A Golgafrinchan ark for fascists

THE WRITER’S LIFE

At time of writing my O2 phone is out, like millions of others (and Tesco Mobile, GiffGaff, Sky, London Transport bus indicators…). It’s a global issue, originating with Ericsson. I can’t help wondering if this might be the beginning of the mass denial of service I predicted, where the UK or other nations’ IT and communications infrastructure is held to ransom by anonymous agents. If I’m right, expect to see a demand to government soon. I can live in hope. We live in times where the poor get poorer and the rich grow richer. And we’re a species on the brink of extinction. It’s part of the fascist plan.

golga-screencap

I’ve just finished leafing through the assessor’s report from my PIP claim, highlighting points which I disagree with. This is the next stage which DWP insist applicants go through, their agenda to increase the time and inconvenience, thereby hoping that some give up (or kill themselves). This is so that they can give me a ‘mandatory reconsideration,’ which will undoubtedly end with another refusal. That’s when I can appeal at tribunal.

My amended and addended report is multi-coloured, both in highlighter pen and language. There’s little of the assessment I agree with, and for much of it the assessor seems to have been assessing someone other than me. Apparently I was well-presented and clean-shaven: No I wasn’t. I hadn’t shaved for four days. I allegedly maintained eye contact at all times: No I didn’t. I spent most of the time looking out of the window behind me. I’ve even noted the size of the murder outside: seven crows.

These assessors, employed by a private company which the government outsources to, like so many other public services, are ‘medically qualified’. The thing with medicine is that it has many fields, so I questioned whether a physiotherapist was the best qualified to assess my mental illness, when a psychologist or other appropriate professional might do a better job. Someone able to see inside my head might have better recognised my needs and not put me through this unnecessary process, which is heightening my depression and anxiety, and making me really quite ill. But that’s the job of the social cleansing apparatus.

PIP and others are called ‘benefits,’ which suggests the claimant should be grateful for receiving the bare minimum of money needed to survive. I see shelter and food as human rights, and I remember ‘social security’ which was the old name for benefits, where money was given to the poor, needy and sick, paid out of taxes collected by government from those in work and better off. It’s the foundation of social democracy, but that’s not something a fascist capitalist ruling political party would recognise.

I need my ‘benefit’ back, to be given the benefit of cynicism, so that I can regain the independence and freedom I’ve been robbed of: The financial ability to visit my parents and my children, and the viability to live.

I’m being made more unwell by the process, ironically making me more likely to be awarded PIP again if I was reassessed now (by someone better qualified than a physiotherapist). When I think of the cold, lonely, miserable Christmas I’ll have, I at least know my kids will be okay. This isn’t the case for many others, and it’s a fact that suicides rise over the festive period. This, of course, is all part of the fascists’ plan.

Back to that other denial of service, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see some revolution soon, over Christmas and the new year. It’s impossible not to be involved in politics with the Tories attempting to tear up a country. I like to hope that people are more in touch socially, and aware of Christmas excess, that we can agree to differ on certain things, take our country back, then all sit down for a nice cup of tea (or coffee). Then there’s the rest of the planet and the threat of human extinction to deal with. Perhaps even this phone network outage could make people appreciate how they take something for granted until it’s taken away.

I’m an atheist, but I believe the bible may contain historic records of real events, told using the tools and language of the scribes of the time (if only biblical scholars had smartphones). If we’re to believe what the bible says, the beast will have many heads, like the rise of far-right leaders around the world. The Antichrist will come as a false prophet (it doesn’t say what colour in the bible, but orange seems likely), then Armageddon and exodus. Something, someone, could rescue us from this nightmare before Christmas, before it kills me and many others.

Perhaps a new star might appear in the night sky. Maybe an extraterrestrial craft, a common focus for all of humanity. Or friends of the Illuminati who’ve already booked their seats out of here, leaving the rest of us to it (the Golgafrinchan Ark Fleet Ship B springs to mind).

As for those of us left behind, all we need to do is keep talking.

While we still have time on Earth, there’s a perfectly plausible answer to our predicament in Cyrus Song (402pp paperback or eBook: same story, just different covers), perhaps as a Christmas gift and to help me live.

cyrussongfrontcoverQuotesLARGE Cyrus Song eBook Cover

A Christmas stuffed by fascists

THE WRITER’S LIFE

These last couple of weeks, I’ve been trapped in the worst depressive episode I care to remember. The human memory is selective about these things, so I can’t be sure if it’s the worst ever, but it’s a contender. This Christmas will certainly be one of the worst.

christmaswar

I’ve never been a big fan of Christmas, ever since it stopped being fun when I was a kid and I had to start buying presents. Like a wedding, it’s a day when the pressure is on everyone to have a good time, and where most of that responsibility falls to the host. In reality, everyone’s glad when it’s over.

Christmas was fun again for a while as I watched my own kids open presents, then gaze in awe at some new piece of plastic. Then I had my alcoholic breakdown and Christmas 2013 was spent on the streets. The following year I remained estranged from my family, so I went to a church do for the homeless.

I rejoined my parents for Christmas 2015, when the black cat was cautiously welcomed back into the family home, and when I’d been homeless for two years before finding the rooms above the pub. It was like any other Christmas, where everyone was obliged to have a nice time, and with the responsibility for that falling to my mum, while everyone walked on eggshells around the elephant in the room (me).

My sister stayed away that year and I’ve not seen her since mum’s act of courage when she threw me out of the last chance saloon. My sister blames me for the upset it caused our parents, and rightly, except it brought them much closer together. As far as I’m aware, my sister blames me for my dad’s Parkinson’s. He says it’s nice to have me around, that it’s good for him to have some different company to engage his mind. Mum drew a line in the sand a long time ago now, placing the past where it belongs. But my sister can’t find it in herself.

So for the last couple of years I’ve spent Christmas home alone. I get together with my parents at various times in the year, when the pressures of the festive season aren’t upon us. I was hoping to return for a family Christmas this year though. Now that mum has her hands full with looking after dad, I thought it might be nice for my parents to have Christmas dinner cooked for them. Where I’d go without many Christmases past, this might have been the last when dad remembered who I was.

But that Christmas was cancelled, by DWP stripping me of my independence payment. I simply can’t afford one, even with just myself to cater for, and I’m borrowing money just to buy my kids’ presents. With no Christmas dinner, no cheese board, no chocolates or mince pies, and probably no heating, knowing my kids are okay will be a small consolation on the day. The silver lining is I won’t be contributing to the annual excess of human waste, further suffocating our planet.

Christmas will be lonely torture, but the faceless bureaucrats who inflict this suffering in the name of a social cleansing agenda won’t be losing any sleep. They don’t understand what it is to be human, because they’ve had humanity conditioned out of them, so that they can do the will of fascist dictators. They have no feelings or emotions. It’s like dealing with Vogons.

I’ve asked DWP for a mandatory reconsideration and they’ve sent me a 32 page report telling me why I’m not eligible for my money. I have to go through this, highlight and add comments to indicate what I don’t agree with (most of it: It’s as though they’ve sent someone else’s report. Actually, they may have done that deliberately, to further the suffering). Then it goes back to be reassessed, undoubtedly refused again, then I’ll have to go to tribunal. Again. And hopefully win, again.

I’m sick, sick of this pointless process. I’m mentally ill anyway (chronic depression and anxiety, which is why I got PIP for the last four years), sick of this country and its abuse of human rights, and made more unwell by a system designed to kill people.

I know how they’ve made me feel, and what it makes me think. But I won’t give them the satisfaction. Like Christmas, I’ll just be glad when this is all over. If the electric meter permits, perhaps I’ll escape with Jimmy Stewart and a reminder of a Wonderful Life which went before. I need someone, something, to get me out of here. I need an escape.

In any case, I need to write to live. I need to sell stories or hope for donations from readers grateful of my free fiction. £2.99 buys an eBook of Cyrus Song (the price of a coffee, which I’m always grateful for via the ‘Buy me a coffee’ donate button). I wouldn’t want the Department for Work and Pensions to think I got help from socialist propaganda, as it would defeat their self-purpose.

Christmas Donations

I’ll have plenty of time to write over Christmas (probably by candle light, while wearing fingerless gloves), and as a sci-fi writer, I can see a world unfolding around us which was prophesied. The Bible says that The Beast will have many heads (look at the rise of the right and the installation of fascist leaders around the world); The Antichrist will appear as a false prophet (see Trump); then there’ll be war (just look around).

Perhaps a new star will rise in the east, an extraterrestrial craft to unite our attention to a greater intelligence. Or maybe the aliens will kill the fascists.

Scroll down for free fiction…

It’s raining salt in my eyes…

POETRY

…and Mr Sandman leaves hailstones

Raining eyes

Crosswords and headwinds

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Among my sideline interests, I compile cryptic crosswords. Some of my favourite past clues for flavour:

1. Powered flight? (9)
2. GESG (9, 4)
3. DIM (5, 8)
4. (4,3,3,1,4)

The answers are in this meandering post…

dirty_scrabble

Today is nine weeks since I had my PIP assessment, and still I’ve had nothing in writing. I eventually got to speak to someone at DWP last week, only to be told that my application was still being processed. At least I haven’t been forgotten. Still I’m on a statutory benefit, sans a payment which permitted me some independence with my special needs. One of the freedoms taken from me is the ability to visit my parents, where PIP used to cover the train fares.

Dad says it’s good to have me around, and I know that contact with others can help with dementia and other degenerative conditions (he has Parkinson’s). So if I’m denied my independence, the system has already made me much more unwell, and quite possibly my dad too. If I’m declined, I’ll be unable to spend Christmas with family (and it could always be the last for my parents or me), no gifts for my kids, and unable to see my dad while he still remembers who I am.

I borrowed money to make the monthly visit to see the kids yesterday, but without my PIP payment, those trips may have to be reduced in frequency. A life is not a singular thing and there are people denied (or spared) my company. Despite winter approaching, I’m eating less and heating less.

The day with the children was very much as usual: lunch and interesting conversation, then shopping and further debate on matters of the world, of nature, medicine and science. We question things, and yesterday I wondered how the Romans did maths, if they only had Roman numerals. An interesting aside too, as we noted that as well as having alliterative names, my eldest is taller than me (not difficult) and therefore the longest Laker; the youngest is just a little shorter than my mum, and the littlest Laker for now.

It was a day punctuated by escalators. The first was one I’d ridden hundreds of times before, and its brothers and sisters around the London Underground estate, possibly millions. And yet, after more than 30 years of working, living and just being in London, something occurred to me for the very first time: ‘Dogs must be carried’. I don’t have a dog. It’s a terrible sentence, implying that carrying a dog is compulsory for riding the moving stairs, and it will haunt this pedant for the rest of my days and every time I see it.

Back at Euston later, ‘Stand on the right’ is the first on the list of London Underground’s levitation instructions, and invariably some people don’t. I tend to walk down and float up, but I was anxious of time and chose to walk up the left of the escalator, to be greeted by a backside, talking to her friend on the right. “Excuse me,” I said, perhaps impatiently with someone too ignorant and arrogant to read signs. “How rude,” I was told.

I apologised for having excused myself so that I could travel freely and not hinder the transit of those behind me, but apparently that was rude and I should be more patient. I passed this down the line behind me, asked if she’d rather have my blood, and told her to get over herself, which elicited a tut. Finally I pointed to the signs at regular intervals on the way up: “Stand on the right,” I read aloud, and added “like fascists”. I was tired of walking by now, so I stood on the right of the escalator, in front of my verbal assailant. As I rose to ground level, I let one go silently and shared the scrambled eggs I’d had for breakfast.

I can only hope that more than nine weeks of stressing and growing more anxious by the day is enough for the dehumanising machine, that nine weeks is considered sufficient suffering, and now I can be returned to an independent life with sufficient funds to live it. If not, if I’m found undeserving for some reason (even though I’ve been on PIP for the last four years), that’s a pretty sick trick to play on someone. Those days out with my kids are about all I have now, and that may be denied by the Tory government’s social cleansing machine.

Life has changed over the last few months, ever since this benefit reapplication process started. Even if I am forced through the tribunal process again, knowing where I stand would be better than where I am at the moment. Right now I have not got a clue what the answers are.

Did you find them all?

A Pot Noodle of his story repeated

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There are few sounds more terrifying than someone trying your front door, but hearing keys in the lock is one of them. Lately I’ve been scrambling blindly for the keys to life, and put one in the lock to see if the door might open onto the string theory which contains my place in something, a history of me in a pot. Being British, I apologised to the door when I walked into it, and on the other side, something like a Korean re-unification…

Not PoodlePot Noodles feature in Cyrus Song

Also lately (for a day) I’ve been removing the strangeness from an estrangement I had with an old friend. It was a sad and frustrating falling out, as we went back so far, to our days at school together in the 80s. When it was Nazi salutes and steel-capped boots, when we had Punk and Ska, when The Specials asked: Why? Given that I’ve been going through the Tory social cleanser, I was reviewing my situation anyway. My friend just asked how I’d been. I’ll put the kettle on. It won’t go with the rest of me, but I’ll try anything once.

It began when we parted company because I was a fascist drunk. Not the goose-stepping Nazi-type, but figuratively, a thoroughly objectionable capitalist and a drunken narcissist into the bargain. Quite how I’d turned out like that, I can’t think.

Drink took over and I just lost it. Lost the plot and the will to live, not knowing what was worth living for besides a constant battle with the craving. Why do we have to fight? I don’t know why I pushed everyone so hard, towards somewhere I didn’t know, so that eventually they pushed me. Did they really want to kill me?

A brief chronology then of my breakdown (as it’s come to be known, because it was an alcoholic and mental meltdown). We’d have to pick up from around 2003, when I met my ex-wife and we moved to London. I’d been working in print since school, and ended up spending 25 years married to the paper and ink, including three years of running a brokerage with the wife.

Print was traditionally a booze-fuelled industry, with deals being done in Bermondsey pubs just as they were in the bars of Fleet Street. I always liked a drink, so I suppose some things were inevitable. They get in your blood. Running a firm was the top of a steep final slope.

My customers were the ones who’d followed me from other firms, so the business just rolled in with little effort from me. I adopted some mental line in my sandpit, that I’d spent years working for other people, as sales director on commission, when I could take all the profit, and I felt I was owed a retirement (entitlement). While the wife ran the business from home, I was seeing customers and getting pissed. Always a temptation, the booze became my absolute ruler.

I got to the point where I’d wake up and have to go to the fridge for a swig of White Ace, just to stop the tremors. By the time I’d dropped the kids off at school and got to the local corner shop, I’d be rattling so much the owners would have to take the change from my shaking hand. I’d get outside, neck a can of tramp juice, and the tremors would stop. I’d get out of the flat every day as soon as I could, so that I could go drinking, even if that was in Mountsfield Park in Lewisham, with all the other drunks.

If there was a singular catalyst, it would be the knifepoint robbery in that same park. It was after that, in 2011, that I got a diagnosis of PTSD and eventually, underlying depression, from whence besides my alcohol-fuelled mind, never digressed.

I was in the care of an excellent psychologist for a while, but I was still drinking more, and I took it too far. I lost contact with Dr Martin when I had to leave the family home, and my wife, so long a single parent already because of me.

From Catford to Bexley, where the wife and father-in-law put down a deposit and paid the first month’s rent on a flat; a nice one in a converted manor house with a swimming pool. In the village, I found a love of drinking among the locals, and an area at the centre of the live poker scene. And drugs. Already playing online, I embraced this new opportunity, the drugs and the late nights. I started playing in casinos and I did quite well for a while.

Don’t play poker while drunk though (you never would). Because I did that. I ended up thanking my wife for all she’d done, by running the business into the ground and taking it for every penny as my addiction won, to the exclusion of all others.

I was headed down to a life of not caring, while my wife was made redundant, applying for benefits, and replacing the furniture she’d let me keep with Argos Basics. I’d visit once a week or so to see the kids, but I was always itching to get back to poker, drink and cocaine.

From Bexley, I went to Sidcup. I was in another relationship (with a fellow alcoholic) and I abused that as well. Three years after leaving the family home in Catford, I was on my way back to the other chez Laker, my parents’ in Tonbridge.

The last chance saloon was one I was sure I wouldn’t be thrown out of; these were my parents after all, so I could carry on drinking, knowing places to hide it. By her own admission, my mum policed me too heavily, but she was never going to be qualified to deal with an alcoholic.

To this day, mum throwing me out of the family home was the greatest act of love and courage I’ve ever know. We’re fine now and it was a bilateral thing, with dad having to support mum. But where me and mum didn’t talk for a while, dad came to find me a couple of times.

It was when we laid Jay to rest that I found out the upset I’d really caused, when some friends told me how badly it had affected my parents (mum and dad visited with friends while I was absent, with possibly only the leave of nature). My sister still blames me for the way dad is now, even though his ongoing neurological condition was diagnosed long after we all made up (except for my sister), and he now says that having me around makes him feel better. They say boys are closer to their mums, but never mind the bollocks. We’re equally close to any parent, but in a way unique to each of us.

When dad came and found me those times (in McDonald’s), he gave me some loose change. He didn’t specify what it should be spent on, least of all tell me not to spend it on booze. When it comes to the debate about giving homeless people money, I found my personal sidings when I went off the rails.

Alcoholism is an addiction, just like drugs. Unlike most drugs though, alcohol cessation – complete cold turkey – can be fatal. That’s when I found myself at an impasse, living on the streets, of no fixed abode. Because the cessation drugs are powerful, and those administering them need to know where the addict is. So I was prevented, excluded from doing that.

It’s a chicken and egg, the home and addiction thing. A couple of ex-servicemen I was on the streets with had the same problem: You’ll be given shelter when you cure your addiction, when the former was precisely what we needed to address the latter. When it comes to giving money to the homeless now, I do so without question or instruction. I know that temporary escape from the cold and threatening outdoors can be found in a blue tin. I know that can stop the delirium tremens, keeping an alcoholic alive. At least until they find shelter.

In the end, I went through a controlled drinking programme, a reductionist measure which required me to attend a rehab facility at random times of the day over a three month period. I could get called any day of the week – sometimes two, others five – at anywhere between 8am and 6pm, and I’d be required to give a breath sample within the hour. By then I was sofa-surfing, so I did at least have a base, albeit not a home.

To illustrate the extremes, near the beginning of the treatment, I blew 126 (microgrammes of alcohol to 100ml of breath, where the UK drink drive limit is 35 (I had no plans to drive)) at 9am. At that point, I was drinking nine litres of tramp juice a day. Towards the end of the programme, I blew 21 at 4.30pm. Now I drink normal cider throughout the day (a functioning alcoholic using controlled drinking, to keep the rattles at bay) and I smoke weed. One addiction for another, but smoking broadens my mind and has allowed me to write some pretty good sci-fi.

After sofa-surfing, I got a room above a pub (the irony) and spent a year there, before the landlord turned out to be a criminal and started threatening me, which played right into my hands with the local council housing team. They moved me here, to my tiny studio, with a social landlord, and where I’m on a rolling tenancy. That gives me the security of shelter I need to make whatever I do, with the rest of whatever life I have left.

It’s been a thoroughly dehumanising process, but one which has made me human again. Now with multiple PTSD diagnoses picked up from various events on the street (beatings, a bottling, a throttling, being set light to (which apart from the aggressor, is hilarious when you’re trying to sleep in a sleeping bag which complies with EU regulations and isn’t flammable), broken bones), chronic depression and anxiety, at least I know what I am: a Pinhead with a load of Post-It notes stuck on it, outward signs which I try to make sense of from inside my head and my solitary surroundings.

It was all my fault and I deserved to end up where I did. What most don’t give me credit for is having it within me to grieve every day. When you’re a recovering alcoholic, that’s tough, not to simply reach for a drink, like all those times before. But as at least one person (‘Millwall Tony’) has pointed out, to me (and I hope others get it): “You were fucking ill mate.” My parents get that too, having taken the trouble to educate themselves, so that they can educate others, who no longer question the terms ‘functioning alcoholic’ and ‘controlled drinking’.

I make no comparisons, but Dad’s been through a lot, with me and latterly his illness. He says it’s nice to have me around, that the past is done, and that he’s proud of me. Them being bilateral, mum concurs. If only my sister would join the remaining happy family dots, a final crossing of the winding river we all went down. I built bridges but she just can’t get over it.

On her last birthday (which she shares with Kirsty MacColl), I told my ex-wife I’ll never forget how she and her family gave me a chance, and of how I’m grateful to her and the kids’ step dad for saving the two young ones.

The kids are fantastically funny and intelligent young people, one a budding musical and computing scientist, and the other a multi-linguist. Everyone’s better off (except me. I’m fine and I have all I need, but it’s hardly what you’d call comfortable), most importantly, the kids. I’ve said all my apologies to them and their mum, so many times I’ve been told to stop. That was a long time ago, but I can’t help feeling guilty. That’s my life sentence, of missing them every day, but being able to value the time we now get together, and without the need to be chaperoned. It took a lot of work, on all sides.

I did all that. I caused all that for other people. But I also did something for myself: I found myself and I’ve tried ever since to make myself a better person to know than the sub-human I was.

The state of the country – divided far more than it was when we were punks in the 80s – and the world at large, they fuel my depression, and my writing. At home, we’re headed for open civil unrest. In America, I see civil war. I fear for the world my children have inherited, and it’s only in some vain hope that my small voice can join with others and get noticed that I keep going. Why should I live in fear? Because we and the next generation are the exploited, and so were our fathers (and mothers).

The_Exploited_Pushead_Skull_BP_1024x1024

We are the pushead skulls. We are the stranglers and they are the damned, our two generations: La folie, and the history of the world, part one. There’s a guy called Pete here, rattling some test tubes around: says he’s got a plan.

I’m ashamed of what I did, and when I was drunk I tried twice to rid the world of me (the evidence of shoddy workmanship remains). I’m ashamed of what I represent: a human, when our species has so much to answer for; and a white British man, when the days of empire and the Christian forefathers killed and enslaved more people than the Nazis. History repeats and we’re seeing it now. I was the cause, and I have a moral duty to put things right, as we all have. My anxiety is crippling, and trips outside are rare, but better an armchair activist and still here, when there’s so much to do.

So what? So what, so what, you boring little…

It helps that I’m able to tell all this to a friend.

That’s why I write. Initially because I didn’t have anything else to do on the streets, but also because I found it easier to address some situations in fiction. It was never to make things somehow less real, but much of it wouldn’t be believed outside the medium of fiction, it’s too far-fetched. I had an epiphany, even though I’m a scientific atheist now. At the time, it was like my right wing got broke and I found the left one. Sort of a fallen angel, an Antichrist angelic upstart.

Somehow I managed not to drown. I found a way to kick my legs and keep my head above the water. It helped that there were others who saw me waving, and who came back to see what had washed up on shore: A liberal socialist, I swapped the boots for something more comfortable to be around. But I’m still crass. Doors like me, because I’m polite enough to apologise when I walk into them. I’m glad we could patch things up, when others are less accommodating. Why can’t they be the same?

I don’t care if any other friends return from estrangement. If they want to stay there, it’s where they placed themselves, and that’s out of my mind.

The longer story is on this blog, which I started when I was homeless. I regret a lot of what I did, but just as history can’t be erased, I leave it here as part of the narrative.

All things considered, I’m happier now. Like Douglas Adams, I ended up somewhere I never realised I wanted to be. So far I’ve written five books. That’s the story that was, and now is the start of the remainder.

Let’s leave the past where it belongs. We can pull it apart forever, but that would be a waste of the future.

As soon as you get your own things into what’s the nearest you’ll get to your own home, no matter how brutalist, you have life. Someone shut the door.

The Unfinished Literary Agency tells a longer story still, and Cyrus Song is worth a read. Signed copies are available on request, which will never be worth anything other than recording a moment in time.

“…If this all sounds a bit weird, that is, because it is. But it all somehow works and knits together in the manner of surrealist writers like Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas, with a substantial nod, of course, to Douglas Adams, who can make the impossibly strange seem mundane and ordinary. Steve Laker pulls this extraordinary juggling act off admirably well, producing a very good, thought-provoking, page-turning, and also at times darkly comic read.

Who knows—if you are looking for the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, you might just find it here, or in the ‘Cyrus Song’ of our planet. In the meantime, taking Steve Laker’s and Stephen Hawking’s advice, we all need ‘to keep talking’, and as long as there are books like these—keep reading.”

Stephen Hernandez, translator and interpreter.

I’d rather be writing hard-fi sci-fi

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’m into week seven since my PIP assessment, and none the wiser still. But having spoken to a friend (after being given a glimmer of hope by the mothership), I’m managing to reverse a paradigm. Rather than fear the unknown, I’m making the most of it. I’m still anxious, but I can multi-task while worrying.

Octopus MotherfuckerPatricia Correl’s Writing Blog

My friend (we’ll call him Jacques, because my friend is neither a man nor French) has just been through the initial dehumanising stage of the DWP and Tory government social cleansing machinery. Jacques only got his Personal Independence Payment decision after eight weeks of waiting for the self-appointed powers to decide if he was worthy of a continued oxygen supply. They found in his favour, so now Jacques is a character in a story I’m writing.

What’s the point of waiting on the phone for 20 minutes to speak to someone, only to be hung up on when you ask the wrong question, or to be told my case is still being reviewed? Better to make use of time I can do nothing other with, to write.

After committing myself to finish this story in my last post, it’s developed. It now has a tentative working title of ‘The Plastic Population’, which actually doesn’t give too much away, and I don’t think anyone will see the ending coming anyway. As far as I’m aware, it’s a completely original idea, or at least a different plot device.

The story has a plausibility in science, and it pulls together a few recent phenomena: Plastic pollutants in the oceans have been found to be breeding grounds for new kinds of bacteria; Micro-plastics in every living organism on Earth could have carcinogenic properties we don’t know of yet; and humans have been attempting to find evidence of extraterrestrial life in cosmic radio waves. But maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place. The story begins roughly (first draft) like this:

What if all of life, with its meandering trails, high rises and deep slopes, was the path leading us to something, somewhere we’d once wished for? We might have forgotten what that was, or it might be buried deep within our species’ subconscious, but still, dreams can come true.

Like a homeless drunk on the streets, there because it’s where the path he’d chosen led, what humanity needed was a new player in the game of life, one which would fundamentally change the way we look at ourselves and our understanding of the universe.

It wasn’t a common foe to unite previously warring factions, although in a way it was. It wasn’t an alien invasion, but in some ways it was that too. It was a cure for cancer, which ironically arrived like a message in a plastic water bottle…

Those are the bricks, and the cure for cancer is more analogy than literal spoiler. It’s a large tower to build, but it’s one to a kind of Babel. I’d much rather be writing and finding answers over the next couple of weeks in limbo, than staring at the walls not knowing, and counting the days in notches.

Barring a shit sandwich in the mail from DWP withdrawing my oxygen supply, The Plastic Population should be out in the length of a piece of string.

The lights of the mothership

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Today is six weeks since my assessment for PIP, and still not a word from The Department for Work and Pensions. It seemed my benefits had been withdrawn when less money than usual went into my bank. Strange (or just plain rude) then that no-one had the decency to tell me. It’s been playing on a primal human fear within me: that of the unknown. I was grateful for the wisdom of the mothership, telling me to slow down.

mothership_by_jambi20-d6nq2yvMothership by ShahabAlizadeh

My mum pointed something out which gives me a glint of hope: It could (just about) be, that my last period of benefits (two years) ended, while DWP are still considering my re-application. It’s a faint glimmer, but it’s a small light at least.

It could just be that someone has found some inner humanity, and decided not to put me through the social cleansing machinery. It’s more likely to be weeks of making calls, waiting 20 minutes to be connected, then hung up on as soon as someone can’t answer a question.

I’m usually the optimist – despite having chronic depression – my reasoning that neither the optimist nor the pessimist can affect or predict the outcome of something unknown and beyond their control, but the optimist has a better time while not knowing. I must admit – because a government department is involved, and a Tory one at that – the pessimist is more to the fore of my mind at the moment.

But even if I have been declined, I know what I have to do now. I can’t fully relax like I would if I wasn’t facing the tribunal appeals process, but now I have the knowledge, it helps. So much so that I’ve started writing some new stories.

There’s one I’m particularly excited about, but too much reveal would be spoilers. It’s a science fiction yarn, about plastic pollution on Earth, a way in which aliens might communicate with us which hasn’t occurred to us to look for before, and a message in a plastic bottle. The central idea is not one I’ve seen used in fiction before, and it needs a bit of explaining, but I can do that in fiction with show-don’t-tell and with dialogue. It’s a rare departure for me into long-form short stories (I’ve written a few before), of anywhere between 6,000 and 12,0000 words. The kind of length which could be made into a feature film.

I don’t even have a working title for the story yet, but I feel compelled to record my intention to finish it, lest any DWP shit sandwich arrive in the post and throw a spanner in my brain’s workings. There’s a lot in there, troubling me, including (but not limited to) the end of the world and of human extinction.

Now that I’m getting back to writing, perhaps I’ll deal with the rise of the right, their invention of fear with a rhetoric of unseen outside threats, placing a protectionist dome over their captive audience as they repeat lies with such frequency they become the truth. I’ll use the coping mechanism of the keyboard to write of the hacking of democracy, and the various ways humanity may commit mass suicide or save itself. One story will see humankind in a new paradigm, one in which extraterrestrials arrive in our solar system, a common new actor uniting previously hostile human factions. The arrival of a mothership might force all humans to slow down and take a look at themselves, just like my mum, who gave me this computer, because she “…thought it might help with your writing.” When I first started, it was for therapy.

I’m busy on the typewriter: The laptop computer which actually sits on a desktop, where a desktop was always really a ‘Floortop’. There’s an analogy, perhaps for more fiction, of computers placed as though by a superior intelligence on ever-higher shelves as it brings up kids. A technological Tower of Babel. A protectionist mechanism, telling us not to grow up too fast.

Computer says no, you must die

THE WRITER’S LIFE

After keeping me waiting for five weeks, throwing petrol on my depression and anxiety, The Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) have refused my re-application for PIP (Personal Independence Payment). They didn’t even have the decency to send a letter, and I found out when much less money than normal went into my account. No doubt the shit sandwich will arrive in the mail soon, after it’s gone through further bureaucracy.

VogonA relative and employee of Theresa May at DWP, yesterday

I’ve been in receipt of the independence benefit for the last four years, and at my last assessment I must have seemed in worse health (because I am), but some appointed worthy who’s never met me, sitting self-importantly at a computer, has made a life-changing decision, to deny me what I’ve been entitled to for the last four years, and which I used to live an independent life. I can’t do that any more.

I may not be able to visit my kids or parents so often or at all. But what does DWP care? They know I’ve failed to kill myself before, as it’s on my hospital records. It couldn’t be that they wish me more success next time, surely? I hope they sleep well at night (and one day, don’t wake up).

Now I face the appeals process through to tribunal. I’ve done it twice before and won. This was a re-application, for a benefit I’ve been paid for the last four years. It all begs the question, why do this? Why incur all the extra expense and waste their time (and mine)? Because they want to wear people down so that they give up, roll over and die (it’s the Vogon way). But like a bad smell, I won’t go away.

With about £5 a day to spend now, I’ll have to be very creative with meals. And as the appeal process takes around three months, that’s Christmas nicely fucked up, possibly the last one I spend with my parents, thanks to the DWP and the Tory government’s social cleansing project. The last five weeks have made me ill but it didn’t kill me, and I won’t be swept from society by fascists. Apart from the roof over my head, the next few months will be like it was on the streets, and I survived that.

The singular, only, sole, lone, individual good thing I might be able to salvage in all of this, is that with nothing to do (eat, drink, or smoke), I might as well spend some time at the keyboard. If I can’t afford heating, I’ll get some fingerless gloves.

I have a tribunal process to document in fiction. I need to write, of the psychological horror this has been, of poverty, of the perverse torture by sick and twisted Nazis, and of exacting, violent and bloody revenge. The story of an impoverished writer, an irritant irritating, and literally (in literature) fisting some arseholes and scratching around inside.

That’s me in the corner (B-side)

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Today is four weeks since I was in the spotlight, having my brain prodded to determine if I’m entitled to Personal Independence Payment (PIP, which I’ve been receiving for the last four years). The social machine is tiring and I’m in danger of losing my head.

Losing head LegoSilvia Borri

I’ve been restless since the beginning of this year. It seems longer, but it was two years ago yesterday when a tribunal judge awarded me PIP, until September 2018 (reassessments are every two years). Ever since I’ve known it’s 2018, I’ve been more on edge than usual (and even my usual on-edgeness is not normal). For the last two or three months especially, I’ve been stumped, laid low and crippled, afraid to start anything lest my money is stopped, and unable to concentrate even when I do.

I’ve plotted stories but not written them, started some and not finished, and written endings with no beginnings. Nothing fits together and it’s all spare parts. None can be cannibalised and given life. I can’t keep my mind straight, and I may yet have to go through the rinser at another tribunal.

I’m hoping there’s a human in the system who sees I’ve been through it twice already and won, so they don’t put me through it again. Waiting to find out if you’re ill enough to be paid to be unwell is a cruel and inhuman process, but it’s designed to wear a person down so that they give up, the social and ethnic cleansing of those who were already socially excluded and only partially visible.

Kept in the dark, I’m cutting myself up, sawing bits off, and trying to reassemble myself. They hope I’ll fall apart, but I’m just about holding myself together. It’s all in my head, and they know this. It makes mental illness worse, and that’s the plan. Our Tory government are the real cannibals.

That’s me in the corner. That’s me in the spotlight. Until they put me out of my misery, I can’t sleep.

Losing head Coffee

Anxiety and despair in 3 words

POETRY

A 45 RPM I wrote, which spins for about 14 seconds. It’s about stumbling back into life in Tonbridge after ten years in London, and all that’s meant over the last five years. I made it black and orange, as a kind of reflection of a one-way train ticket. Off the rails and onto the streets, but from where I live now, there’s a direct ThamesLink train line straight back to Catford…

Tonbridge Station Poem 6

If I’m eating my dessert with a teaspoon, please don’t give me a big spoon. I’m having a great time and I know what I’m doing.