Heathcote Williams – Public Reading Rooms https://prruk.org/ The Politics of Art and Vice Versa Sat, 18 May 2019 08:44:51 +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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Dick Lander by Charles Causley. Read by Heathcote Williams https://prruk.org/dick-lander-by-charles-causley-read-by-heathcote-williams/ Fri, 09 Nov 2018 23:49:56 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=1772 Shortly before he died in 2017, Heathcote Williams recorded his reading of one of his favourite poems about the first world war, Dick Lander by Charles Causley.

Dick Lander

BY CHARLES CAUSLEY

When we were children at the National School
We passed each day, clipped to the corner of
Old Sion Street, Dick Lander, six foot four,
Playing a game of trains with match-boxes.
He poked them with a silver-headed cane
In the seven kinds of daily weather God
Granted the Cornish. Wore a rusted suit.
It dangled off him like he was a tree.
My friend Sid Bull, six months my senior, and
A world authority on medicine,
Explained to me just what was wrong with Dick.
‘Shell-shopped,’ he said. ‘You catch it in the war.’
We never went too close to Dick in case
It spread like measles. ‘Shell-shopped, ain’t you, Dick?’
The brass-voiced Sid would bawl. Dick never spoke.
Carried on shunting as if we weren’t there.
My Auntie said before he went away
Dick was a master cricketer. Could run
As fast as light. Was the town joker. Had
Every girl after him. Was spoiled quite out
Of recognition, and at twenty-one
looked set to take the family business on
(Builders merchants, seed, wool, manure and corn).
‘He’s never done a day’s work since they sent
‘Him home after the Somme,’ my Uncle grinned.
‘If he’s mazed as a brush, my name’s Lord George.
Why worry if the money’s coming in?’
At fireworks time we throw a few at Dick.
Shout, ‘Here comes Kaiser Bill!’ Dick stares us through
As if we’re glass. We yell, ‘What did you do
In the Great War?’ And skid into the dark.
‘Choo, choo,’ says Dick. ‘Choo, choo, choo, choo, choo,
choo.’

Image: detail from Self-portrait with Red Scarf by Max Beckman, 1917.

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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…

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Remembering Heathcote Williams: he wrote to change the world by teaching the heart to think https://prruk.org/remembering-heathcote-williams-he-wrote-to-change-the-world-by-teaching-the-heart-to-think/ Fri, 01 Jun 2018 19:35:20 +0000 http://prruk.org/?p=6948

Source: International Times

Heathcote Williams on TV

Heathcote Williams died on 1 July 2017. Heidi Stephenson remembers the man and his poetry, which was a rallying cry that had, and still has, more power than any political manifesto.

From space, the planet is blue.
From space, the planet is the territory
Not of humans, but of the whale.
(Whale Nation) 

A performing slave in a designer cage,
With its tusk sawn off
And a ring through a piece of flesh
Sensitive enough to read Braille.
(Sacred Elephant)

 “Whale Nation became the most powerful argument for the newly instigated worldwide ban on whaling, and for a moment, back in 1988, it seemed as if a shameful chapter in human history might finally be drawing to a close.”
(Philip Hoare in The Independent in 2008)

“Nothing from Heathcote was straightforward polemic. There is beauty in his language, and joy at the idea of how things could be, like E.M Forster before him, working at the universal yes.  He had a hawk like eye on corporate greed, cant, hypocrisy, war making and the cultural/political soil from which they grew.”
(Jan Woolf in Public Reading Rooms)

Heathcote Williams was a tour de force:  prolific poet, playwright, polemicist, humorist, actor, ecologist, environmental, animal rights and human rights activist, courageous contrarian, and above all, a utopian – who wanted to see the world become a kinder, fairer, better place, for all beings. His advocacy was powerful, planetary, completely inclusive and non-speciesist, and he advocated through his poetry. Influenced by Shelley, Blake, and Orwell, in the great tradition of visionary dissent, he comforted the afflicted and he afflicted the comfortable. And in the process he developed his own kind of poem, a new, paradigm-shattering, empathy-nurturing, documentary-style of prose poetry.

His research was meticulous, his investigative skills second to none, and his impact astonishing and unprecedented. When his book-length epic poem, Whale Nation was first published by Jonathan Cape in 1988, unrhymed, unmetered and uncompromising, it became a global sensation, selling over 100,000 copies in hardback and winning him accolades from Ted Hughes to Al Pacino. The North American rights were sold at the Frankfurt Book Fair for $100,000. (Heathcote characteristically, donated his share of the advance to a number of environmental campaigns organizations.) Never before had a poem entered the wider, cultural arena so quickly, bar T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland. It was a game-changer, making way for artists like Kate Tempest and Let Them Eat Chaos today.

The media frenzy that followed, as Whale Nation began to galvanize Britain’s Save The Whale campaign was so overwhelming that Heathcote fled across the Tamar into Cornwall. (Later this would become the subject of the spoof 1993 documentary, Every Time I Cross the Tamar I Get into Trouble, in which Al Pacino would play the part of a Williams fan, obsessed with his writing, and in which Harold Pinter, another admirer, would give an interview. It was screened by Channel Four in its Without Walls slot.) While he was in Cornwall he wrote his other best-selling poem epics. Sacred Elephant was published in 1989, Falling For A Dolphin in 1991 and Autogeddon followed in 1992, a powerful polemic  against the car and its global death toll to humans and other animals, examined from every angle: “A humdrum holocaust, the third world war nobody bothered to declare.” 

Heathcote never stopped writing. His creative output never ceased. He worked tirelessly, working poetry as a vehicle for social protest, as a means for ending suffering. From Picture Poems, to book-length epics about Shelley, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump, the British monarchy, to his revolutionary poetry show, Poetry Can F*ck Off and a tour with his Poetry Army, his output was continual and extraordinary. “If poetry isn’t revolutionary, it’s nothing. Poetry is heightened language, and language exists to effect change, not to be a tranquilizer,” he reminded people in a 2015 interview with Saira Viola in Gonzo Today.

He had immense skill at bypassing the usual resistance created by guilt and discomfort to painful, frontline footage and photographs, that force a direct engagement with the suffering of our fellow beings, for example, and that defensively pleads “Please don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.” His poems did this very effectively.  They engaged instead of alienating.  They opened the heart, as well as the eyes and mind. “Poetry teaches the heart to think,” he characteristically said.

He reclaimed the power of the word as an effective tool for social change, in which “social” was an inclusive, non-speciesist assumption for all sentient beings – a paradigm shift in thinking, feeling and viewing. Heathcote knew that for social justice to be effective, there would have to be a change in culture itself, a shifting and altering of the lens of perception, to make way for genuine change in ethics, values, beliefs and resulting actions – whether personal, political or legal. He found (and built) a bridge between activism and poetry. His poetry was a rallying cry; it had, and still has, more power than any political manifesto. His really was poetry with purpose.

He called for a revolution of the heart and mind, a nonviolent revolution in which no shot would ever be fired. He advocated for the suffering voiceless. His animal rights/environmental quartet Whale Nation, Sacred Elephant, Falling For A Dolphin and Autogeddon is still pioneering work: real, vivid, deeply felt, serious – and urgent.

“Poems start with pencil and paper, and then they change the world,” Heathcote knew.

A ground-breaking, profoundly humane and inspirational man and poet – who is sorely missed. Long may his work make waves!

In the last year of his life, Heathcote Williams published three books:

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The First July First: For Heathcote Williams https://prruk.org/the-first-july-first-for-heathcote-williams/ Fri, 01 Jun 2018 18:29:27 +0000 http://prruk.org/?p=6956

Source: International Times

Heathcote Williams portrait

By Francesco Alienmind Franzoi

The First July First

One year has passed and your room
Will contain only your books now and papers,

Squatting no doubt, these lost objects are simply
Seeking your touch. The taste of your thumb

As you licked before scampering through
Flesh fed pages, that your pen translated

And through a river of words, plumbed
And sucked. Some men become mythical,

While remaining real and true to their children.
And yet to others, clear windows are easily

Glazed by regard. Death of course, is aloof,
Priding itself on its distance, denying us all

Rights to visit, with enforced relocation
It’s only visible law and command.

And yet for you, death is life
As you remain sat amongst us;

There in the love we have for you
And in the guiding line you still write.

Present in the impossible speech
That will be monologuing your absence,

While in the ghost rooms you continue
To subvert and contain these lost times.

We will continue to suffer and stand
In the still moving shadows you’ve left us,

Hearing your voice at our shoulder
And naturally thinking why

You had to leave on that day
When those we know are made for you;

As our hands arrange themselves over paper
And the fast word forms, silence cries.

For the failing body can house
A resurgent mind for all ages

Which we must adapt to in stages;
Especially on such a bright day in summer

When loss shines through sunlight,
Or the scratching of cloud

On blue sky.

David Erdos June 30th 2018

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For Heathcote Williams : anniversary remembering the kinky haired anarchist https://prruk.org/for-heathcote-williams-anniversary-remembering-the-kinky-haired-anarchist/ Fri, 01 Jun 2018 10:11:48 +0000 http://prruk.org/?p=6979

Source: International Times

Last Tuesday at around a quarter to ten
in the bowels of the subway-car-southbound
half-way to Brooklyn Bridge
I could hear your radical red-sexy words
as clear as singing glass

I waited until the twilight mammas grandpas
and freckle-assed party straphangers
slithered into the dawn
then smeared the walls
with uncensored thoughts:

Bastards! Bitches! Stiff-suited dull-eyed sycophants
sailing away on a celebrity gravy train
First they fawn at your feet
then they kick you in the groin
Wasted chances with Mickey mouse orthodoxy
Trump-a-geddon is pig ugly
no more human faces just
sad shadows with dim pouched eyes
and little children caged 24/7 in
Amerika’s tender torture-land
You were right about shopping mall pimps
Big brained whales smart yellow jacketed bees
Beelzebub Boris
War-apocalyptic Autogeddon
Property-porn daddies – magic trees
and the slow-sucking parasitic kiss of the British monarchy
Spiting truth – awakening minds
with the thunderous fuck of rebellion
Irritating those puffed up literary peacocks
in their genteel towers of
masturbatory-elitist-cultural power
A skin of light across corrupted skies
More than just a polymathic pinup
For hipster bards
You could set fire to those extremely white neo-Nazis types
with smooth- strung WORDOLOGY
Death to coca cola!
Viva Frestoniana!

I could say a hundred and one times
THANK YOU for skinning the stinking gut of society
With bullet popping pen
but instead I’ll remember your warm spirited hobgoblin giggle
and your poetic wisdom:

“May you always be turbo charged Saira. The world has need of you. H.”

Heathcote Williams Stop Trump

Picture by Elena Caldera


Jeremy Hardy: the demolition of Boris Johnson by Heathcote Williams

 

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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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Heathcote Williams: My Dad and my Uncle were in World War One https://prruk.org/my-dad-and-my-uncle-were-in-world-war-one/ Sun, 28 Jan 2018 18:30:44 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=1095 Heathcote Williams wrote this on learning that the UK government was to spend £50million commemorating the World War One centenary.

Video and narration by Alan Cox

My Dad and my Uncle were in World War One.
At least they were in it, but not in it:
Conscripted but never committed.

My Dad was called up in 1915,
And then run over by a field gun
In an army camp at Lydd marsh in Kent,
So he never actually made it
Across the Channel to fight.
His pelvis and both legs were crushed,
In his first week, in a training exercise,
By a Howitzer rolling downhill.
It weighed over thirty hundredweight.

While pushing and dragging the gun up a slope
My Dad and the other eighteen-year-olds carried shells,
Shells to be fed into the Howitzer’s six-foot-long barrel.
One of the group lost his footing
And they lost control of the gun carriage,
Then two were crushed by its cast-iron wheels;
Each wheel being the height of a man’s shoulder.
One of them died, but my Dad survived.

As a child I was ashamed of the story,
Naively wanting him to be a hero
But, of course, if he’d never been invalided out,
I might never have come into existence.

There were a thousand Howitzers on the Western Front,
Heavy, Swedish-made guns towed along
By boys, men and horses from battle to battle
Which, by the war’s end, had fired 25 million shells,
Stealing thousands of lives, and generations unborn,
Making the gun crews primary targets.

My Uncle Jack’s connection to the war
Was stronger than my Dad’s, as Jack “saw action”.
He made it across the Channel
In a Royal Artillery troopship,
And lost the use of a limb in 1916.
His arm was half severed by shrapnel:
He held it in place until it was patched up
And then he was returned to his unit,
With a flask of iodine to dab on it.

Jack was in one of that war’s most famous battles,
One of those whose very name makes you well up –
But Jack ran counter to the received wisdom
About the soldiers serving in the Great War
With its sentimental patina and its mythologized tales
Of Nurse Edith Cavell, and the Angel of Mons,
And lions led by donkeys and plucky Brits,
Because my Dad’s elder brother
Never really participated either,
And he certainly never gave it his all.
Jack had “reservations” was how my Dad put it.

More often than not Jack didn’t have “one up the spout”
Meaning he’d avoid putting a bullet in his gun,
Because, with a dodgy arm, it was a nuisance to load it
And when his hands were freezing he just thought ‘sod it’.
It was easy to escape their corporal’s attention,
And Jack said there were many others who did the same.
“Hundreds, if not thousands,” Jack always claimed,
Men whose instincts told them to do the minimum.

Jack won the Military Cross, but not for that.
He won it for dragging their Sergeant Major
Back into the trenches from No Man’s Land,
Where the Sergeant Major was lying wounded.

Jack’s commanding officer came to know of it
And Jack was “mentioned in dispatches” –
The Army’s understated way
Of saying that he’d shown courage
In undertaking his one-armed rescue,
Though, as far as his fellow soldiers were concerned,
Jack’s exploit had been a waste of time
For their Sergeant Major was unpopular,
And in any case he was dead on arrival.

Jack lived with the taunts and the ribbing
About his gesture having been pointless,
And was even accused of doing it to “show off”.
Cripplingly shy, this was a knife to the heart,
And it lasted long, long afterwards.
Jack never picked up his Military Cross
And whenever a family member mentioned it,
He dismissed it as “a putty medal with a wooden string.”

As a child I never quite knew what that meant,
But apparently it was a common expression,
Applied to the top brass when they visited the front,
When they strutted up and down –
Martinets with black gloves and swagger sticks
Fact-finding desk-jockeys from the War Office
Clanking away with their rows of flash medals
And drawing attention to themselves –
Those below in the dugouts would mutter,
“Putty medals with a wooden string.”

“Your Uncle Jack lost all his friends in the trenches,”
My Dad would say, “And he’s never made any, ever again.”
And it was true, I never saw Jack with a friend.
I saw him throughout my life, but he was always alone
Except for his sister, Mabel, who looked after him.
He never made another friend in over fifty years.

Neither he nor my father ever explained the war to me.
It was just something that had happened to them.
Something irrational that hung over them;
A grisly cloud of spectral blood;
A tumour that fogged the psyche;
Something in their history that had spoiled both their lives.
Stoically they never admitted to the pain
But, looking back, my Dad was always in pain
And Jack could be painfully silent
To the point of catatonia.

Even though they were little more than children,
They’d been forced to endure a random, excruciating pain
That had confiscated parts of their bodies,
Bodies that had been their birthright.

But afterwards each was able to exact
A small but significant revenge
By their both giving the war some fifty years
Of unremitting negative spin.
They’d scoff at those who tried to romanticize it;
They’d never buy poppies for their buttonholes;
And on Remembrance Day they’d say
That there was nothing worth remembering.
To my father the cenotaph was “a monument to Jack’s hell.”
“A traffic hazard”, he’d say when we drove past it.
And he’d curse it, that dreary Lutyens plinth
With its floral lifebelts laid beneath it,
Lifebelts that save no one’s lives,
Propped up against a memorial
That’s used to fetishize war after war.
“They should have a picture on it,” my Dad said
“Of your Uncle Jack living beside rotting corpses –
“Pictures of doomed youth with froth-corrupted lungs.”
(He had a first edition of Wilfred Owen.

As a child I naively wanted to boast about Jack
And to tell other boys that he’d won the MC
As if that would make me seem brave too.
When my father overheard me once
I got a dressing-down that I remember to this day:
He accused me of “throwing Jack’s weight about.
“You never ask yourself do you, why Jack never picked it up?
His medal? Well, he wasn’t proud of it. He was ashamed,
When his friends are there, six foot deep in Belgian mud.
If he doesn’t swank about it, why should you?”

When my father died, Jack invited me to go out for a meal
On the first Friday of the month, every year till he died.
The meals were largely silent. His bad dream was still there,
Even in the nineteen-seventies.
His mind was still numbed by something whose origins
Were inexplicable and which he’d never decoded.
A war that had caused another war, like a cancer
That people still seem unable to cauterize.
Over the years, I’d winkle out his memories
As tactfully as I could.

As a boy I seem to have been set the uninvited task
Of probing a world that they wished never existed,
And which left them wishing it would go away.

Jack didn’t mind talking about actual events
Allowing himself only to recount the facts,
But never touching upon his emotions.
A waiter would bring the cheese trolley and most months
Jack would tell the same story about a mule cart
That had arrived behind the lines ferrying an enormous cheese,
A Dutch cheese which they’d all salivated at the sight of.
Jack’s best friend from the same street in Chester
Impulsively ran towards it, his mouth watering
Only to be picked off by a German sniper.
“Fell down against the cheese”, Jack said,
“I won’t eat the stuff now.”
And I’d nod and say, “No,”
As understandingly as I could manage.

The story was unchanging, several times a year.
A hapless waiter wheeled off the cheese trolley untouched.
“I ever tell you about that?” Jack would ask at the end.
I was sure that he half knew he had, but why not?
If the fact of it never went away.

My Dad and my Uncle were in the First World War
Though it’s not quite the whole story,
Because neither of them were exactly in it,
Not in the way that most people might think,
But from their experiences I was able to learn
What callous folly had killed thirty million.

They were forced to serve King and Country for no reason,
They both had lifelong scars, and got nothing in return –
Nothing from the King, and nothing from the Country,
But both ended up certain there must be another way
And for that I’ve been grateful to them, ever since.

They may or may not be in some other world now
But something is certain, if only to me.
They won’t be commemorating World War One

And may not even think the matter worth raising.

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Heathcote Williams: Whale Nation https://prruk.org/heathcote-williams-whale-nation/ Mon, 08 Jan 2018 10:18:51 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5703 Poet Maureen Duffy celebrates the incredible impact of Whale Nation, which inspired an international campaign to ban hunting these mighty sea mammals.

I met Heathcote Williams in the early sixties when we were both young writers involved with a group who met on Monday evenings under the aegis of our editor, Graham Nicoll, who was responsible for a new list at Hutchinson’s called New Authors, which also included, at various times, Beryl Bainbridge and J.G. Farrell. I think neither of us knew then that we would become ‘animal nuts’.

By the seventies I had lost contact with Heathcote but become a supporter of the animal rights campaign, which was already trying to save the whale. I remember being part of a delegation to the Japanese Embassy where, as we stood on the steps with our placards demanding to be heard, the spokesperson sent out to deal with us said in answer to our pleas: “But you eat cows. Where is the difference?” Only the vegetarians among us could reply: “No, we don’t.”

Clearly at that time we weren’t successful at getting this particular message across, though we did do better with the anti-fur campaign! It was left to Heathcote’s Whale Nation to make the definitive case ten years later.

It takes time to produce and publish a heavily illustrated book like this, so Heathcote must have been at work on it while the great whaling debate was going on and before the worldwide ban came into force. What Whale Nation does is to make the moral leap acceptable to the public without anthropomorphising its subject. The whales sing, play, make love, while remaining essentially themselves. Their mammalian likeness to us is made clear without any Disney overtones. There is for me only one slightly dodgy moment when Heathcote speaks of the whale’s ‘smile’. In this unsentimentalised portrait of a whole biological order, in stunning photographs as well as verse, he casts doubt on the whole business of meat production and the carnivorous society.

Part of the appeal of the animals he depicts lies in their sheer beauty and freedom in their habitat. In his account we see what we are destroying. With domesticated animals, made docile by centuries of industrialisation, it’s easy to be unaware of their individuality or that we are animals like them. Heathcote’s whales fulfil Darwin’s point about “endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful”.

Even before we understood their close relation to us, we humans had been fascinated by these great creatures: Jonah and the whale, the Old English riddles, the poem Whale, whaling songs and shanties, and above all Moby Dick, where the hero is not the hunting-obsessed human but his magnificent prey, the great white whale made all the more iconic by the very fact of his whiteness.

Heathcote deals very cleverly with the hunting aspect of his subject. Where Ahab’s pursuit of Moby Dick is a mad but personal crusade, a desire to exercise power over and exorcise a mighty, superhuman energy, and where whalers among Indigenous people, or 19th-century sailors under sail in vulnerable wooden hulls and small boats, could be smashed to smithereens with one great flick of a whale’s muscular tail, and where the humans are vulnerable flesh and blood like their prey, Heathcote’s factory ships are chillingly distant, almost invisible. There is no contest. The whale is as helpless as a lamb in the abattoir, prey to the captive bolt, the pithing rod. Exploding harpoons, mechanical grapples, metal drums of rotating knives – at least nothing is wasted except a life. It is the very enormity of the whale’s death that Whale Nation describes that churns the stomach, after the sounds of its singing, its play among the waves. Not struggle but slaughter.

We had hunted it almost to extinction. During World War II it appeared in British butchers’ shops as an off-ration alternative along with offal, sheep’s heads, brains and tongues. A survivor questioned on radio recently remembered it as “grey and gooey”. He was, I’m sure, thinking of snoek, meant to be the austerity alternative to cod. I remember whale meat as a bit tough and stringy with a slight fishy flavour but perfectly edible. Heathcote’s brilliant book succeeded in making the ban on hunting these mighty sea mammals palatable, so that today the whale nation is thriving – but only at the price of eternal vigilance.

Video: Whale Nation

Read by Roy Hutchins, who has since become a longtime producer and presenter of Williams’ work, right up to his last performed major work, Song, performed in at the Brighton Festival in Spring 2017, just months before Williams’ death.

Extracts from the Poem

Extracts from the book-length poem Whale Nation by Heathcote Williams – a poem that honours the beauty, intelligence and majesty of the largest mammal on Earth.

From space, the planet is blue.
From space, the planet is the territory
Not of humans, but of the whale.
Blue seas cover seven-tenths of the of the earth’s surface,
And are the domain of the largest brain ever created,
With a fifty-million-year-old smile.
Ancient, unknown mammals left the land
In search of food or sanctuary,
And walked into the water.
Their arms and hands changed into water-wings;
Their tails turned into boomerang-shaped tail-flukes,
Enabling them to fly, almost weightless, through the oceans;
Their hind-legs disappeared, buried deep within their flanks.
Free from land-based pressures:
Free from droughts, earthquakes, ice-ages, volcanoes, famine,
Larger brains evolved, ten times as old as man’s…
Other creatures, with a larger cerebral cortex…

Whale families, whale tribes,
All have different songs:
An acoustic picture-language,
Spirited pulses relayed through water
At five times the speed sounds travels through air,
Varied enough to express complex emotions,
Cultural details,
History,
News,
A sense of the unknown.
A lone Humpback may put on a solo concert lasting for days.
Within a Humpback’s half-hour song
There are a hundred million bytes.
A million changes of frequency,
And a million tonal twists…
An Odyssey, as information-packed as Homer’s,
Can be told in thirty minutes;
Fifty-million-year-old sagas of continuous whale mind:
Accounts of the forces of nature;
The minutiae of a shared consciousness;
Whale dreams;
The accumulated knowledge of the past;
Rumours of ancestors, the Archaeoceti,
With life-spans of two and three hundred years;
Memories of loss;
Memories of ideal love;
Memories of meetings…

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Heathcote Williams: a poetic blunderbuss in an age troubled by dissent https://prruk.org/heathcote-williams-a-poetic-blunderbuss-in-an-age-troubled-by-dissent/ Sat, 25 Nov 2017 21:29:46 +0000 http://www.prruk.org/?p=5713

Charisma is an overused word, but he had it by the bucket load, he was the man you most wanted to bump into walking round a corner.

Source: Albion Beatnik Bookstore

Heathcote Williams died recently, undoubtedly to be missed greatly by all who met and spoke with him. His life’s narrative of creative achievement, if a medical graph, flipped from artistic ruddy health to a hypochondriacal sick bed, but always back to health again; his basic pulse was brilliance.

Heathcote Williams’ finest hour was as a Royal Court playwright. He had been discovered, encouraged and then feted first by Harold Pinter, who he had met in a barber’s shop. The play AC/DC was his theatrical high tide, it met near ecstatic critical review when staged first in 1970; it transferred to New York the next year.

Evident even then was his profound anarchism: the play presaged the chaos and intellectual free fall of the digital age (it closes with an amateur trepanning as riposte to the “information explosion” in which “all ideas and opinions would be available to all people and therefore rendered impotent”); it lambasted the hollowness of fame and the pall of the media (it is thespian McLuhan with make-up), also the vox pop self-obsession of the work of his friend, the psychiatrist R.D. Laing (they remained friends even after Heathcote was reputed to have had an affair with Laing’s wife). It grew out of a one act play he had written at Pinter’s behest, The Local Stigmatic (Al Pacino became obsessed with it and, funded with Jon Voight, filmed it himself). It was described at the time as the “first play of the twenty-first century” by the Times Literary Supplement, and its bold experimentation greatly influenced Ken Campbell and Mike Bradwell’s later work (Campbell had already directed an earlier play by Williams at the Royal Court); its utter contempt for the media was way ahead of its time, and possibly that came to fruition only thirty years later with the death of Diana Spencer, Chris Morris and Ali G in its tragic wake.

Heathcote himself was a Hollywood parvenu character actor, most credibly as an excellent Prospero in Derek Jarman’s The Tempest (“occasionally intelligible,” wrote The Times) [1979], most lucratively in Basic Instinct 2 [2006]. He was a guest in the star-studded final episode of the fourth series of Friends. His CD recordings of Dante, the Bible and his own work sparkle.

He was a pioneering squatter. He founded Albion Free State in a derelict bingo hall in early 1970s Portobello; the Notting Hill office for Free Head Press, set up in 1974 to publish and distribute “anarchist porn,” became the Embassy of the Republic of Frestonia in 1977, an emblematic thorn in the side of the landlords of London for nearly a decade; he helped establish the Ruff Tuff Cream Puff estate agency to match squatters to abandoned buildings. He was a prolific graffiti artist, and his calligraphic Tourettes erupted like acne on the walls of Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove in the late 1960s and early 1970s, even once on the walls of Buckingham Palace. His one-liners became humourous haiku-style legend.

He was, too, a proud conjurer, a member of the Magic Circle; despite a botched attempt at levitation in the National Theatre a few decades ago and a disastrous fire-eating episode on the doorstep of Jean Shrimpton in the 1960s, his magician’s self-belief incredibly never wavered. His short TV play What the Dickens!, about Dickens and magic, was shown by the BBC over Christmas, 1983.

Periodically he was also an occasional artist and sculptor: he spent reclusive years in Cornwall for apprenticeship. He loved nature, reflected in his poetry, and he very proudly discovered a breed of honey-making wasp on one naturalist trip to South America.

Heathcote had a reassuring and magnetic personality. Charisma is an overused word, but he had it by the bucket load. With such a gift he became a useful catalyst to meld the otherwise diverse shards of London’s counterculture of the 1960s (when he lived as tenant of fellow poet Michael Horovitz) and the 1970s (a decade of attitude and squatting), whose underground newspapers were rent asunder so often by maverick ego.

His febrile imagination, quick repartee and grandstanding gifts imagined and crafted ideal front page stories. His work in the 1970s for International Times helped maintain its momentum, his commitment to its resurrection more recently was more than nostalgic.

He wrote also for the vegetarian newspaper Seed, the animal rights newspaper The Beast, and other more peripatetic and European based journals. In 1969 he co-founded Suck, a mouthpiece for the sexual revolution that followed the swinging sixties; Germaine Greer was a partner in this venture. The magazine’s self-conscious childishness and felt tip design mentality was a forerunner for the latter-day zine; its content ranged from the tame to the disturbing (as were his lyrics for a 1979 Marianne Faithfull record, Why D’ya Do It, when, it is said, EMI’s female warehouse workforce threatened extraordinarily to strike). Suck was published in Amsterdam, and Heathcote continued to be published in Holland for Rotterdam’s stylish Cold Turkey Press.

Throughout his life Heathcote Williams was notoriously reclusive. He retreated after each dabble with fame – as a playwright in the 1970s, as a bestselling poet in the late 1980s. He declared fame to be the “first disgrace.” Rarely would he be interviewed, though he was open and discursive whenever he was. A 1993 BBC mock documentary, Every Time I Cross the Tamar I Get Into Trouble was made exploiting this evasiveness; he made an incognito guest appearance at its end.

His polemical, lengthy poem Whale Nation met great acclaim (to his horror) and was published in 1988, when it paid booksellers’ rents for several months: he gave its substantial royalties away (his American advance alone was said to be six figures). His recount of a reading at the Glastonbury Festival was hilarious. That book was followed by Sacred Elephant [1989] and Autogeddon [1992], both similarly erudite and didactic, occasionally prolix. A publishing hiatus was stalled in the last decade of his life by a flurry of collections; a recent pamphlet demolished Boris Johnson in the Swiftean tradition of broadside, became a cause célèbre and a bestseller before the referendum: Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare.

As a poet he stood in the tradition of William Blake, his tenor and his rhetoric. Form and rhyme were arbitrary, the crooked road more interesting. Like many Anglo-bijou beatnik poets of his generation, his true heroes were Blake and Shelley, and he was well versed in both the English poetic and political tradition.

That Heathcote was a very great poet, I have no doubt. But for what he stood for rather than for what he wrote or how he wrote it; to me his poetry suggested boulders falling from cliff tops, sometimes they smashed beauty in their descent. He was anarchic (in his routine life as well, snatches of repast and rest where taken as required, his work station a playpen with no fixed abode), anachronistic, playful and prone to an idée fixe (he sort of didn’t care for Bob Dylan, for example, and he ran with that idea quite a bit), humourous, ribaldic, tolerant, forgiving and kind. He stood for invention and wit, the democratic and demotic, above all he was a random and fearless free spirit, a poetic blunderbuss in an age troubled by dissent and doubting of free speech.

He was always well mannered: his social dish of choice was high tea, his humble variant of High Table (he had been schooled at Eton and studied law at Christ Church, although he never matriculated, he chose to write his first book, The Speakers, instead). The resolve and purpose of its crockery, cutlery and cruet, although clattering and noisy when passed around the table, is gentility and deportment; its ritual is hierarchical, there is nothing more deferential than a place mat, the table cloth is the stuff of order. He was always a blunt instrument in print – words, garrulous and scabrous lava so often, came easy to Heathcote, he could toss off a lengthy poem in no time at all, repression or tongue-tied would have been inappropriate adjectives to use – but in person he was frustratingly modest, to a fault. He was considered, would always give way, so often silent, a mild minx rather than a hussy.

The anarchy of his writing and his life’s mannered decorum rattled likes peas in his emotional pod, but were, for him I think, vital and almost rational schizophrenia (AC/DC was titled originally Skizotopia). This skizotopic aspect gave him ballast, and he rejoiced in its lack of resolution. If you disputed this conflict within him he would only grin, for wit and grace were his bedfellows. In life he was gentle, rarely acerbic, his eyes agog with observation. Theatre director Nicholas Wright said that Heathcote was “the man you most want to bump into walking round a corner.” Indeed he was.

But for all of that, his polemic voice came as a birthright: the polemic, like satire, is the last refuge of the privileged. “Poetry is heightened language,” he said a few years ago, “and language exists to effect change, not to be a tranquilizer.” I’m not so sure about the consistency of that: Marx, for one, made a bad poet. And if the privileged do either polemic or satire (the middle class do sitcom), it is only the working class who do revolution. Heathcote never did revolution, he did reportage, be it writing for the Royal Court theatre, countercultural magazines or poetry presses. He wrote once of Shelley as an outsider, as a traitor to his class, too. But that’s not the stuff of revolution. Perhaps that observation of Shelley was autobiographical displacement.

Video: Heathcote Williams reading at Albion Beatnik Bookstore in 2016.

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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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