are drowning. The toughest suspect has lasted a little over thirty seconds under this practice before cracking, and defenders in the U.S, U.K and Israeli Governments (which have all used the practice, or information gained from the practice) have repeatedly asserted that it is not torture as it inflicts no physical injury on the victim and leaves no long lasting mental trauma. Now, in the first instance this is where the fundamental problem of the victim telling the interrogator exactly what they want to hear raises its head, as anyone who thinks they are drowning will confess to anything in order to end the ordeal (and will probably be pretty traumatized as well). But the second instance, which comes in the form of a question, is far more important, and far more revealing about the true opinion on the matter; for those who may sympathise with the concept allow yourself to answer this question: Would waterboarding - the method where you believe you are drowning and about to die - be torture if someone did it to you?

I think we both know the answer, and that is where the argument for torture – particularly water boarding - as an interrogative method crumbles. If it were done to any Westerner, civilian or military, by any Middle Eastern nation, it would be decreed as torture outright. It would be declared as brutal, cruel and horrific. There would be no shades of grey, it would be simple black and white. It was when the Nazis and the Viet Kong used it in the World War II and the Vietnam, and it still is now. Just because some prime real estate in New York was destroyed changes nothing. If you want to call yourself ‘right’, ‘good’, a ‘liberator’ and a ‘bringer of freedom’ you have to act like it. All the time.


Nothing can be more abhorrent to democracy than to imprison a person or keep him in prison because he is unpopular. This is really the test of civilization.
Winston Churchill


A patriot supports his country all the time, his Government when it deserves it.
Mark Twain

A Short Story

Prick Your Finger
By Miles Weaver

All Work Copright Miles Weaver 2008

“Just pop yourself up on here please Jonathon,” Dr Smith said in a calm, soothing manner. The slight frame of the boy, a mere ten years old, quickly sprung up onto the soft, cushioned mattress of the greying doctor’s examination table. “Now,” The doctor muttered, rummaging through his equipment to find an oversized lollypop stick, which he gripped between his thick, sausage-like fingers. “Let’s take a look at you.” Snapping a pair of thin latex gloves over his meaty hands he had the boy open his jaw. “Stick out your tongue please Jonathon.” He ordered politely, pressing down the quivering pink muscle with the spatula as it emerged from the child’s mouth. “Now, say ‘ahhhhh’.”

“Ahhhhh.” Jonathon repeated, his little throat expanding and shifting to produce the sound, all the while illuminated by the focussed surgical beam of Dr Smith’s pen light.

“Hmmm.” He wondered audibly, returning to his fastidiously organised mahogany desk, situated underneath a wall suffocated by certificates and placards that screamed his numerous professional qualifications. He groped across the polished tabletop, his hand moving like an ailing spider to reach a shiny sterile stethoscope that he looped around his neck like it costume jewellery.

“Is everything alright doctor?” Jonathon’s mother asked worriedly from her faux leather chair in the rear corner of the room.

“Nothing to be concerned about Mrs Prescott.” He reassured her. “I’m just taking a closer inspection of the patient.”

“My son.” She corrected.

“Quite.” He replied, returning behind the discreet screen that veiled the young boy from the concerned gaze of his mother. She wrung her hands like an old spinster of the seventeenth century might wring clothes, knotting and pulling on them with surprising force and angst. Her wandering eyes came to rest on the small table top advertisement on the edge of his desk: ‘Reclamation: The Sick Healing The Healthy’. She hurriedly tore her gaze from the Government sponsored slogan, refusing to consider the idea. The statement, along with the cold, patient silence that hung in the air and the overtly sanitary stench of disinfectant sent an unnerved chill throughout her body, giving her the creeping dread that she was sharing the room with a corpse.

“Just breathe in and out for me please Jonathon.” Dr Smith asked, the little body of his patient complying eagerly; the miniature chest rising and falling as the tiny nostrils flared, the fresh, tanned face of the blonde haired boy concentrating hard on showing off how healthy he was.

Suddenly the breathing shallowed and stopped, the chest cavity ceasing to move. Dr Smith backed off, a look of momentary concerned sweeping over his face before being replaced by one of curiosity as the boys breathing returned to normal. “Jonathon,” He asked, his tone dripping with syrupy sincerity. “Are you alright?”

“Mmmm hmmm.” The little boy nodded vigorously.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

His voice dropped into a whisper, calm, but slightly threatening to a boy of only ten. “Why did you stop breathing, Jonathon? It’s okay, you can tell me. I’m your friend.” Jonathon’s baby blue eyes shifted uncomfortably towards the thin, knotted carpet that adorned the floor. “What is it, Jonathon?”

“Is everything alright?” Mrs Prescott asked feverishly.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs Prescott, please don’t interrupt.” He spoke with an air of confidence that no layman would question, before dropping his voice back to the mousse whisper coated in sugar as he spoke with the boy. “What is it Jonathon? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not supposed to say.” The boy answered, his soft, churlish voice reduced to an awkward clutter of meek, clumsy sounds.

“Why?” Dr Smith whispered, stretching out the word like elastic and letting it hang in the air to resonate in the boy’s young mind. “Please tell me, Jonathon. It’s my job to make you better.” The soft smile that masked his face warmed the naïve boy’s feelings, restoring his confidence and faith in the professional man beside him.

“Sometimes, I don’t breathe very good.” He confided. “I want to, but I can’t. I can’t keep my breath going, and it makes me sleepy.”

“It makes you very tired?” The blonde head bobbed up and down in silent confirmation, the wide eyes blinking in agreement. “That’s okay, Jonathon.” He said, running his hand gently through his hair. “Don’t worry about telling me though. It’s our little secret, okay?” The duplicitous smile that warped the lines across his face was mirrored by one of genuine relief on the boy’s. “Let me just check here before we go see your mother.” He said, reaching carefully under boys chin and pressing his latex sheathed fingers gently against his glands. “Yes, I see. That’s fine.”

He gently pulled the boy off the examination table and stepped out from behind the screen, breaking the stilted silence that had been so deeply affecting Mrs Prescott. She rose sharply from her chair and walked toward her tottering son, wrapping her tender arms around him and hugging him to her cool body. “Sit down please.” Dr Smith commanded, his tone having changed from that of the caring confidant to that of a man of fixed parameters and absolutes. He sank into his deep leather chair, the throne from which he made proclamations over the healthy and the sick.

“I am glad you bought Jonathon to see me, Mrs Prescott. It is important that you did.”

“What do you mean doctor?” She asked, her voice a mix of both hesitance and denial. “Is Jonathon alright?”

“To the untrained eye, yes. Even when I saw him, he appeared to be quite a healthy little boy. I noticed only minor swelling in his throat, though that was nothing unusual, nothing to be worried about. But upon checking further, however, it was obvious to see the extent of his illness.”

“What illness?” She asked alarmed, the barren, colourless walls of the office closing in on her in an almost dreamlike fashion.

“Please Mrs Prescott, do not play ignorant.” He said, chidingly, the mother shrinking under the laser like efficiency of his perception. “It was obvious to me as soon as I pressed my stethoscope to his chest. It became even more obvious when your child stopped breathing. And I barely had to touch his glands.”

“What does this all mean?” She asked, a solitary bead of sweat beginning to trickle from under her carefully arranged hair. A tiny moist trail left in its wake like that of a slug as it cut through the fine layer of makeup on her skin.

“I’m afraid, Mrs Prescott, that hospitalization is the only course of action that I can recommend.”

The words flew from Dr Smith’s mouth like bullets fired a sniper rifle, speeding through the air and slamming into her ears, her world shattering as she realised what he was saying.

“No… Doctor, please, no… He’s only ten!”

“What does he mean mummy?” Jonathon asked, having been sitting patiently next to his mother, wondering what the round man and she were talking about.

“Don’t you worry about it Jonathon.” The practiced, placating tone retuning again, donned without a moments notice, like one might hurriedly throw on a favourite old jumper. “You’re going to be going on an adventure!”

“Where?!” The boy asked excitedly, the mere mention of the word ‘adventure’ freeing him from the eerie, cold surroundings of the doctors office and injecting colour back into things. He barely noticed his mothers trembling lip and watery eyes as she stared longingly at her son.

“What’ wrong mummy?” He asked innocently. “Why are you crying?”

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be Mrs Prescott; you know the law. Either you can take him, or I can have someone come and collect him, leaving you here, facing possible criminal charges.”

“Mummy’s not crying, Jonathon. Mummy just has something in her eye.”

“Well you must get it out! You don’t want it to hurt you!” His mother laughed painfully through her tears.

“I cannot let this linger Mrs Prescott.” Dr Smith cut in abruptly. “You need to tell me now what you want to do, as paramedics need to collect the patient.”

“That is my son you are talking about, doctor.” She snapped, a glittering rage streaming through her clenched teeth. “And I will take him myself.”

“Very good.” He replied. “Please sign here to consent.” A single sheet of pink paper, pinned firmly to the mahogany surface by his meaty finger slid across the table to Mrs Prescott. Trembling, she reached for the pen that lay idly on top of it. Fighting to hold back tears, she forced herself to sign the sheet. She had not bothered to read the it, she, along with everyone else in the country, knew the details. ‘Pink death’, it had been nicknamed by the media. What had seemed – initially – to be a clever idea, voted into action with great enthusiasm, had soon gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you what you have agreed to, but I must remind you, Mrs Prescott, you are now legally bound to deliver the patient to your local hospital. They have already been notified of the situation, and the authorities will be tracking your car to make sure you comply.”

“Yes. I understand.” A heart, wrenched with agony was momentarily consumed by hatred for this man that had once been bound to heal the sick, now little more than a herald for the angel of death.

“Do you have any significant others that you wish to have contacted and sent to the hospital? Husbands, siblings -”

“My husband is dead, doctor. And Jonathon is my only child.” A lonely tear of ice rolled down her emotionally drained face as she and her child made to leave.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He replied.
There was no answer.


The journey from the doctors surgery to the hospital was made mostly in silence, the mother trying to remain strong for her child, who was blissfully unaware of what was happening. The bounced in his seat to the playful pop that sounded from the car radio, the music giving Mrs Prescott a momentary ray of happiness to see her child so vibrant and full of energy, while at the same time casting itself as a black contrast to the overwhelming grief at what she knew was about to come. The hourly news cut through the music like a scalpel; announcing that demonstrations outside Parliament for the abolition of Reclamation had been dispersed violently by police. “The heads of the movement continue to argue that too many illnesses are not being treated properly, with too many doctors advocating hospitalisation for a myriad of trivial illnesses in order to meet the targets set by the Government program. Hospitals, they argue, have been turned into little more than death - ” She hurriedly switched the radio over to the cars CD player, anxiously hoping that her son had not paid any attention to the grim news report.

The hospital was a bland, featureless building surrounded by acres of car parking space. She drove as the signs ordered her, arriving at the Centre for Reclamations a little over twenty minutes after leaving Dr Smith’s surgery. She had considered fleeing; going on the run with her child, but it was useless. Every car was installed with a GPS transmitter, allowing police to track any vehicle anywhere, and she was no hardened criminal who could last on the run; she was a mother to her child, and she lived for only for him. Since her husband had died she felt there was little left in her life but for her son, her one reason to keep living.

The car purred to a standstill in the parking bay, and they both waited in silence under the grey quilt of sky, Mrs Prescott remembering the day several weeks ago when she first noticed her child showing signs of being infected. She had hoped and prayed that they were unfortunate coincidences, but deep down, a mother knows when something is wrong. And she knew then. She knew the path it would lead her down. The path that had bought them to the Centre for Reclamations. “Why aren’t we getting out mummy?” Jonathon asked quizzically.

“Sorry dear,” She replied, her breathe almost taken from her as she heard her only child speak. “Mummy was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Mummy was thinking about what a good boy you’ve always been. What a fine little man you’ve grown up to be.”

“I’m not all grown up yet!” He exclaimed excitedly. “I’m going to be big and strong like an elephant one day!”

She laughed, a pitiful, yet happy laugh, repeatedly forcing herself to fight back the uncontrollable flood of tears. The closeness of the grief broke slowly into a smile; a warm, glowing smile, enveloped in a love that only a parent and their child can share. It would light up the face of any human walking the earth, but it was reserved for the two in the parked car only. “I love you Jonathon.”

“I love you too mummy.”

“Come on.”

Slowly, they walked toward the building, a long and torturous march that seemed as if it would never end. Mrs Prescott found that merely keeping one foot moving in front of the other was the most difficult action she had ever had to perform, the sorrow smothering her like Clingfilm, and sinking into her feet like molten lead. Jonathon skipped happily along holding his mother’s hand, contentedly ignorant about what was really happening. The automatic doors of the building snapped open, their polarised windows hiding the crisp white interior within. A single desk sat before them, a rigid automaton of a middle aged nurse standing behind it. Mrs Prescott approached slowly.

“Jonathon Prescott?” The nurse asked abruptly before either of them said a word.

“That’s me!” He replied with a smile. The nurse studied the LCD computer monitor in front of her.

“Room number forty three please.” The emotionless command came. The two of them walked down the corridor behind the desk, their trainers both squeaking on the lino floor. They entered the little room, Mrs Prescott closing the door behind them. She sat Jonathon down in the only chair and stroked his hair lovingly, knowing this was the last time she would ever do this. Seeing the red light above the door illuminate she bent down and kissed him on the forehead, then wrapped her arms round him and hugged him. He hugged back, in that fashion children do, a longing, yet powerless grip, a sign of the strength they should one day grow up to have.

“You be a good boy for the doctors now Jonathon.” She whispered. “They’re going to sort out your breathing and make you all better.” Finally she cracked, the tears streaming from her eyes like a waterfall of sadness.

“Don’t cry mummy, I’ll be back soon!”

She smiled, gasping for breath amidst the sobs. “Yes you will.” A hissing sound announced the imminent decompression of the room, and she released him, backing away towards the door they entered through, and pulling the airtight safety glass across. “You’re going to go to sleep now dear, mummy…” She struggled desperately to get her words out through her tears. “Mummy will see you soon.” She smiled at him, he smiled back, before silently slipping into unconsciousness.

After a few moments the room repressurised and a man in medical uniform walked in. He checked the boy’s vital signs to check he was still alive, then turned to Mrs Prescott behind the glass. “I know this is hard. But it’s for the best.” He said, barely a hint of compassion registering in his voice. He was too used to giving the same speech. “His organs will save dozens of lives.”

“You won’t even diagnose him properly!” She screamed through her tears. “It’s just flu!”

“Doesn’t matter I’m afraid. You know the law. Healthy organs donated before they become useless. The money the Government makes selling them funds the economy. Everyone thinks it’s a good idea until it happens to them. I’m sorry.”

He turned and gripped the chair. Things moved in slow motion. He wheeled her son out of the room. She screamed, clawing and banging on the glass; her tears, her sweat, her spit smearing the unbreakable screen between them. She wailed helplessly as a counsellor came to remove her from the room. She resisted and struggled, not wanting to leave the space where she had last seen her child alive. They had to force her. Force her to vacate. Her body, empty of everything struggled valiantly to stop them, but they were too strong, finally dragging her from the room to the counselling suites.
The door slammed shut.

An Very Good Point Mr Fry

"Actor Stephen Fry has lashed out at the way straight actors are praised for playing gay characters.

...

The QI host was speaking about the single status of his latest TV character solicitor-sleuth Peter Kingdom.

Fry, 50, said: "I think the fact that I'm so well known to be gay makes it very difficult to have a convincing relationship with a woman on screen.

"Straight actors can play gay people and they're rather congratulated on it. People say 'Ooh, how brave of you'."

But Fry, 50, added that no one says to a gay actor who plays a heterosexual person: "'How brave of you to kiss that woman, that must have been very difficult for you'."
He said: "It wouldn't be at all difficult for me to kiss a woman - I'll kiss a frog if you like. And why should it be difficult for a man to kiss another man?"

Fry added: "It's difficult to ride bareback backwards while unicycling, but to kiss someone isn't difficult."

As per usual, the genius that is Stephen Fry (can you believe he's only fifty?!), has made a very shrewd perception about the still unspoken perception in society about the way all things gay work.

For example (and the rather perceptive Hannah Mcelvenney picked up on this at the weekend) several months ago I bought a sandwich from a shop. When someone asked me where I bought it from, I told them. They replied with "Oh someone I know works there, he's gay, you'd probably like him." Because if two people are gay, they have no choice but to leap all over each other.

Another example, when people say "I can't believe you've never kissed a woman" or "Have you never fancied a woman?" ALL (read ALL) gay men have been asked this question at some time or another. My usual reply (if it's a guy) is: "Well, have you ever kissed a man?/Have you ever fancied another guy?" The answer is always a resolute no. So, if it's obvious that a straight man would never fancy another man, why isn't it similarly obvious that a gay man would never fancy another woman? (And the bi/curious people that are the exception to the rule fall into both catergories).

Here's another good one; the gay marriage debate. I find it laughable that any group of people in the straight community could have the nerve to say that two men or women getting married to one another in a private ceremony is an affront to the "sanctity" of the institution of marriage when they prostitute their "institution" on such fantastic shows such as Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?, Farmer Wants a Wife, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, Joe Millionaire, Married by America, or Who Wants to Marry My Dad?

My point here is that despite having the beacon of "tolerance" shoved down our throats every single day, despite being told every day that we're a more diverse, celebratory society that loves and encompasses everyones differances, the truth is that it's just simply not true. The above anecdotes prove that.

It's not just homsexuality that falls victim to the quiet finger pointing of the 'They're Different' crowd. Take for example the vast amount of people who will say "I met this really nice ASIAN guy the other day." Do you ever hear anyone say "I met this really nice WHITE guy/I met this really nice guy with a broken arm" Why do you need to point out the ethnicity? How many times have I been introduced to people (behind my back) "That's Miles... He's gay." Why point out the gay thing? I don't introduce people as straight. I don't bring their sexuality into it (unless someones about to make a foolish pass at someone).

Think back to Stephen Fry's quote above. Would any white man ever get praised as being "brave" these days if they blacked up? I don't think so. Why do you hear praise for a guy kissing another guy then? Because sexuality is still the last great sociological taboo of our time. I bring up the black face example because we can see how far we've moved on from those depressing, unenlightened days, and I'm not saying that straight actors should never portray gay men, far from it. As the eminent Mr Fry pointed out, portraying a guy that fancies another guy, or kissing a member of the same sex is not difficult and is not brave. So why the hoopla?

Because there is still a very very quiet, unspoken bigotry that runs in society, gay people being the most high profile victim. However much people are told they are become more loving and tolerant and diverse they still do not agree with it. A lot of white people still see asians as different. A lot of straights still see gays as different. A lot of able bodied still see the handicapped as different. And they are, but only when you bother to pick that point out. How far we have come in fifty years; from segregation, through civil rights to society. Albeit a society that still points out the skin colour, sexuality or physical capability of minorities first, and then judges them as a human being second.

Gay people are the last major minority in society that has to battle with accepted prejudice on such a day to day basis. While ethnicities or the handicapped may see it flare up every now and then (the accepted racism agaist arabs following 9/11 or 7/7 springs to mind), homosexuals still get it on a constant basis; would you ever see someone say "Oh he's black he'll be just right for you" to a black woman? Would you ever see "The handicapped should not be allowed to marry" in a church newsletter? There would be uproar. But "disagreeing" with homosexuality is still tolerated. Would disagreeing with interracial marriage, or with disabled access to be buildings be tolerated? It's still okay to discriminate against gay people, because there are still enough public figures in society that openly stand against it. I don't want to turn this into a rant against religion, but that is a major cause, because it promotes the notion that homsexuality is a choice. It's not, and the science is on my side to prove this.

So what is my point? Mr Fry made an excellent one, but mine runs a little deeper. Mine is that while it is no more corageous for a straight man to play a gay man than it is for a gay man to play a straight man, it is the very idea that the majority pretending to be a part of the minority is corageous. It can be offensive, it can be contraversial, it can be funny. But it is not corageous. In fact, it is nothing. All it does is highlight that the quiet stance against the tolerance of diversity is still in effect. Remember, no matter what our masters in Government tell us, this is far from being an equal opportunity society. People still see colour, they still see physical capability, they still see gender and they still see sexuality. Courage doesn't come from pretending to be something you're not, courage comes from being who you truly are, whether it be gay, black, paraplegic or a bigot.

It's 2008, all the closets should be empty by now.

P.S. Why is it that when men are gay it's corageous or horrible, but when women do it it's just 'hot'?

REVOLUTION 909