Thursday, 30 June 2016

Dead Ringer

Something a little  different today. Hope you enjoy.

Here are the songs.

Wednesday, 29 June 2016


Audio to follow 
The airport was super busy, but that was no surprise, it always was these days. Men with guns watched the new arrivals closely. They were trying to weed out the undesirables long before the scum even reached passport control. It was like walking the gauntlet of school bullies; at any moment one could take a dislike to the way you walked, or your haircut and drag you away, possibly never to be seen again. Everyone was under suspicion, guilty until proven innocent. Coby tried to ignore them. He kept walking, tall and proud, his long strides stretching his legs after the cramped flight. He was looking up, but there was no eye-contact; Coby knew the rules, he'd played the game before.

Coby saw an officer step forward. He flinched. Would it be his collar the policeman felt?
“Excuse me sir,” Coby felt relief that it wasn’t his turn. For a moment he was actually pleased that someone else had been singled out for attention. Then relief turned to guilt He'd been pleased that a fellow human would be tortured, just as long as it was not him.

The line for passport control snaked back through the airport. People millimetred forward, shoulders sagged, resigned to the long haul. CCTV cameras scanned the masses looking for any undesirables that had slipped through the first safety net.  More men with guns and ear pieces were poised, ready to pounce on instruction. There was a murmured hum, no voices above a whisper.

Of course being a British citizen, Coby didn't have to worry about the passport queues; the ‘British Only’ line moved quickly. The white men behind the desks only asking where each passenger had been and for what reason, before giving their passports a hearty Great British stamp.
Coby vaguely recalled a time when women or men in turbans stamped passports, but it was decided by the second Farage government that the front line of defence against immigration should have a distinctly British feel to it. So the women and the people of colour were taken out of the firing line.
Coby smiled and answered the question.
“Just three days business in France.”
“And what's your business.”
“I'm not at liberty to tell you,” Coby said.
The passport officer nodded accordingly.
“Pleasure to have you back safe and sound sir.” He saluted and waved Coby through.
Coby went down the steps to baggage reclaim. Again armed police hung around like wallflowers at a dance; big, white men with big, American guns and hard looking faces. Coby stood by the baggage belt staring at the opening, waiting for his bag. The machinery started up and there was Coby's bag first out; all incoming British luggage got priority. The luggage of the other nations could wait; after all their people had to.
Coby picked up his case, shook out the handle and wheeled it through the green channel, ‘nothing to declare’.
A huge man stepped forward - white, bald, muscle bound.
“Could I ask you to open the case please sir?”
Coby looked surprised.
“I'm sure there's been a mistake,” Coby said. “I’m not at liberty to say where I've been.”
But this time the code didn't work. Another man stepped forward and took Coby’s case off him and placed it on the table. With his bare hands he ripped the lock off it before unzipping it, revealing cheese; Camembert, Brie, Roquefort, Port Salut, and many others. A delicatessen in a suitcase. It was all the cheese that had been banned in the UK since the isolation act of 2022.
“Well, well, well, “said the customs official. “This isn’t cheddar, is it?”
Coby had to agree, it certainly wasn't cheddar. 

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Dawn Raid

Audio to follow 

“Police! Stay where you are and put your hands where we can see them.”
James had stopped playing when the police kicked down his door and now he took his hands out of his boxers and slowly put them in the air. Four police in combat vest swarmed around him. The fifth stood by the door, his weapon raised and trained on James's half naked body.
"Stand up, slowly."
James did as he was told keeping his hands clearly visible at all times.
One office grabbed James's computer and put it on the table, while another grabbed his hands and cuffed them. James was relieved to see that now he was restrained, the gun was lowered and the police looked slightly less jumpy.
“Disgusting Sarge, look at this.” The senior officer went over to the computer.
“Disgraceful,” he said, and looked over at James who was sitting back down on the sofa as best he could with his hands shackled behind his back. “You're an animal.”
I’m an animal, James thought to himself as he watched the police rip through his belongings like vultures tearing a carcass apart. Postcards, flash disks, fridge magnets were all placed in evidence bags and put in a pile by the door. Some clothing was also deemed suspicious and bagged up.
James had always known this day might come. Despite being careful, despite hiding his computer's identity with a VPN, he knew they had ways of discovering what he as up to. It used to be easy to stay one step ahead of the authorities, but in the last year or two the bastards had caught up.
“You’re a sick man,” the sergeant said. “What's wrong with people like you?”

James shrugged, he didn't have to answer to anyone. He was different yes, but that didn't make him a bad person. It just meant he didn't fit in, but he’d never wanted to fit in. Conformity didn't suit him.
“It goes back years Sarge,” the policeman who was playing with the computer said.
“You should be ashamed, call yourself British?”
James didn't look at his accusers. They didn't understand. They'd been brought up on a diet of cop shows and bake offs, James's behaviour was outside their comprehension.
“I’m arresting you on suspicion of using Skype to have contact with persons outside the borders of the nation state and for acting against the interests of the nation state. You do not have to say anything...” The policeman continued reading James his rights. James shrugged, he was guilty as charged. It was a fair cop.

Monday, 27 June 2016

What if

For audio click here 
I stood there with the little pencil in my hand, the ballot paper in front of me. I took a deep breath. Now was the time. This was the moment. Once my vote was cast, there’d be no turning back. It had been a long six weeks of campaigning. Every morning out on the battle bus, ready to face our adoring public who treated us like rock stars, and our angry opponents who held us in lower esteem than they might hold paedophiles or cop killers.  It was the same for the other side. They were getting the equal amount of adulation and bile as we were. The whole referendum had raised passions to boiling point.
The pencil felt like a weapon in my hand. A force for good, a force for freedom.  With that tiny piece of wood and graphite on a string, I could strike a blow for democracy and sovereignty. As I had been saying to every newspaper, radio interviewer, TV political correspondent and punter on the street for the last six years, we could take our country back. How they had roared on the streets of Carlisle, whooped in the pubs of Essex and cheered in the auditorium of the great debate when I had uttered those four words. My slogan, my catchphrase. Take our country back.
Outside this building were banks of reporters waiting for me to give a sound bite, to tell the world that this was an historic day and a chance for the ordinary British man to sock it to the establishment, to take our country back.
Would we win? The latest polls and bookmakers’ odds suggested not, but every vote counted and if we got enough people out maybe we could upset the odds.
With my pencil poised, I was ready to make history.
I just couldn’t do it. If I voted leave, all hell would be let loose. I’d be betraying my wife, my kids, my companies. I knew it was the wrong thing to do. This whole campaign, my whole political life had been to tap into the anger on the streets to make me famous. I’d never in a million years thought it would come to this. I just wanted to be the political version of the pub landlord. I wanted to make waves, to maybe rock the boat, but there was no way I wanted to capsize the bloody thing.

I looked over my shoulder, with the courage of my new found convictions I drew my cross and thanked Christ for the secret ballot.