Heathcote Williams – Public Reading Rooms https://prruk.org/ The Politics of Art and Vice Versa Tue, 21 May 2019 09:36:09 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.1.1 Boris Johnson: why the man with no moral compass is unfit for public office https://prruk.org/boris-johnson-the-man-with-no-moral-compass-who-was-uk-foreign-minister/ Sat, 18 May 2019 07:00:32 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=3205

When challenged about his insults to men, women, races, cities, countries and continents, he replied with a reworking of “sorry, but not sorry”.

Extracted from Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare by the late and very much missed Heathcote Williams.

Boris Johnson has something about him that feels at home in a braying mob. In his campaign to restore foxhunting (now illegal) and in his preposterous urging of his fellow-Londoners to take up foxhunting as a way of dealing with urban foxes (Johnson was distressed when the family cat was snapped at by a visiting fox) he is clearly unafraid of the implications of Oscar Wilde’s description of foxhunting as the “pursuit of the uneatable by the unspeakable”. There are many ways in which Johnson qualifies as unspeakable.

The following quotes should be enough to convey a sense of the mind-set of this ‘national treasure’ whom the governing party in Britain has been turning into a cult figure and crediting with inflated gifts such as his being able to rebrand the Tory Party, so often nicknamed “the nasty party”.

Unfortunately for such a project, Johnson has more than his own share of nastiness. He talks of migrants who “leech, bludge and scrounge” off taxpayers. Visiting Uganda, Johnson cheerily said to UN workers and their black driver: “Right, let’s go and look at some more piccaninnies”—a racist word notoriously used by the Tory MP Enoch Powell in his ‘rivers of blood’ speech against immigration.

Johnson likens Chinese workers to “puffing coolies” and he even favours a return to colonial rule for Africa: “Left to their own devices,” Johnson has proclaimed, “the natives would rely on nothing but the instant carbohydrate gratification of the plantain.”

More egregiously still, he adds: “The problem is not that we were once in charge, but that we are not in charge any more.” He accused Nelson Mandela of moving Africa towards a “tyranny of black majority rule”. And he also used his column in the Spectator to claim that the Stephen Lawrence inquiry was a “witch-hunt” against the police.

Theresa May, arriving at Downing Street on 13 July 2016 to take up her new role as prime minister, vowed to lead a government that worked for all, and not just for the “privileged few”, as she put it. To this end, and on the same day, she appointed one of the most privileged few in the country to serve as her Foreign Secretary.

The undiplomatic Boris Johnson is to be Britain’s leading diplomat. Will he be able to restrain himself from trying out his prize-winning Spectator limerick about the Turkish Head of State on President Erdogan in which: “A young fellow from Ankara/ Who was a terrific wankerer / Until he sowed his wild oats/ With the help of a goat”? The world awaits the re-release of Boris’s bestial squib with bated breath for no gaffe is now off-limits.

The most indiscreet man in public life will now also be in charge of MI6 and GCHQ: a man with no moral compass is in charge of a senior department of military intelligence and a lying journalist becomes the Chief Panjandrum of the doughnut-shaped surveillance centre.

On learning this farcical news the Daily Mirror suggested that “Britain’s credibility will now be hanging by a thread” and it illustrated its front-page story with a photograph of the ludicrous Johnson stranded in mid-air on a zip-wire in a publicity stunt that went wrong.

The Mirror was right and the world reacted with bewildered horror, disbelief and ridicule. When the US State Department spokesman Mark Toner heard the news, he struggled to keep a straight face and the American political scientist, Ian Bremmer, hoped that it might all be a joke. “Maybe the Brits are just having us on. We probably deserve it.”

The Berlin correspondent of German public broadcaster ZDF, Nicole Diekmann, tweeted: “So, Boris Johnson, foreign minister. British humour.” ZDF’s Brussels correspondent, Anne Gellinek, said that Johnson was “properly, properly hated” and was seen as “the head of a campaign of lies” in the EU’s headquarters. Simone Peter, co-leader of the German Green Party, likened Johnson’s appointment to “trusting the cat to keep the cream”.

The French Foreign Minister, Jean-Marc Ayrault, said despondently: “During the campaign he lied a lot to the British people. I need a partner with whom I can negotiate and who is clear, credible and reliable.” His appalled reaction was echoed by Johnson’s audience when, shortly after his appointment, Johnson appeared at the French Embassy only to be soundly booed and jeered.

Germany’s foreign minister, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, condemned Johnson’s conduct in the run-up to the EU referendum as “deceitful and reckless” and he called the new foreign secretary’s behaviour ungeheuerlich, meaning outrageous. “People in the UK are experiencing a rude awakening after irresponsible politicians first lured the country into Brexit and then, once the decision was made, decided to bolt from responsibility, and instead go off and play cricket.”

Frans Timmermans, the European Commission’s vice president, said that Johnson’s comments had been spreading “hatred” in a way he wouldn’t have believed possible in Britain.

Meanwhile, Boris Johnson’s neighbours, feeling the need to apologise on his behalf, fixed a notice to the railings of his house which read in capital letters: SORRY WORLD.

By contrast, at his first Foreign Office press conference—held jointly with U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry—Boris Johnson gave his latest reworking of “sorry, but not sorry”. When challenged about his insults to men, women, races, cities, countries and continents, Johnson arrogantly declared: “It would really take me too long to engage in a fully global itinerary of apology to all concerned.”

Theresa May once spoke of her regret that the Tory Party was known as “the nasty party”. Her ill-starred appointment ensured that its malign character would be maintained for some time to come.

Heathcote Williams (1941 – 2017), poet, artist, playwright, actor and political activist, wrote Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare in 2016. Every word of which still applies as we edge closer to the ultimate nightmare of Boris Johnson as UK prime minister.


Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare

Uncovered here are the lies, the sackings, the betrayals, the racist insults, the brush with criminality, that should have got Boris Johnson disbarred from ever being considered for high office.

Now in its second edition, available from Public Reading Rooms:
Price: £8 post free

 

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The reality behind bumbling, blustering ‘national treasure’ Boris Johnson https://prruk.org/the-reality-behind-the-bumbling-blustering-national-treasure-boris-johnson/ Wed, 19 Sep 2018 23:44:35 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5420

Brexit is the trampoline upon which Johnson thinks he can bounce himself into Number 10 Downing Street.

This is extracted from Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare, in which Heathcote Williams, who died in July 2017, uncovers the lies, the sackings, the betrayals, the racist insults, the brush with criminality, that should have got Boris Johnson disbarred from ever being considered for high office.

Boris Johnson has been the most vocal of those lining up to wrench the country they claim to love away from the dastardly clutches of a Europe which they see as undermining their sovereignty and hence their own power. They do not want to love their neighbour. They want to divorce him.

Johnson is someone whom the right-wing media are fond of describing as a ‘national treasure’. He has a bumbling, blustering manner which some find engaging and others tiresome. He’ll unfailingly ruffle his hair before a TV appearance in order to give the calculated impression of harmless eccentricity. He specialises in self-deprecation which some find winning and others calculated.

Johnson has admitted that he employs self-deprecation as a manipulative ploy, to disarm his potential enemies. In an interview with the American TV channel CNBC he declared:

“Self-deprecation is a very cunning device … all about understanding that basically people regard politicians as a bunch of shysters, so you’ve got to be understood … that’s what it’s all about, I suppose.”

In the light of what lies behind his muddled façade, namely a ruthless and often cruel ambition together with an elitism and a ferocious temper when challenged, it is wrong-headed to describe such a man as a ‘national treasure’. Johnson is a man who values himself and his own agenda much more highly than he does the nation or the nation’s interest.

His friends say of him approvingly, as if it was a virtue, “Boris is about Boris”. They’re saying this, of course, because they admire the man’s remorseless self-promotion and perhaps because, as enthusiastic members of the cult of Boris, they look forward to bathing in his stardust should he become Prime Minister. For that’s what he has most assuredly set his heart on, and what in his madder moments he has spoken of as his “destiny” if not his birthright.

The European issue has been the trampoline upon which Boris Johnson thought he could bounce his 17-stone self into Number 10 Downing Street.

‘Beano Boris’, or ‘Bonking Boris’ as the satirical magazine Private Eye (always at a loss as to why anyone should take Johnson seriously) calls him, has made his pitch for the top job his life’s work.

The prospect has not been universally well received. In a guest column for the New Statesman, Boris’s former colleague on the Daily and Sunday Telegraph, Simon Heffer, claims that “Even Boris’s senior colleagues dread Tory activists handing him the keys to Downing Street”.

Heffer points out that “it is little wonder that the campaign to leave the European Union was so thrilled to receive Johnson’s belated—and confused—endorsement last month.

“However, he did what the campaign views as the right thing for the wrong reason. When Johnson worked with me in the mid-1990s an Oxford contemporary warned me about him, saying he was the most rampantly ambitious person he had ever met and that he believed in nothing apart from himself.”

Heffer begins his column by saying, damningly: “Some people feel that Boris Johnson can do no wrong. They are often those who live vicariously through the celebrities seen on television and followed on the internet, and for whom entertainment is an important distraction. Most entertainment is harmless—no wars have been started or economies wrecked by I’m a Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here! or Strictly Come Dancing. However, our education in citizenship should extend to understanding that when a politician becomes entertainment first and foremost there is a danger that he, or she, may lack the requisites of statesmanship.”

Johnson has something about him that feels at home in a braying mob. In his campaign to restore foxhunting (now illegal) and in his preposterous urging of his fellow-Londoners to take up foxhunting as a way of dealing with urban foxes (Johnson was distressed when the family cat was snapped at by a visiting fox) he is clearly unafraid of the implications of Oscar Wilde’s description of foxhunting as the “pursuit of the uneatable by the unspeakable”. There are many ways in which Johnson qualifies as unspeakable.

The following quotes should be enough to convey a sense of the mind-set of this ‘national treasure’ whom the governing party in Britain has been turning into a cult figure and crediting with inflated gifts such as his being able to rebrand the Tory Party, so often nicknamed “the nasty party”.

Unfortunately for such a project, Johnson has more than his own share of nastiness. He talks of migrants who “leech, bludge and scrounge” off taxpayers. Visiting Uganda, Johnson cheerily said to UN workers and their black driver: “Right, let’s go and look at some more piccaninnies”—a racist word notoriously used by the Tory MP Enoch Powell in his ‘rivers of blood’ speech against immigration.

Johnson likens Chinese workers to “puffing coolies” and he even favours a return to colonial rule for Africa: “Left to their own devices,” Johnson has proclaimed, “the natives would rely on nothing but the instant carbohydrate gratification of the plantain.”

More egregiously still, he adds: “The problem is not that we were once in charge, but that we are not in charge any more.” He accused Nelson Mandela of moving Africa towards a “tyranny of black majority rule”. And he also used his column in the Spectator to claim that the Stephen Lawrence inquiry was a “witch-hunt” against the police.

Johnson’s sexism doesn’t lag far behind: “The chicks in the GQ expenses department—and if you can’t call them chicks, then what the hell, I ask you, is the point of writing for GQ.” For the benefit of readers of the Spectator Johnson claims to have invented the Tottometer—“the Geiger-counter that detects good-looking women”. Appointing him as editor was, in the words of one Spectator contributor, like “entrusting a Ming vase to an ape”.

He supported the homophobic Section 28 legislation and once compared civil partnerships to the marriage of “three men and a dog”.

When one minute Johnson is cracking homophobic jokes about “tank-topped bum-boys”, and the next he is urging the gay community to support him in voting for Brexit on the grounds of the prevalence of gay oppression in Eastern Europe, it is no wonder that Conrad Black, then the Spectator’s owner, characterised Johnson as “ineffably duplicitous”.

Worse however than Boris provoking the ire of the soon-to-be discredited jailbird Black, was how he routinely aroused the suspicion and irritation of his fellow journalists. Rory Watson, a Press Association correspondent who worked in Brussels at the same time as Johnson, has claimed that Johnson “made up stories”.

David Usborne of The Independent considers Johnson to be “fundamentally intellectually dishonest in my view. He was serving his masters in a very skilful way but I never felt he believed a word.” And Johnson’s Etonian contemporary James Landale, now a senior BBC political editor, went into verse about the lies of Boris the journalist—having experienced them at first hand in Brussels:

Boris told such dreadful lies
It made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes.


In Brexit Boris – From Mayor to Nightmare, Heathcote Williams is joined by seven top cartoonists in exploring the dark side of Britain’s foreign secretary Boris Johnson.

Available from Public Reading Rooms…

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Celebrating Jeremy Corbyn’s favourite poet Shelley – a poet for the many not the few https://prruk.org/celebrating-jeremy-corbyns-favourite-poet-shelley-a-poet-for-the-many-not-the-few/ Sat, 04 Aug 2018 08:17:45 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=724

Shelley is Jeremy Corbyn’s favourite poet: ‘We are many, they are few’- even those who’ve never heard of Shelley know this to be true.

Words: Heathcote Williams. Narration and Montage: Alan Cox

Poetry sees the starlight smile of children”
Shelley said, seeing this as life’s truest wealth.

In Shelley’s world the “natural order
Has no place for tyrants” –
Neutering the beauty of the earth,
With all its inspirational beings:
Plants, animals, humans,
And elemental presences.

He was an atheist
Of a most particular kind
For his own spirit is ever present
In the poetry that he envisioned
To be “the interpenetration
“Of a diviner nature
“Through our own.”

He saw this poetry’s footsteps as being like
“Those of the wind over the sea
“Which the coming calm erases,
“And whose traces remain
“In the wrinkled sand which paves it.”

In just such a fashion Shelley’s now etched
Into the wrinkled neurology of the brain,
And he’ll rise to the surface in a trice
As the oppressed take up his chant:
‘We are many, they are few.’

These potent phrases were coined by him
After the Peterloo massacre where
Crowds of Manchester demonstrators
Protesting against cruel and unfair conditions
Were cut down by a Tory government –
Women and children included.

‘We are many, they are few’
Those who’ve never heard of Shelley
Know this to be true…
True for the Ninety Nine Percent who occupied Wall Street
To shame the One percent
Counting their algorithmic wealth
In that cold-hearted gully;
True for those in Tahrir Square
At the height of the Arab Spring
Who adopted this as their slogan;
True for the two million who marched
Against the impending war in Iraq
With Shelley’s line displayed upon their banners.

Here’s how Byron invoked his dead friend
As he stood beside Shelley’s drowned body,
On the shores of Lerici on the Ligurian coast,
To watch its twenty-nine-year-old flesh burning:

“He was the most gentle, the most amiable,
“And least worldly minded person
“I ever met. Disinterested beyond all other men.
“And possessing a degree of genius
“Joined to simplicity
“As rare as it is admirable.
“He had formed to himself
“A beau-ideal
“Of all that is fine, high-minded and noble.
“He acted up to this ideal to the very letter.”

Shelley devised formulae for man’s improvement:
Poetic equations to enlighten those
Weighed down by enervating shibboleths.

He saw how, “The great man’s comfort equals the poor man’s woe”,
And how war makes small men feel important,
And why militarized violence is quite worthless
Because, “Man has no right to kill his brother.
“It is no excuse that he does so in uniform:
“He only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”

Whilst laws passed in Shelley’s day are now redundant –
Consigned to unconsulted vellum scrolls –
And whilst the authorities who then held sway
Are no more than corpse-dust in the wind,
Shelley’s spirit is still legislating
For another world that’s possible.

“Government is an evil…” Shelley proclaims,
“When all men are good and wise,
“Government will of itself decay.”

He then whispers an erotic conjuration:
“Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips”,
As this life-lover dances through the aether.

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Fake News and Trump the orange Fuhrer making America great again https://prruk.org/fake-news-and-the-orange-fuhrer-donald-trump/ Sat, 21 Jul 2018 11:26:00 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4992

Source: International Times  Illustration by cYberbanX

Must we really go to hell in Trump’s hand-cart to the sound of a mad tycoon’s loony tunes?

Edgar M. Welch showed up heavily armed
At the Comet Ping Pong pizzeria.
He was ready to liberate some phantom children
Whom he believed were being held there –

Held in the restaurant as sex slaves for Hillary Clinton,
Then the candidate for US President.
After his arrest Welch told the papers,
“The intel on this wasn’t 100 percent.”

Someone quite similar has just been elected
To the office of the United States President –
Someone armed, thin-skinned and unpredictable;
Peddling fables that are unsubstantiated.

Trump is a serial swindler and predatory sex pest;
He’s a pathological liar who’s convinced
That the outside world is unable to survive
Without endless self-opinionated tweets.

His very appearance suggests something fraudulent:
He combs his long hair at the back of his head to the front
Then crowns his orange face with a yellow pancake,
Made from lacquering his hair into a matted lump.

He’s in hock to unsavory Russian oligarchs.
He abuses the Presidency to pay his debts.
His White House promotes his daughter’s tacky jewelry.
He regards America as his marionette.

He’s a big fan of waterboarding as a torture
(“What do I care if the bad guys get snuffed?”).
But hopefully the world may one day decide
That Trump has tortured it for long enough.

While he talks gibberish and twists man’s moral compass
A sickened outrage is all it’s possible to feel.
Some understandably pin their hopes on an assassin’s bullet
For the fake news of the fake President is so unreal.

This bipolar president in a multipolar world
Is now speaking of a nuclear High Noon.
Must we really go to hell in Trump’s hand-cart
To the sound of a mad tycoon’s loony tunes?

The mad President latches onto unproven news
To make himself look decisive.
He won’t admit Syrians to the US, but he’ll bomb them
Thus making himself the foulest object of derision.

After feigning emotion about “beautiful babies murdered”
Trump launches fifty nine missiles in a “measured attack”.
He murders nine civilians and four children
In the countryside of al-Sha’aryat.

In the War Room of Trump’s Florida White House,
Seated in Trump’s signature golden chairs,
The baby-killers gather round their leader
And his son-in-law – his top advisor.

Without consulting the UN or his Congress
Trump sends off his war planes.
The horsemen of the apocalypse speed off 
Unrestrained by any legal reins.

Trump spares no time to study the real news,
Namely that the US Pentagon
Trained those in opposition to Assad
In the use of the chemical Sarin.

But Trump wishes to target Assad
As he thinks it’ll make him popular;
As will his challenging Assad’s ally, Russia,
The US’s old Cold War enemy.

It was a way too for Trump to rid himself
Of the ‘Russiagate’ allegation,
Namely that he’d colluded with Russian hackers
To win the American election.

In a follow-up to his strikes Trump kills a woman
Together with her six children 
But he’s making America great again
With any fake news he can get his hands on.

The idea that Trump can affect mankind’s future
Has to fill the whole world with sorrow.
He’s been called a child, a moron and someone
Who shouldn’t be in charge of a wheelbarrow.

Signing executive orders without reading them,
This maniac President is unpredictable.
He’s killing people to boost his poll ratings
Or to distract the media from a scandal.

Trump owns shares in the arms company
Firing missiles into Syria: Raytheon.
Every day Trump’s company makes $1.5 billion.
Could anything demand greater damnation?

Together Against Trump
National Demonstration
Friday 13 July London | Assemble 2pm
BBC Portland Place | London W1A 1AA
More details…
See events around the country…

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What they don’t tell us about Winston Churchill: Great Britain’s Greatest Beast https://prruk.org/what-they-dont-tell-us-about-winston-churchill-great-britains-greatest-beast/ Thu, 05 Jul 2018 17:44:30 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5996 The hero worship of ‘England’s greatest Englishman’ glosses over Churchill’s true history, as described here by poet Heathcote Williams with his usual forensic accuracy.

Winston Churchill: Great Britain’s Greatest Beast

Those keen on heroes
Often find they’ve feet of clay.
Here’s one example:

Someone who fought two world wars,
England’s greatest Englishman,
A national treasure
Who rivals the Crown Jewels.
Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill.

Churchill had a school-friend
Called Aubrey Herbert
Who, in 1915, wrote in his diary,
“Winston’s name fills
Everyone with rage.
Roman emperors killed slaves to
Make themselves popular,
He is killing free men
To make himself famous.”

Churchill enjoyed war.

“A curse should rest on me,” Churchill said,
“Because I love this war. I know
It’s smashing and shattering
The lives of thousands
Every moment and yet I can’t help it.
I enjoy every second.”

He wrote this during World War One –
The war to end all wars –
Whose unfinished business
Led to World War Two.
The so-called ‘Good war.’

In World War One,
Keen to acquire oil
From Mesopotamia
For British shipping,
Churchill was happy
To drop poison gas bombs on
Iraqi tribesmen
Who were objecting
To wells dug in their desert
To fuel Britain’s war;
To fuel the ships
That Churchill had decided would run
Better on oil than on coal.

“I don’t understand
This squeamishness about the use
Of gas”, Churchill would say.
“I am strongly in favor of using poison gas
Against uncivilized tribes.”

Because these “uncivilized tribes”
Were holding up his plans
They had to die.
He implied they might be honoured
To die in a civilized cause –
Their being so uncivilized.

Little Englanders,
As Orwell called petty-minded patriots,
Become apoplectic when faced
With the notion that Churchill’s views
And those of Hitler overlap
Both in relation to the use of gas,
And in the elimination
Of “inferior races”.

“I do not admit,” Churchill said
“That any great wrong has been done
To the Red Indians
Of America,
Or the black people of Australia
By the fact that a
Stronger race,
A higher grade race has come in
And taken its place”

Churchill said this in 1937 –
And in the twenties and thirties
He’d often let slip
How much he admired both Hitler
And Mussolini. Fascism
Was no problem for him.
It was the way to counteract
“The virus of Leninism.”

After Hitler came to power, Churchill proclaimed that
“If our country were defeated, I hope we should find
A champion as indomitable [as Hitler] To restore our courage and lead us back to our place
Among the nations.”
And to Mussolini, whom he addressed
In Rome on 20 January 1927, he declared:
“I could not help being charmed, like so many other people have been, by Signor Mussolini’s gentle and simple bearing and by his calm, detached poise in spite of so many burdens and dangers. If I had been an Italian I am sure that I should have been whole-heartedly with you from the start to finish in your triumphant struggle against the bestial appetites and passions of Leninism.
I will, however, say a word on an international aspect of fascism. Externally, your movement has rendered service to the whole world.”

The Jews, by contrast, Churchill regarded
As a “sinister confederacy… for the overthrow of civilization”
In his book ‘Great Contemporaries,’
Published in 1937, Churchill describes Hitler
As “a highly competent, cool, well-informed functionary
With an agreeable manner.”
In the same book he savagely attacks Leon Trotsky.
‘What was wrong with Trotsky?’ He asked rhetorically.
“He was still a Jew.” Churchill replied,
“Nothing could get over that.”

In peace, Churchill called troops
To shoot striking miners dead
At Tonypandy,
So he’s not much loved
By the Welsh.
Nor by the Irish,
In April 1904 he said,
“I remain of the opinion
That a separate parliament for Ireland
Would be dangerous and impractical.”
Nor by the Indians:
He worshipped the Raj,
And he told General Smuts
That he should have killed Gandhi,
When Smuts had the chance.

“I hate Indians.
They are a beastly people with a beastly religion.”
Churchill played a part
In the Bengal famine by
Raising rice prices.
The population
Was thus reduced and the poor
Were less burdensome.
Seven million died.
Churchill refused to send aid
As they’d “breed like rabbits”.

He and Bomber Harris,
Firebombed innocent lives
In Dresden, calling it
“Terror-bombing”. –
They were pleased at their discovery
Of a new kind of war,
Namely to kill civilians deliberately –
To demoralize the enemy.
(They burned five hundred thousand)
For the sake of it.

Churchill had asked for “suggestions
How to blaze 600,000 refugees”,
And then he ordered the firebombing of Dresden
As a “vicious payback” for the German bombing
Of Coventry (which Churchill himself had allowed to burn
Rather than reveal his access to the German codes).

Later he’d ask himself, with a perverse pride,
Against a background of burning bodies,
‘Are we beasts?”

He was addicted to war.

His first experience of it
Was in Afghanistan.
On September 12, 1897 his camp came under sniper fire.
Churchill was having dinner
With a Major-General Sir Bindon Blood
When “a bullet hummed by overhead”.

The incident strengthened Churchill’s view
That a local Pashtun tribe, the Mohmands,
Needed to be dealt with.
“After today we begin to burn villages. Every one.
And all who resist will be killed without quarter.
The Mohmands need a lesson,
And there is no doubt we are a very cruel people.”
Such action was vital, Churchill argued,
Because the Pashtuns “recognise superiority of race”.

Churchill with machine gun

Churchill considered he’d failed
In World War One,
After he’d sent thousands
To their deaths at Gallipoli, to no purpose,
And at the Dardanelles, to no purpose,
He was then sacked.
Consequently he spent years
Licking his wounds
And seeking out an opportunity
For a return march.

In ‘Human Smoke’ Nicholson Baker
Shows how complicit Churchill was
In provoking World War Two:
He bombed Berlin
And then he kept asking de Gaulle
‘Why haven’t they bombed us yet?’
He’d relish the London Blitz
Just because it now warranted
A great crack at the enemy,
Not because he cared tuppence
About defeating fascism.

He enjoyed war.

He enjoyed stabbing dervishes in the neck
At the battle of Omdurman, and he said so.
“I hate nobody except Hitler — but, that is professional.”
In other words there was no great difference of opinion
He just wanted to fight Hitler, or anyone.

He wanted to kill Germans ,
He wanted to kill Sudanese dervishes,
He wanted to kill Afghanis
He wanted to kill Arabs,
And he wanted to kill Brits if necessary
So long as he could claim victory
And hear the roar of a crowd’s approval.
As if war was a game –
A blood, sweat and tears game
Not a game of right and wrong.

He cared nothing for the Jews whose genocide
The war would arguably accelerate
Churchill just got off on war.
His moral compass was set
Towards self-glorification,
Even if it required fabrication.

“In time of war,” Churchill said, “when truth is so precious, “it must be attended by a bodyguard of lies”
And every imaginable lie has attended his life.
A life fetishized by Tory devotees
Who speak in hushed tones
When they mention the name of their unholy fascist
Who worshipped force, the deadlier the better.

Churchill said, “I like a man who grins when he fights.”
But his magniloquent language and the great claims
Made for him conceal a squalid truth,
That he’d loved war ever since he was a child
When he’d studied the Blenheim Palace tapestries
In which his ancestor, Marlborough,
Was depicted slaughtering 30,000 Frenchmen
And plundering Bavaria
All because of an obscure squabble
Over the Spanish succession.

An unhappy boy in a Palace,
Abandoned by a nymphomaniac mother
Ignored by a syphilitic father,
And silenced by a speech defect,
Would sit in a long corridor transfixed,
Hypnotized by massacres
And would then spend his later life looking for battles
To shine in, however many bodies he left in his wake.
The Toryboy’s household god
Who once said “Politics is almost as exciting as war“
In other words a man excited by the deaths of millions.

Towards the end of his life
Something of his own enormity
Must have visited him,
For he’d curse what he’d call
The “black dog of depression”
Which was only relieved by
Alcoholic self-medication –
Pickling a brain whose troubled thoughts
Could, in the end, only be subdued by a stroke;
The oh so good man
Who fought his oh so good war.

By way of rebranding him,
Churchill’s dark, brooding statue
In Parliament Square
Has had a green turf strip
Surreally crown its bronze head
Like a Mohican hair-cut,
And red paint spills out of its mouth
To symbolize the advocacy
Of bloodletting
By this uncivilized brute
In the wars he so loved
And so effusively praised.

 

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Donald J. Trump: president of the US plutocratic pornocracy https://prruk.org/donald-j-trump-president-of-the-us-plutocratic-pornocracy/ Wed, 04 Jul 2018 13:00:54 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=2050 I don’t like to analyze myself because I might not like what I see – Donald Trump

On buying a beauty spot in Scotland for a golf-course
And for luxury condominiums,
Trump notices some old houses on the horizon
And he orders them bulldozed to oblivion.

On seeing a woman that he desires, he oafishly
Recommends “grabbing her pussy”.
He boasts that, ‘My fame lets me take liberties;
‘My fame allows me to abuse her.’

Trump’s grandfather ran brothels in the Yukon
And to his grandson, people are also for sale.
Trump’s ego tells him he has supernatural powers
And that almost nothing is beyond the pale.

“I will deport 12 million Latinos”, Donald Trump insists –
This buddy of asset strippers and union busters –
A charlatan who papers over his character’s cracks
With bank loans and with megalomaniac bluster.

Trump was a casino owner (a synonym for gangster),
A suitable past for the President of casino capitalism
Who boasts about who he’s been able to shake down,
And who also represents a home-grown neo-fascism.

Trump’s a demagogue who’s prone to magical thinking
With a compulsion to build concrete penises
Upon which his name appears in enormous letters
And whose robotic staff repeat, “he’s a genius”.

He has pretended to be anti-establishment
And to be standing up for the little guy
Yet without Wall Street and the Deutsche Bank
This exhibitionist parasite would die.

He’s a slave to his monumental indebtedness.
He owes 600 million dollars.
But now that he’s President he can pay his creditors,
The mob and their sinister callers –

While doubtless remaining reluctant to pay taxes
For he regards tax evasion as an art.
When challenged about his not filing tax returns
He brags, “That makes me smart.” [1]

He’s risen to power on the magniloquent claim
That he’ll make America great
While representing the lowest common denominator
Of his country’s racist hate.

In 1992 the Casino Control Commission fined him $200,000
For removing African-American card dealers
From his Plaza Hotel’s casino to appease the racism
Of the Plaza’s big-spending gamblers. [2]

Trump would disparage his black casino employees as “lazy”.
“I’ve got black accountants and isn’t it funny?” He’d say,
“Black guys counting my money! I hate it. The only kind of people
“I want are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.” [3]

“When Donald and Ivana came to the casino”,
Recalls Kip Brown, an employee at Trump’s Castle,
“The bosses would order all the black people off the floor,”
He told the New Yorker in a 2015 article. [4]

Regarding an African-American President
As an affront to his Aryan sensibility,
Trump became vocal in the ‘Birther’ movement
Questioning Obama’s legitimacy.

Trump failed to disavow the Ku Klux Klan
When they supported his candidacy.
He’d airily pretend he didn’t know who they were
With an ignorance approaching lunacy.

Donald J. Trump has been elected President
Of the US’s plutocratic pornocracy –
A plot twist, and suddenly the whole world
Is having to adjust to his squalid reality.

He believes women should suffer punishment
If they decide to have abortions.
He sees life as conquest and victory and winning,
As if in a childish competition.

In a half-hearted apology for mocking women’s looks
Trump says he does it “to be entertaining” [5]
Unaware that he himself  is overweight and bright orange
And hardly qualifies as an oil painting.

“I’d bring back a hell of a lot worse than waterboarding.”
Says Trump who advocates torture.
“When I say they’ll do as I tell them, they’ll do as I tell them.” [6]
Is how he plans to overcome any legal stricture.

Fifty billion tons of carbon dioxide fall annually
On the earth, causing deadly climate change,
Yet Trump says he’ll cancel the lifesaving treaties
The international community has arranged.

So more earthquakes will be on the horizon
And extreme heat will now be inevitable.
One man’s hot air will have consequences
As air becomes less and less breathable.

We need some global warming. It’s freezing!
Trump would joke while he was out campaigning
Then America’s Emperor repeats his strident rhetoric
And his insistence “the swamp needs draining.”

He threatens to attack ISIS with nuclear weapons –
To use a nuclear sledgehammer to crack a nut –
Unable to see that every Trump Tower would be
Transformed into a radioactive mud hut.

Donald Trump is really Donald Drumpf,
To give him his ancestral, and risible name.
It suggests dumbness, even the passing of wind
As well as the merciful transience of fame.

Extracted from American Porn by Heathcote Williams, published by Thin Man Press

Together Against Trump 13 July 2018

National Demonstration
Friday 13 July London | Assemble 2pm
BBC Portland Place | London W1A 1AA
More details…
See events around the country…

Notes
[1] CNBC, 26 Sep 2016
[2] $200,000 in 1992 Trump was fined $200,000 for this
[3] John R. O’Donnell, James Rutherford, Trumped! The Inside Story of the Real Donald Trump–His Cunning Rise and Spectacular Fall, Simon & Schuster, 1991
[4] Nick Paumgarten, The Death and Life of Atlantic City, The New Yorker, September 7, 2015
[5] Pema Levy, ‘Trump Says He Mocked Women’s Looks to Be Entertaining’ Mother Jones, Oct. 6, 2016
[6] Tom McCarthy, ‘Donald Trump reverses position on torture’, The Guardian, 4 March 2016

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Bees – no human revolution has ever produced anything as good https://prruk.org/bees/ Sun, 01 Jul 2018 13:05:31 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5127

Bees are eusocial – meaning their life is ordered for the benefit of everyone in the hive. Human society is largely anti-social. A kleptocracy.

Words: Heathcote Williams. Video and Narration: Alan Cox

Bees

Wise bees will tell you:
“Natura in minima
Maxima” – kindly
Translating it
As “Nature is the greatest
In the smallest things.”

Bees’ making life sweet
Made man’s harsh evolution
More tolerable.

Almost each mouthful
Of food owes its existence to
Pollinating bees.

It’s been said, “If bees
Disappear, man has only
A few years to live.”

Bees are eusocial –
Meaning their life is ordered
For the benefit
Of everyone in
The hive: construction workers,
Nurses, guards, grocers,
Housekeepers,
Foragers, and gigolos
And undertakers.

Man’s society
Is largely anti-social.
A kleptocracy.

Man, who steals from bees,
Repays them with pesticide
Yet they dance to work.

Emma Goldman said
That all revolutions should
Involve dancing, but

No revolution
Has produced anything
As good as bees
And Tolstoy believed
They’d devised the ideal
Society for man.

No society
Has a talisman with the
Power of honey.

One ounce of honey
Enables a bee to fly
Round the whole world.

If bees’ stamina
Is scaled up to human level,
Man is quite outclassed.

A bee beats its wings
Over eleven thousand
Times in a minute.

Its brain’s a cubic
Millimetre whose wiring
Beats silicon chips.

A bee, said Karl Marx,
Can “put architects to shame
In constructing cells.”

The bee’s venom is
The most powerful substance
In the natural world.

Bee acupuncture
Can extend man’s lifespan by
Curing arthritis.

A bee’s venom can
Open up neural pathways,
Following a stroke.

Honey can dress wounds –
Since microbes can’t live in it,
It’s antiseptic.

Alexander the
Great was embalmed in honey
And lasted decades.

In Ephesus, bees
Would symbolize Artemis,
And stood for wisdom.

So Pythagoras, Achilles
And Plato were fed honey
In their infancy.

The “gift of heaven”
Virgil called it and,
In his Georgics,
He said it conveyed
Prescience; and the priestess
At Delphi was called

The ‘Delphic Bee’ as
Her powers were oracular:
She saw the future.

Before Chernobyl
Was understood, bees
Wisely stayed in their hives.

The priest Jonathan,
In 1 Samuel 14,
Would take some honey

From a honeycomb
Then, “as his hand met his mouth,
His eyes were enlightened.”

The letters in the
Poet Deborah’s Hebrew name,
Dbr, means bee;

It also means truth –
Both being on a mission
To improve the world
With sweetness and light –
For if reason’s sweet
Why pull a sour face?

Bees have made honey
For 150 million years
And the Pyramids,
When rediscovered,
Showed that honey had been placed
Near Pharoah’s body –
An immortal food
Which still tasted good after
Five thousand years.

Bees defend themselves
Without paying someone else
To do it for them.

Bees’ flower power
Is not a drug-enhanced dream:
Their flying’s for real.

‘Where the bee sucks there
Suck I, in a cowslip’s bell
I lie.’ Paradise!

The buzzing of bees
Indicating contentment
Is archetypal:
The soundtrack to the
Land of milk and honey, man’s
Sustaining ideal.

Each bee has five eyes.
Mystics reckon a third eye
Bestows occult powers.

Five eyes could give you
The ability to see
Some things that man can’t.

The sound which bees make
Triggers the production of nectar in flowers.
It can also pollinate the human brain.

“People love bees”, said
St John Chrysostom,
“Not because they work

But because they work for others.”
They’re formed by nature to be altruistic,
To be aware of the common good.

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There’s a bounty on the head of Tony Blair for anyone who makes a citizen’s arrest https://prruk.org/theres-a-bounty-on-the-head-of-tony-blair-for-anyone-who-makes-a-citizens-arrest/ Sun, 01 Jul 2018 11:28:44 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4461

There’s a reward for anyone attempting a citizen’s arrest of Tony Blair for crimes against peace.

Words: Heathcote Williams. Video and Narration: Alan Cox.

The citizen’s arrest of war criminal Tony Blair

It’s  time for Tony to face charges,
It’s time for a citizen’s Arrest
There’s an empty dock in the Hague
Dying to have him as a guest.

There’s  a million bodies buried in Iraq
Whose ghosts cry out in despair,
‘There were no weapons of mass destruction
So where’s The People versus Tony Blair?’

There were no weapons about to hit London
Within the space of three quarters of an hour,
Tony was lying to Parliament and his country
For Iraq never toppefd the twin towers.

He and Campbell were conned by the neo cons
They were impressed by American power
into letting themselves be drawn into war crimes
With Iraq being bombed for hour after hour.

A million were bombed  to smithereens
Killed by shells tipped with uranium-
Causing borth defects to pregnant women
Lasting from generation to generation.

As a lawyer you’re aware that aggressive warfare
Under the Nuremburg protocals,
Constitutes the ultimate crimde in international law
Your avoiding justice makes people emotional.

To add iinsult to injurt you’ve profited, Tony.
And you swan about in a private jet,
It’s made you popular among the corrupt,
You’re part of the International Set.

But the International Criminal Court
is keeping  your seat in the dock warm,
And anyone carrying out a successful arrest
Promises to go down a storm.

How to collect the reward for attempting a citizen’s arrest of Tony Blair for crimes against peace. See ArrestBlair.org

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How William Blake got rid of stalker hacks, soul stealers and 19th century paparazzi https://prruk.org/how-william-blake-got-rid-of-stalker-hacks-soul-stealers-and-19th-century-paparazzi/ Wed, 06 Jun 2018 23:48:21 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5458

Source: International Times

“My business is not to gather gold, but to make glorious shapes
expressing god-like sentiments.”

William Blake.

Blake would often receive visitors in the nude
Declaring that God Almighty was his tailor;
That he and his wife Catherine were Adam and Eve
And that clothes were a sign of man’s failure.

His penchant for nudity attracted the attention
Of the nineteenth century tabloids,
And a Fleet Street gutter hack called John Timbs
Thought he’d visit the poet uninvited.

Timbs was keen to unearth examples of “eccentrics”,
Those he called “the motley-minded and the grotesque”,
And, determining that Blake fell into that category,
He wished to use Blake to feather his own nest.

Having prevailed upon William Blake’s good nature
And gained admittance to Blake’s inner sanctum,
He asked Blake if it was true he saw the souls of the dead
And that he claimed to hear angels singing anthems?

At Fountain Court, Strand (Blake’s lodgings), Blake replied
“The spirits of the long departed mingle here with one another:
“Moses, and Pindar; Virgil, and Dante; Milton and Homer.
“I once even had the devil and his mother.”

“Do these persons have themselves announced?”
Enquired Timbs or “first send in their cards?
“They come entreating me to produce their portraits,” said Blake,
“And I happily satisfy the vanity of the bards.”

But suspecting Timbs to be hiding a cynical sneer
Blake decided to take him for a ride:
He told him not to sit where he’d just planted himself
And said sharply, “That’s where the ghost of my pet flea resides.”

Then Timbs was made to feel even more uneasy
As Blake moved him around the room,
“No, no. That’s no good. That chair’s for Richard III.
“He’s to sit there today, should he be coming to town.”

“Richard III?” gasps Timbs, sensing a profitable scoop
And now feigning belief in Blake’s inner world.
“How remarkable! Of course I know you have the power
“To see visions of both the living and the dead!”

“Richard III?” Timbs repeats, “tell me now where do you see him?”
Blake answers, “Quiet. It’s his first visit.”
“But where is he exactly? How do you know his name?”
Blake replies firmly, “My spirit…”

“…My spirit recognizes him, but I can’t tell you how.”
“He’s opposite to you, on the other side of the table.”
“What is he like?” insists Timbs, overcome with curiosity.
“Stern, but handsome: at present I see only his profile.”

Then Blake narrows his gaze as if to adjust his focus,
“Ah, now I have the three-quarter face.
“Ah! now he turns to me. He is terrible to behold
“But he’s more than welcome in my place.”

“Could you pose him any questions?” says Timbs, beside himself.
“Certainly,” says Blake, “What would you like me to ask him?”
“The murders!” blurts out Timbs, “the murders!
“The murders he committed during his lifetime!”

“Your question is already known to him,” Blake shrugs,
“He and I converse mind to mind.
“We speak by intuition and by magnetism, you understand.
“Richard and I have no need of words.”

“What is his Majesty’s reply?” beseeches Timbs,
“This…” Blake cups his ear as if striving to listen,
“Only it is somewhat longer than he just gave it to me,
“For you would not understand the language of spirits.”

“He says what you call murder and carnage is all nothing!
“That in slaughtering fifteen or twenty thousand men you do no wrong!
“For what is immortal of them is not only preserved,
“But it passes, you understand, into a better world.”

Timbs’ jaw drops, appalled, and he edges away from Blake
As if regarding him as a monster, while Blake continues,
“And the man who reproaches his assassin is guilty of ingratitude,
“For by this means he enters into a more perfect state of existence.”

“But do not interrupt me; he is now in a good position,
“And if you say anything more, he will go.”
Blake then laid out his pencils and brushes and began
To draw a portrait of Richard from head to toe.

But Timbs is unable to believe what Blake has been saying –
It’s as if the saintly artist has turned into Charles Manson –
Aghast at Blake’s replies he beats a hasty retreat
And later spreads the rumour that Blake was taking opium.

But Blake had effectively got rid of his vampire visitor
And was never to be troubled by Timbs again –
The kind of person that Burroughs warned against:
Someone more of a succubus than a man.

“If, after spending time with a person,”
William Burroughs used to say,
“You feel as though you’ve lost a quart of plasma,
“Avoid that person; otherwise pray.”

In 1865 John Timbs published his ‘Modern Eccentrics’
In which he included William Blake;
Spitefully charging him with an hallucinating insanity…
England’s uncrowned King and God’s rake.

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How Statue of Liberty’s burka gives lie to Trump’s anti-Muslim policies https://prruk.org/the-statue-of-libertys-burka/ Sat, 02 Jun 2018 09:30:16 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=2727

Trump demonises Arabs, wanting to banish them from his shores, unaware that an Arab giantess in New York is welcoming all migrants.

The Statue of Liberty’s Burka

The President is obsessed with deporting Arabs
Although, by a superb comic irony,
It was an Arab who modeled for the United States’ icon –
Namely the Statue of Liberty.

The sculptor’s monument was initially designed
For the opening of the Suez canal:
The original depicted an Arab woman holding a torch.
It was destined for the canal’s southern portal.

His first drawings show “a gigantic female fellah, or Arab peasant”
With a veil modestly hiding her lips,
The sculptor told Egypt’s ruler she represented “Progress”
A beacon, to light the way for oncoming ships.

Unfortunately for the artist, Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi,
Egypt’s bankrupt Khedive couldn’t afford its installation
But undeterred, Bartholdi recycled it and offered it to New York
To commemorate the American revolution.

Its first title had been, “Egypt carrying the Light to Asia’
But now the figure’s veil would be removed
And for his prospective US clients Bartholdi called it,
“Liberty enlightening the world”.

But despite Bartholdi’s tweaking the flowing Arab garments
And his turning them into Graeco-Roman dress,
It’s still a huge stone Arab that occupies New York Harbour,
Making fun of the President’s petty mindedness –

And of the President’s paranoia for far more Americans die
As a result of their falling out of bed,
Or their being stung by bees rather than being killed by terrorists
Never mind their fellow-citizens shooting them dead.

Despite the most worthless President in US history
Wishing to banish all Arabs from his shores
An Arab giantess in New York is welcoming migrants
And giving the lie to his immigration laws.

However much the President may demonise Arabs
There’s one who’s rooted to the ground,
Making a better job of symbolising American liberty
Without her having to utter a sound.

Heathcote Williams – poet, playwright, essayist, lyricist, actor, magician, political agitator… and much else besides – died 1 July 2017.


Video: The Statue of Liberty’s Burka

Words and narration by Heathcote Williams. Montage by Alan Cox. Source: BabylonRoyal


Together Against Trump
National Demonstration
Friday 13 July London | Assemble 2pm
BBC Portland Place | London W1A 1AA
More details…

]]>
Prince Charles: arms dealer by royal appointment to Middle East tyrants https://prruk.org/prince-charles-arms-dealer-by-royal-appointment-to-middle-east-tyrants/ Sun, 06 May 2018 09:32:03 +0000 http://prruk.org/?p=8564

Prince Charles lubricates the wheels of the British war machine and bestows his royal sanction on aggression.

There’s no difference between being an arms dealer
And being a wanted war criminal.
Although you don’t have to get your hands bloody
The results are equally terrible.

But arms dealing will suit anyone used to gracious living
In one dinosaur nest after another –
Such as Balmoral, or Clarence House, or Highgrove,
Thanks to a billionaire mother.

Such a dealer can travel at taxpayers’ expense
And can trade on a moth-eaten charisma
While he’s luxuriously feted by insecure tyrants
Before he sells them toys for their militia.

He boasts that he’s “boosting British trade”
As he attends an arms fair in Dubai,
Giving his blessing to sniper rifles, gun silencers
And grenades, designed to blow you sky high.

“We’re really rather good at making
“Certain kinds of weapons.” Charles has said.
“If the UK doesn’t sell them someone else will.”
As if that might bring comfort to the dead.

After a four-day visit to Saudi Arabia, Charles Windsor
Secures an arms deal for British Aerospace.
It’s worth $8 billion for 70 Typhoon fighter aircraft.
Charles then leaves with a smirk on his face.

But his warplanes will be used in Bahrain and the Yemen
To strafe and to suppress secessionists.
Their bodies will be left to rot in desert sand
Thanks to the royal environmentalist.

He celebrates the sale by joining a sword dance in Riyadh
Which his PA describes as “a cultural nicety”,
But Saudi swords aren’t used for combat in the region,
They’re used for executions of astounding brutality.

The prince poses for photographs waving a Saudi sword
Which is drawn just as it’d be for a beheading
And, pandering to his hosts, he reminds King Abdullah
How he once gave him such a sword for his wedding.

When it was rumoured BA share prices looked likely to fall
This tweedy Salome brought the Saudis to heel:
The ‘apolitical’ Prince flew to the Gulf with sexy pictures of weapons
And urged the Saudis to finalize an overdue deal.

“One may smile and smile and be a villain,” says Hamlet
And Prince Charles’ dithering and asinine grin
Belie the nature of the Commander-in-Chief of Bloody Sunday’s Paras
Who killed Derry Civil Rights marchers… thirteen.

Angst-ridden, with pretensions to the moral high ground,
Charles is a businessman with a heart of granite
For whom being unelected heir-apparent opens handy doors
For this badger-culling and fox-hunting bandit –

A landlord who benefits from inhuman rack-rents
Prompting tenant farmers to commit suicide,
Prince Charles is rich and avaricious on principle
But he’s no need to make money from homicide.

Sealed off by coteries of craven courtiers and lick-spittles,
He flies into rages when contradicted;
He’s petulant whenever tenants are slow with their rent
And only too happy to see them evicted.

His Duchy estates are worth 400 million.
He has an income of 40 million a year.
As the beneficiary of common lands’ enclosure
Democracy has to fill him with fear.

“I was accused once of being the enemy of the Enlightenment,”
“I felt proud of that”
Charles once told a conference at St James’s Palace –
Hard to think of such a creature as head of state.

He’s a man who’s evidently inclined to feel at home
In Saudi Arabia, ruled by 20,000 princes,
Where women can’t drive and can’t have the vote
And where severing heads are legal sentences.

How can he justify arming such a reactionary state?
Yet he bends over backwards to do so –
Respecting the taboo against all mention of human rights
Saudi oil’s ubiquity prevents him from saying, ‘Boo!’

In his awarding medals to troops involved in illegal wars
And in his pestering PM’s for money for weapons,
He lubricates the wheels of the British war machine
And bestows his royal sanction on aggression.

As a reward for their arms-dealing antics
Charles and Andrew, his sordid brother,
Are awarded ludicrous, Ruritanian honours
By their indulgent, billionaire mother.

They’re Royal Knights Companions of the Thistle, or Garter –
The Duke of York and the Duke of Rothesay –
They’re Knights Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order
And Vice Admirals in their mother’s Navy.

In sanctimonious moments the poor little rich boy
Speaks of his “brothers and sisters in Christ”
Yet Charles sidesteps the New Testament’s peace-loving message
Lest there be arms-dealing profits to be missed.

The global arms industry is worth
Over a trillion dollars a year.
Charles happily becomes its obliging minion,
Peddling its deadly tools of hatred and fear.

Thanks to the Crown Proceedings Act
The Royal Household is immune from arrest:
Unfair privileges are built into the system
With the sub-text ‘blue blood is best’.

But if Monarchy insists that heredity is paramount,
That nations are best ruled by special gene pools,
What’s one to make of Charles resembling his distant cousin:
George Bush, the sociopath; the warmongering fool?

Prince Charles may believe in homeopathic farming
And in planting crops in time with the moon,
But unscientific sentimentalism green-washes
A land-hungry sadist in a royal cocoon.

It’s a short step from his regarding some animals,
Such as badgers and foxes, as vermin
To his regarding other humans as inferior, and the subjects
Of a pantomime killer dressed in ermine.

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Brexit Boris – From Mayor to Nightmare. By Heathcote Williams https://prruk.org/productbrexit-boris-from-mayor-to-nightmare-2brexit-boris-from-mayor-to-nightmare/ Thu, 01 Mar 2018 15:33:43 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=448 Forensic and passionate, eloquent and polemical, Heathcote Williams’s meticulous prose roars with righteous anger – Jeremy Hardy

Uncovered here are the lies, the sackings, the betrayals, the racist insults, the brush with criminality, that should have got Boris Johnson disbarred from ever being considered for high office. Instead, on the back of Brexit Britain, he reached the dizzy heights of the Foreign Office, with his eyes still set on one day being prime minister.

Heathcote Williams is a poet, playwright, essayist, lyricist, actor, artist, magician, political agitator … and much else besides.

Brexit Boris is now in its third edition and on special offer at £8 post free.

Price: £8 post freebuy-now

ISBN 978-0-9955352-0-6. For trade enquiries, contact Turnaround:
Tel 020 8829 3000, email [email protected]

For orders outside the UK: Contact PRR

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How the United States self-mythologises its meglomaniac empire every Thanksgiving Day https://prruk.org/how-the-united-states-self-mythologises-its-meglomaniac-empire-every-thanksgiving-day/ Thu, 23 Nov 2017 19:27:16 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5763

Source: Babylonroyal

Words by Heathcote Williams | Video and narration by Alan Cox

The US venerates its Pilgrim Fathers as brave pioneers, eating 45 million turkeys in celebration, but, says Heathcote Williams, the country was in reality created by zombie cannibals, and Thanksgiving is a day for toasting genocide, while indulging in American exceptionalism, and an over-weening national pride.

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Happy Thanksgiving, America: born out of war 400 years ago, at war endlessly ever since https://prruk.org/happy-thanksgiving-america-born-out-of-war-400-years-ago-at-war-endlessly-ever-since-2/ Thu, 23 Nov 2017 17:27:55 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5754

Happy Thanksgiving America: celebrating a genocide. By Gilbert Mercier

Source: Counterpunch

The sad reality about the United States of America is that in a matter of a few hundreds years it managed to rewrite its own history into a mythological fantasy.

The concepts of liberty, freedom and free enterprise in the “land of the free, home of the brave” are a mere spin.

The US was founded and became prosperous based on two original sins: firstly, on the mass murder of Native Americans and theft of their land by European colonialists; secondly, on slavery.

This grim reality is far removed from the fairytale version of a nation that views itself in its collective consciousness as a virtuous universal agent for good and progress. The most recent version of this mythology was expressed by Ronald Reagan when he said that “America is a shining city upon a hill whose beacon light guides freedom-loving people everywhere.”

In rewriting its own history about Thanksgiving, white America tells a Disney-like fairytale about the English pilgrims and their struggle to survive in a new and harsh environment.

The pilgrims found help from the friendly and extremely generous Native-American tribe, the Wampanoag Indians, in 1621. Unfortunately for Native Americans, the European settlers’ gratitude was short-lived.

By 1637, Massachusetts governor John Winthrop ordered the massacre of thousands of Pequot Indian men, women and children. This event marked the start of a Native-American genocide that would take slightly more than 200 years to complete, and of course to achieve its ultimate goal, which was to take the land from Native Americans and systematically plunder their resources.

The genocide begun in 1637 marks the beginning of the conquest of the entire continent until most Native Americans were exterminated, a few were assimilated into white society, and the rest were put in reservations to dwindle and die.

When Christopher Columbus “discovered” the Americas in 1492, on his quest for gold and silver, the Native population, which he erroneously called Indians, numbered an estimated 15 million who lived north of current day Mexico. It was, by all considerations, a thriving civilization. Three hundred and fifty years later, the Native American population north of Mexico would be reduced to less than a million. This genocide was brought upon the Natives by systematic mass murder and also by disease, notably smallpox, spread by the European colonists.

Columbus and his successors proto-capitalist propensity for greed was foreign to Native Americans. They viewed the land as tribal collective ownership, not as a property that could be owned by individuals. As Howard Zinn wrote in his People’s History of the United States:

Columbus and his successors were not coming to an empty wilderness, but into a world which, in some places, was as densely populated as Europe, and where the culture was complex, where human relations were more egalitarian than in Europe, and where the relations between men, women, children and nature were more beautifully worked out than perhaps in any other places in the world.

In many ways, the US’ celebration of Thanksgiving is analogous to setting aside a day in Germany to celebrate the Holocaust. Thanksgiving is the American Holocaust. The original crimes of genocide and slavery are not limited to US early history but have found an extension in the policies of modern-day US.

The systematic assault on other nations and cultures still goes on under various pretenses or outright lies. United States wars of empire are going on today more than ever before. These wars have left millions of people dead across the world in the course of American history, and they are still fought for the same reasons behind the Native American genocide and slavery: namely, to expand the wealth of the US elite.

Defenders of Thanksgiving will say that whatever the original murky meaning of the holiday, it has become a rare chance to spend time with family and show appreciation for what one has.

For most Americans today, however, it is hard to be thankful. As matter of fact, unless you belong to the two percent who represent the US ruling class you should not be thankful at all.

How can you be appreciative for what you have if you have lost your house to foreclosure, don’t have a job and can’t feed your family? How can you be appreciative if you are a homeless veteran? How can you be appreciative when you are poor or sick in a society without social justice?

On this Thanksgiving day, rich celebrities and politicians will make a parody of what should be real charity by feeding countless poor and homeless. This will ease their conscience, at least for a while.

Charity, however, should not be a substitute for social justice. Just to ruin some people’s appetites before they attack that golden turkey: keep in mind that today we are celebrating a genocide.


Happy Thanksgiving: how the US self-mythologises its meglomaniac empire

By Heathcote Williams | Video and narration Alan Cox

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Buller! Buller! Buller! Boris Johnson and the air of lurking violence https://prruk.org/buller-buller-buller-boris-johnson-and-the-air-of-lurking-violence/ Thu, 05 Oct 2017 15:36:42 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5312 “His defence of bankers’ greed is Bullingdon morality, pure and simple.”

This is an extract from Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare, by the late and very much missed Heathcote Williams.

Boris Johnson’s penchant for violence would soon find a further outlet in the initiation rites of Oxford’s Bullingdon Club. Johnson was proud to be a member of the two hundred year old dining and drinking club and he would stand for its presidency. He was a keen participant in its excesses—raucous rituals described by an ex-member of it in the Guardian: “There’s the air of lurking violence, and above all the sense that its members consider themselves above the law on such occasions.”

The club, whose youthful members like to dress up as if they belonged to a high-powered and gold-braided military elite, once enjoyed a “famously explosive dinner” at the White Hart near Oxford in 2005: “All the food and plates had been thrown everywhere and they were jumping on top of each other on the table like kids in a playground,” recalled the pub’s landlord Ian Rogers. The part he found strangest was that each time he confronted a member of the club, “they apologized profusely but offered absolutely no explanation”.

The Bullingdon Club is for plutocratic undergraduates who think nothing of spending £3,500 on its royal blue tailcoats with ivory lapels and canary yellow waistcoats—a livery which prompted Evelyn Waugh in Brideshead Revisited to describe the Bullingdon members as looking “like a lot of most disorderly footmen”.

The Bullingdon, described by Waugh in his novel Decline and Fall, published in 1928, as “baying for broken glass”, is still banned from meeting within a 15-mile radius of Christ Church. This stems from the time in 1927 when they smashed over 400 windows in the college’s Peckwater Quadrangle. In Waugh’s novel, the Bullingdon appears as the ‘Bollinger’, whose annual dinner was accompanied by “a confused roaring and a breaking of glass”.

Waugh says, in a description that is now almost a hundred years old but which still applies:

It is not accurate to call this an annual event, because quite often the club is suspended for some years after each meeting. There is tradition behind the Bollinger; it numbers reigning kings among its past members. At the last dinner, three years ago, a fox had been brought in in a cage and stoned to death with champagne bottles.

What an evening that had been! This was the first meeting since then, and from all over Europe old members had rallied for the occasion. For two days they had been pouring into Oxford: epileptic royalty from their villas of exile; uncouth peers from crumbling country seats; smooth young men of uncertain tastes from embassies and legations; illiterate lairds from wet granite hovels in the Highlands; ambitious young barristers and Conservative candidates torn from the London season and the indelicate advances of debutantes; all that was most sonorous of name and title was there for the beano.

The current Minister of Foreign Affairs in Poland, Radek Sikorski formerly of Pembroke College, was surprised to be woken up in the middle of the night in his lodgings in Oxford’s Walton Street and to be met by the sight of a marauding mob led by Boris Johnson, all whooping and chortling as Sikorski’s room was trashed and his possessions destroyed by a welter of cricket bats and cricket stumps wielded with sadistic glee.

Sikorski sat up in his bed, bemused. “In the middle of the night,” Sikorski recalls, “a dozen screaming figures burst into my room and demolished it completely.”

This was the Bullingdon Club’s thuggish way of telling someone that they’d just been made a member and that, having endured this introductory ritual without complaint, they would now be privileged to do the same thing to new members and to enjoy themselves in similar fashion at their expense: to shred their clothes; to rip their books in half; to hurl their hi-fi systems to the ground while wine bottles were emptied onto a pile of their belongings in the centre of the room and while photographs of their girl friends  were ripped up and decried.

In a Guardian article titled ‘Young, rich and drunk’, Barney Ronay writes: “Then there’s the Bullingdon’s committed and longstanding misogyny. It’s not just the all-male exclusivity, more the tales of hiring strippers to preside at the initiation of new members at the annual breakfast. Plus the trapped, frantic and vaguely sexual energy of the whole thing. The Bullingdon is simply a no-go area for women. These are teenagers almost exclusively from an all-male boarding school background. It’s no real surprise that some of the naive, hostile and retarded attitudes fostered there resurface at a university reunion. You just have to hope they grow out of it.”

Another stock-in-trade of the Bullingdon initiation rituals was for newly elected members to visit Bonn Square where Oxford’s homeless congregate and to burn a £50 note in front of them by way of jeering at their misfortune.

The Club is most noteworthy for its trashing of the restaurants that it has booked for its antics and then for its members to assume that they can exonerate themselves by throwing banknotes at the hapless, and possibly ruined, proprietors. As Hilaire Belloc had it in his Cautionary Tales:

Like many of the Upper Class
He liked the sound of broken glass.

Belloc could well have been thinking of the members of the Bullingdon Club. At one Club meal in 1987, attended by both Boris Johnson and David Cameron, someone—whose identity has never been properly established thanks to the Bullingdon rule of omertà—threw a large plant pot through the restaurant window.

The burglar alarm was activated and Oxford’s police force duly descended on the dining club’s chosen venue with sniffer dogs in tow. Six of the group were apprehended and spent the night at Cowley police station.

Cameron escaped but Johnson’s attempt to evade the police by running off and crawling through a hedge in the Botanical Gardens failed and, by his own account, an overnight stay in a police cell reduced him to “a gibbering namby-pamby”.

Cameron seems sheepish about his Bullingdon past. When asked by the TV interviewer Andrew Marr whether he was embarrassed by it, the then Tory leader replied: “Of course, desperately, very embarrassed about it”. Johnson, however, seems proud of his Bullingdon membership and reputedly relishes hailing former members of the Club, so distinguished for its destructive binges, with a braying chant of “Buller! Buller! Buller!” which he expects to be reciprocated in a tribal bonding ritual.

Johnson’s defence of privilege is an enduring theme. In 1980, after extolling the virtues of private education he concluded: “So strain every nerve, parents of Britain, to send your son to this educational establishment (forget this socialist gibberish about the destruction of the State System). Exercise your freedom of choice because in this way you imbue your son with the most important thing, a sense of his own importance.”

The unfairness of the public schools’ leech-like presence within the country’s education system and their unwarranted charitable status—despite perpetuating an uncharitable class system—doesn’t faze Johnson for a moment.

He admires and he serves economic elitism. Eighty per cent of those who funded his campaign for the office of mayor of London were from the financial sector—hedge-funders, private equity experts, financial service houses and multi-millionaire businessmen—something that may have weighed with Johnson when he later attacked the top tax rate for high earners and with his regarding “banker bashers” as deluded.

In November 2013 Johnson said the super-wealthy were “a put upon minority”, and ludicrously described them as being “like Irish travellers and the homeless”. In the same year the super-wealthy were to bag an average 14 per cent pay rise while the average wage rose by a paltry below-inflation 0.7 per cent.

“Since his first months in office,” Sonia Purnell noted, “Boris’s attitude towards the City and the super-rich has been at odds with his ‘Mayor of the People’ persona. As Simon Jenkins of the Standard tellingly puts it: “His defence of bankers’ greed is Bullingdon morality, pure and simple.”

Johnson’s more acute sister Rachel, a novelist, has commented on an infamous Bullingdon Club photograph (now strictly injuncted against publication) that features both her brother and Cameron: “It looks what it is, elitist, arrogant, privileged and of an age that would have little resonance with people on low incomes who didn’t go to Eton.”

In the “overbearing arrogance embodied in these sub-Gainsborough postures—in the twittish clothing, the floppy hair and the almost luminous sense of false entitlement which radiate from these historic images” —it’s not hard to hazard a guess at their subsequent career paths.


Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare

Brexit BorisUncovered here are the lies, the sackings, the betrayals, the racist insults, the brush with criminality, that should have got Boris Johnson disbarred from ever being considered for high office.

Available from Public Reading Rooms:
Price: £8 post free

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Migrants welcome here: Imagine there are no borders (it’s easy if you try) https://prruk.org/refugees-welcome-imagine-theres-no-borders-its-easy-if-you-try/ Sun, 10 Sep 2017 11:47:24 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=1156

Over 50 million people are on the move. Instead of building walls and fences to keep them out, imagine there were no borders.

Words: Heathcote Williams | Narration and video: Alan Cox | Source: Babylon Royal

No Borders

On a border between two States
Someone has written,
“Fuck your nationalism.
We are all Earthlings.”

And on the Mexican border,
Someone has ripped through a fence
Of reinforced chicken wire
With bolt cutters,
And erected a hammock
By suspending it
Between two of the fence’s
Concrete pillars.

After swinging gently back and forth,
From Texas to Mexico and then
From Mexico back to Texas,
They doze off; contemptuous
Of the security guards
Patrolling this artificial demarcation  –
For, once upon a time,
Texas was Mexico
And Texas didn’t exist.

When Eugene Debs was imprisoned
For conscientious objection in World War One
He said, on September 11th 1915,
“I have no country to fight for
My country is the earth
I’m a citizen of the world.”

In Bethlehem, on the apartheid wall
Which divides Palestine from Palestine,
Someone has stenciled a dotted line
Punctuated by an open pair of scissors
To suggest to passers-by they cut as indicated
And allow the wall to collapse
So they can walk back home, unencumbered.

Borders are undetectable from Space.
None of them have ever worked:
The Great Wall of China
Didn’t work,
Nor did Hadrian’s Wall;
And the Berlin Wall,
Designed to separate
Germans from each other,
Lasted no time at all.

None of them worked
Because, as Robert Frost noted,
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”

There’s something, in other words,
Which dislikes the arrogance
Of those who say,
‘We on this side are legal
And you on that side are not’.
Something which dislikes being excluded
By the economic snobbery, crank ideology
Or patriotic pathology
Of those feeding their superiority complexes
By building borders.

Walls don’t have ears and don’t listen,
Though they have tongues and they say
With an insinuating brutality
That those who’ve been hurt
By the criminal inequality
Of the world deserve to be hurt,
And they say that those who try
To correct the imbalance
By their misguided adventurism,
Shouldn’t try to do so;
And they say that those seeking asylum
Are presumed to be criminal,
Self-seeking desperadoes,
Unless they can prove otherwise.

But those keenly creating a web
To snarl up and ensnare the world,
With steel and concrete lattice-work
Peppered with armed borderposts
Bristling with sadistic snipers
who pick off the hungry
Are stifling man’s wanderlust,
Smothering his song-lines,
His natural instinct to migrate
Which man’s shared with other species
Since the beginning of life on earth.
Migration created the world.

“Imagine there’s no countries,
It isn’t hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for…
Sang John Lennon.
Knowing that nationalism
And its hidebound borders
Can kill billions every century,
And yet borders still silently snake
Through the land mass
Of the earth’s Eden
Biting those whom they judge intruders.
Sometimes fatally.
The mindset that builds borders
Stoops to shooting migrants for sport.

Unappointed authorities
Are telling you who you
Can be friends with
By their erecting borders
And ruling out any chance that truth and love
Will end violence and overcome war,
Through the unfettered flow
Of a healthy bloodstream
Through the global body politic.

To Maya Angelou,
“Love recognizes no barriers.
It jumps hurdles, leaps fences,
penetrates walls to arrive at its destination
full of hope.”
And life can do the same.

From outer space
Borders don’t register,
But from inner space
They clog up the psyche,
Cheat the pilgrim soul
Of wanderers
And troubadours,
And hunter gatherers –
Seekers looking to share the fruits
Of their journeyings
With the rest of their tribe.

The gurus of the past
Buddha, Christ and Mohammed
Were nomadic and unconfined,
And the primal feelings
Of the spirit quest can be restored
With a few satisfying snaps
From a pair of bolt-cutters.

The high leverage compound action
From chrome vanadium steel jaws.
Enables people to bite back –
With surgical precision –

This anarchist angioplasty
Can release the blocked arteries
in the global body politic,
and free up the flow of people
To celebrate the restlessness
That has made man human.

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The Last Dodo. By Heathcote Williams https://prruk.org/the-last-dodo-by-heathcote-williams/ Mon, 14 Aug 2017 10:36:47 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4970 In death it has become a testament to the folly of man, more deserving of derision than the Dodo.

With ‘Whale Nation’ Heathcote Williams almost single-handed invented the epic polemic poem. His collection ‘The Last Dodo and Dreams of Flying’ shows him on dazzling form in similar vein, a collection of epic and long poems which take the Dodo as a metaphor for the British Empire; the bee as a symbol of ecology; and wasp honey and sleep flight as experiences of sacred transcendence. A deeply moral book which both delights and offers solace. ‘The Last Dodo and Dreams of Flying’ is published by New River Press

This montage and narration of ‘The Last Dodo’ is by Alan Cox, who collaborated with Heathcote Williams on close to 150 videos for their YouTube channel Babylonroyal

The Last Dodo

By Heathcote Williams

“Why,” said the Dodo, “the best way to explain it is to do it.”
– Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Lewis Carroll was nicknamed the Dodo
Because of his inveterate stutter.
Asked his name, he’d reply ‘Do-Do-Dodgson’.
He found ‘Carroll’ easier to utter.

So Charles Lutwidge Dodgson , the clergyman,
Became Lewis Carroll, author of distinction,
Who’d revive the Dodo in his ‘Alice in Wonderland’ –
The real Dodo having suffered from extinction.

For Lewis Carroll had been very intrigued
By something he’d seen in a Museum:
A large-cropped bulbous bird that was stuffed
And could be seen in the old Ashmolean.

Two hundred years before a Dodo had been captured
By sailors stopping off in Mauritius.
They’d thought it part goose, part vulture and were fearful –
Sailors being naturally superstitious.

But the bird was fearless and easily lured aboard
By an offer of unlimited ship’s biscuits.
By a miracle the bird survived the crew’s curiosity
And their wondering if it tasted delicious.

After it had lived out its life in England
A taxidermist was called when it died.
He stuffed it and, to retain its luxuriant plumage,
Cunning preservatives were applied.

The first owner in its afterlife was John Tradescant,
Who passed it onto Elias Ashmole,
Since when this comical but salutary creature
Has become a curator of the earth’s soul.

For through it man’s begun to learn that extinction
Can last for the rest of time;
And he can wistfully cherish a creature whose life
Was ended by a carnivorous crime.

A Dutch sailor, Volkert Evertsz, described the bird
As showing concern for its fellow creature:
“When I held one, he cried and others ran forward
To help the bird that was held prisoner.”

In ‘Wonderland’ the Dodo’s portrayed as benign
Given its invention of a ‘caucus race’
In which everyone entering ends up winning
And accordingly is then given a prize.

People say that something’s “as dead as a Dodo”
As if relishing the gentle giant’s demise,
Yet it lives on as an innocent victim of that progress
Which prefers sunset to a hopeful sunrise.

The Dodo may have died out from being too nice;
Large and flightless with an excess of trust.
Those who last saw it alive in the seventeenth century
Said the Dodo was friendly. And now it’s dust.

When it was alive it was briefly displayed in London
As part of an urban freak show.
In death it has become a testament to the folly of man,
More deserving of derision than the Dodo.

For years the Ashmolean was an uncategorised jumble:
The Museum was nicknamed the ‘knicknackatory’.
It was crammed with curios such as Guy Fawkes’ lantern
But the Dodo was the star with its poignant story.

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Dying’s annoying, you’re enjoying the party, then you have to leave. By Heathcote Williams RIP https://prruk.org/dyings-annoying-by-heathcote-williams/ Fri, 14 Jul 2017 13:01:59 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4474 Apply to the 120 club. As soon as you join, just say: “I’m not going to die”, adding, “So far, so good”.

Dying’s annoying.
You’re enjoying the party
Then you have to leave.

You can ignore it
But death can be insistent.
Here are some options:

‘Do not go gentle
Into that good night’. Meaning?
Shout on your death-bed?

They’d tranquillize you.
…Try to sublimate your fear
Of death by killing?

Soldiers enjoy this
But it’s counterproductive
To keep cloning death.

Here’s an old stand-by:
‘I believe God will solve it
I won’t really die.’

Well, some grief-stricken
Wishful thinking on gravestones
Isn’t really proof.

Alternatively,
Your last hope of life is to
Apply to this club:

The 120 club.
No need to change your life-style
In any fashion.

All its rules are lax.
No one minds if you die
At 117.

As soon as you join
Just say: “I’m not going to die”
Adding, “So far, so good”.

But, should you cave in,
Get up and hide your body
So no one finds it.

Written by Heatcote Williams in June 2011


Mr. Eternity

Words by Heathcote Williams. Narration and video by Mary Wild

 

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What are people doing fucking dying? Haven’t they got better things to do? https://prruk.org/what-are-people-doing-fucking-dying-havent-they-got-better-things-to-do/ Thu, 06 Jul 2017 08:00:13 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4380 No sooner than you’re on someone’s wavelength, then suddenly they’re whisked away from you. Heathcote Williams on the death of David Bowie.

Source: International Times

What are people doing fucking dying?
Haven’t they got better things to do?
No sooner than you’re on someone’s wavelength
Then suddenly they’re whisked away from you.

I saw Bowie at the first Glastonbury in 1971.
He was performing at four in the morning.
He had golden locks and was dressed as a hippie wizard
As he heralded a new day that was dawning.

The sun rose behind the Tor as he was singing.
A Druid hammered in a golden stake,
Muttering spells to try and prevent it from raining
And somehow their magic seemed to work.

Then, in no time at all, Bowie’s dressed as a corpse
Singing, ‘Look up here, I’m in heaven.’
His eyes are buttons and he’s wearing a shroud…
Is it a disguise for his meeting with the divine?

Born of Anthony Newley crossed with Lindsay Kemp,
This cockney rebel could shape-shift and morph.
Bowie would neatly side-step every categorization –
The artful dodger who must surely cheat death.

What are people doing fucking dying?
Haven’t they got better things to do?
No sooner than you’re on someone’s wavelength
Then suddenly they’re whisked away from you…

Someone who seemed to stop it from raining
On the parades of the conflicted and insecure;
Someone who’d free their identities and give those
Who clapped eyes on him permission to flower.

He’d experiment with his fluctuating self-hood
In stadium-sized labs;
Now he has his own immortality to savour
In an exquisite time-lapse –

As he sings his Memory of a Free Festival
Into the 2020’s and the 3020’s:
“The sun machine is coming down
“And we’re going to have a party.”

David Bowie: Memory of a Free Festival

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Heathcote Williams: The last of the fire breathers https://prruk.org/heathcote-williams-the-last-of-the-fire-breathers/ Mon, 03 Jul 2017 21:09:59 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=4759 Poetry had to unsettle, subvert, with luck destroy, whatever stopped human beings thinking freely and acting justly.

Source: The Economist

No one knew quite how the accident happened: how at some point in the 1970s Heathcote Williams set himself alight on the doorstep of his lover, Jean Shrimpton, an icon of the age, and ended up in Charing Cross hospital. It had evidently started as a conjuring trick; he loved magic, because it gave the illusion of breaking rules. But it was unclear whether he had been eating fire, or breathing it.

Breathing it, of course. Words flamed out of him all the time, seeming to make electricity flow through his wild red hair. Poetry was nothing if it was not an incandescent roar. Its role was not to tranquillise. He could write with gentle lyricism if he chose, especially when following in his most famous book, “Whale Nation”, endangered creatures through the sea:

From space the planet is the territory not of humans, but of the whale…
somersaulting like angels or birds…
Naked, with skin like oiled silk, smooth as glass…
no drag, no turbulence, a velvet energy…

But the beauty ended with the winches, spades and slicers of a factory ship, in a slick of oil and blood.

To shock and expose was his job. Poetry had to unsettle, subvert, with luck destroy, whatever stopped human beings thinking freely and acting justly, as he understood justice: consumerism, militarism, modern psychiatry, ossified institutions, brain-numbing new technologies. His “investigative poems”, often long-studied and footnoted, were meant to stop the ravaging of the natural world, not just by Japanese whalers and African ivory-poachers but also by tweedy, trigger-happy, slave-trade profiting, jewel-encrusted British royals.

In water, in the air

Right to the end, starting in the International Times and Oz and then in pamphlets from his Open Head Press, he scorched everything and everyone he hated, from Boris Johnson (“a face that needs to be punched”) to Donald Trump, whose name “suggests…the passing of wind”. He stood in the radical tradition of red-haired Blake, transcending old worlds to build new ones, and wild-haired Shelley, whose youthful rebel-trail through Eton (nearly expelled) and Oxford (defiantly leaving without a degree) he had followed almost exactly. He was Prospero and Ariel, sorcery, mischief and danger, all in one.

Poetry being fire, it had to be part of the body language of the poet. It must be spoken and performed, his mellifluous voice lulling among the wonders in order to underline, more starkly, the horrors. He wanted to move, like the whale, in a sonar world that still contained the pulses of fifty-million-year-old sagas of continuous whale-mind: “elegant cetacean music…lyrical litanies on the bio-radio…rumours of ancestors, memories of loss, memories of ideal love…”

The closest he could come to this was perhaps the state of anarchy in which he lived in the late 1970s, in his Free Independent Republic of Frestonia in Notting Hill, where buildings were squatted and food and beds shared in a ferment of ideas. He wrote his words on walls then, spontaneous swift thoughts: “Housing is a right, freedom is a career.” “Words don’t mean anything today.” Or he shouted them, to make them part of the air the authorities and the people had to breathe.

He went on doing this on stage, television and film, appropriately playing both Prospero and a mad pyschiatrist: an increasingly dishevelled figure with accusing eyes, modelling himself on largely unknown orators of the London streets. The list of poets who had most influenced him, he told Gonzo Today, included Paul Potts the People’s Poet, a homeless pamphleteer; and the men who stood on milk crates in Hyde Park, the subjects of his first book, “The Speakers”, chief among them Bill MacGuinness, who once tried to break into Buckingham Palace to ask for a glass of water, and who said: “When anyone is going to take your mind, make it a blank.”

This was a theme that tormented him: the taking of minds by media or machines. Living, burning poetry already seemed traduced when it was plucked from the air and written down, forced into rhymes and sonnet forms; his was demotic and free-flowing. It was further betrayed by being printed, posted, stored and sold. He would rather give it away, and had to be forced by his publisher to do a single book tour. Commerce would not sully him.

Fame made him run away; celebrity, despite the Shrimpton blip, appalled him. Two plays, “The Local Stigmatic” (written at Harold Pinter’s urging) and “AC/DC”, dealt violently with the modern envy of stars. But “AC/DC” also took on the destruction of minds by machines. Its schizophrenic hero/victim, Perowne, believed he had been programmed to receive TV shows directly, his “instinctual patterns” stolen and replaced; he ended, after a brisk trepanning, admitting cosmic forces his brain could not absorb. In human terms he had indeed become a blank. And this was also happening every day, as Mr Williams wrote in “Autogeddon”: each car journey, “the TV of travel”, sucking people’s neural waves into thought-free “double-glazed mulch”. The answer? Slash the tyres, put sugar in the tank, block the exhaust…

When he died, there were plenty of poets left. But no fire-breathers.


Heathcote Williams 15 Nov 1941 – 1 July 2017
More about his life and work, here…

 

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