I’m making an American independent
feature film. It’s about a girl in a heavy anorak who hangs around in woods at
wintertime. She goes to a diner and orders coffee but she can’t pay so the
woman who runs the place (and wears a check shirt) takes pity on her and gives
her a job. The heavy anorak girl never speaks of her past to the café owning
woman who wears a check shirt
and the café owning
woman who wears a check shirt never asks any questions but she does observe and notices a scar on the heavy
anorak girl’s wrist on a rare occasion when she takes off her heavy anorak and
rolls up the sleeves of her check shirt (she wears a check shirt too, under the
heavy anorak).
The café owning woman who wears a
check shirt is having a sexual relationship with a check shirt wearing trucker
who frequently passes through but he’s no good and makes a pass at the heavy
anorak girl. The café owning woman who wears a check shirt tells the check
shirt wearing trucker never to come back. There is tension between the heavy
anorak girl and the café owning woman who wears a check shirt for a bit after
that. The heavy anorak girl offers to leave but the café owning woman who wears
a check shirt says that won’t be necessary.
Then the heavy anorak girl adopts
this dog she finds hanging around the bins and she takes it for walks in the
woods but then the café owning woman who wears a check shirt lays rat poison
and the dog eats it and dies. Then they wrap the dog in a check shirt and bury
it in the woods and then the café owning woman who wears a check shirt looks at
the heavy anorak girl and says ‘you know you can stay as long as you like’.
Then the camera lingers on the heavy anorak girl but she says nothing and it is
impossible to know what she is thinking and I won’t even tell the actress what
to pretend to think and then we’ll cut to black and the film ends to music like
this:
I’m thinking of casting Zooey
Deschanel as the
heavy anorak girl so people will be surprised and go ‘wow, she really has depth’. I’m
thinking of calling the film either Margaret in Spring and Mid-Winter or Rusty
Trombones.
Normally in
bed by this time, I was barely awake. Being dragged down the promenade by my
mother. Crashing sea to one side of us, flashing amusements to the other.
Confusing. I had pins and needles in my foot. I must’ve slept on it funny in the
bus on the way. ‘Do you see the Divebombers?’ Mam kept asking. I did. On the
outskirts of the official amusement park, in a desolate clearing between
Freddy’s Casino and Alonzo’s chipper. . . DIVEBOMBERS! Two chambers of death
suspended high in the air by creaky rusty arms. Burning rubber stank off the
massive fan belts whirring through the chugging spluttering tractor engine at
the base. Chamber occupants screamed as they were violently yanked into the
starry skies and then mercilessly flung to earth. ‘Deadly’.
Two Rory
Gallagher look-a-likes collected fares from a queue of happy nervous victims.
One of the Rory Gallaghers wore a denim jacket with Horslips patches on it. He
was smoking a Major. My father. ‘Serge, Serge’, Mam called out to him. (She
called him Serge but I could’ve sworn the other lad called him Proinsias.) My
father’s eyes bulged when he spotted us, the way people’s eyes bulge when they
push open a cubicle door and find you banging up. His head was the same shape as
mine. The wrong shape. My parents spoke for a bit in that frequency kids can’t
access. My father took me over to a candy floss stand. It was seven pence for a
candy floss. He asked me if I had fourteen pence. I did, my savings for a Judge
Dredd comic. I gave it to him and he bought a candyfloss for me and a
candyfloss for Mam. Mam was delighted when he handed over hers but he kept
picking bits off it for himself so she got nearly none. I didn’t like mine and
missed that week’s Judge Dredd story.
We spent
that summer with my father in his old caravan. He was out working all the time.
Mam and I went to the beach for cold swims but spent most days indoors,
listening to the rain belting off the tinny roof and playing I Spy.
The summer
pissed off before anyone really noticed it had arrived. There were less people
about the town and the water got colder and colder. My father didn’t come back
one night and then didn’t come back the next day. A man came to the door and
asked us for money for the caravan. Mam didn’t have any and he started
shouting. We got the bus back to Nana’s house. A passenger started talking to
Mam and told her how a Divebomber came loose the night before. ‘It came right
off and landed on the candy floss stand’, the passenger said all gleeful,
‘three dead and they say the same thing happened in the Isle
of Man last year’. My mother went pale. I never found out what
happened to Judge Dredd that week.
I, Fugger, the people's blogger, was
recently invited to address the RAND Corporation. The topic of my
talk was The Rationality of Realpolitik. I had a white board and
coloured markers and everything. My talk
went down very well. I'm providing a transcript below for you to
enjoy. I kept it nice and short because in an era where everybody is
busy Twittering their hashtags, it's best not to keep them long.
Anyway, here's what I said:
We are 'rational actors' in a system
that provides 'selective incentives'. If those 'selective incentives'
do not appeal to some then we can only assume that they are
'irrational actors'. We have certain 'disincentives' that can be
applied to 'irrational actors' unless those 'irrational actors' have
other incentives that dovetail with our system of 'rational actors'.
You see, in order to meet the needs of our system of 'rational
actors' we must sometimes facilitate a certain set of 'dovetailing'
'irrational actors' (example: religious fundamentalists) in order to
overcome another, 'less dovetailing', set of 'irrational actors'
(example: secular tyrants). Once the 'less dovetailing' set of
'irrational actors' have been overcome (or reduced to crushed bone,
ash, or something resembling barbequed meat) by the 'dovetailing'
set of 'irrational actors' our system will set about overcoming the
'dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors' by
supporting yet another set of 'irrational actors', often the remnants
of the formerly 'less dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors'. And so
it goes on. And on. And on and on. Forever. And ever. Until,
eventually, someone comes along and decides that we (yes, we: me, you, your mom, your pop, your kitty and your dog) are the
'irrational actors' and overcome us (or reduce us to crushed bone,
ash, or something resembling barbequed meat). Do you follow me? Do you get the idea? Don't you
think it's clever? Don't you find it all devastatingly
'rational'?
I received a standing ovation. I was a
bit chuffed to be honest but I'm not sure if they were applauding
what I said or applauding the massive cock and balls I drew over the
map of Syria on my whiteboard.
I think Aung San Suu Kyi is deadly.
Soldiers locked her in her gaff for ages and she didn't go mad. Half
the people you see around outside are barking but Aung San Suu Kyi
couldn't even go down the road to buy smokes or a Lucozade or
whatever and still she kept her shit together. I love her. I think
she's as cool as the Dalai Yoda off Australian Masterchef.
Anyway, I wrote a bit of a poem type song thing for her because she's
in Dublin today signing copies of her new graphic novel in Forbidden
Planet. I'm hoping to head down there and sing it to her. It goes a
little something like this:
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Aung San Suu Kyi,
They locked you in your gaff
and threw away the key.
Ooh ooh ooh,
Aung San Suu Kyi.
I guess when you were there you played
lots of Nintendo Wii.
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Aung San Suu Kyi,
You were stuck indoors for ages
watching boxsets on TV.
Ooh ooh ooh,
Aung San Suu Kyi.
I bet you've seen The Wire even more
times than me.
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Aung San Suu Kyi,
You were bored shitless in your gaff
but now you're free.
Ooh ooh ooh,
Aung San Suu Kyi.
Wait 'till you see the movies, now
they're all in crappy 3D.
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Last time you left the gaff,
Happy Mondays were number three.
Ooh ooh ooh,
Aung San Suu Kyi.
You gotta see Shaun Ryder, the guy's
become a monstrosity.
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Now you're getting prizes,
and joining Bono for tea.
Ooh ooh ooh,
Aung San Suu Kyi.
Are you taking calls from the guys in
Shell and BP?
Oh yeah baby,
are you taking calls from the guys in
Shell and BP?
C'mon sugar tell me,
are you taking calls from the guys in
Shell and BP?
Which you gonna lobby for honey,
Please take them calls from the guys in
Shell and BP!
There is no alternative baby,
Ya gotta take them calls from the guys
in Shell and BP!
(repeat to fade)
It's good isn't it? Well, the first half is. It kind of falls apart after that but what do you expect with the amount I've had to drink? I'm going to sing
it to her in my Tom Jones voice.
Four-Nil but the lads can still do it if
they focus and commit to stability and we can still apply for goals
from the ESM and it's just a question of knuckling down really at the
end of the day and the nation could do with a lift after all the doom
and gloom y'know fair is fair and the Eucharistic Congress and
stealing Trevelyan's corn and dreams and songs to sing and Brush Shiels and Joe Duffy and Funny
Friday and I painted a shamrock on my arse and there's absolutely no official record of what took place on the night of the bank guarantee
but sure this is it really isn't it and Obama's visit was great and
the Queen was on great form wasn't she and I'm off to Dundrum
Shopping Centre so we should make Michael O'Leary the minister for
health and happy birthday The Late Late because we're a good team so
we'll get there and we're getting there and are we there yet and will
we ever get there and you'll never beat the Irish and the property
market has bottomed out going forward.
'Would you think at all. . .' says I to
Clafferty, pausing to raise a pint to the lips. 'I mean to say, would
you ever be of a mind to consider', continues myself to himself, 'that we
might be cliches?'
'I've little doubt of that fact', says
Clafferty as he downs his last and prepares to return home and face
the wrath of herself.
In other news: Why not check out
Fugger's new film blog? It's not a film festival, it's a film
FEASTival! Click the link below:
An observation drone followed me all
the way home the other day. It was whirring away about eight feet
above my head and making me nervy. I wasn't a happy man. When I got
home I rang the security company that made the drone and asked what
was up. They said they weren't sure and asked if I had been involved
in any suspicious activity. I said I hadn't. Then they checked their
database and asked about this blog.
'You seem to be quite off message Mr.
Fugger', they said.
'So?' I said.
'Well, we're just keeping an eye out
that's all', they said.
There hasn't been any terrorist
activity since the 2012 Olympics atrocity but it still seems we all
need watching out for. I have never written anything even remotely in
support of violence but, as Sir Kevin Myers recently argued in the
newspaper, scepticism is, in and of itself,
a form of violence. No, the argument didn't make much sense to me
either but most people seem to have embraced his logic.
'I like the drones', is a typical
pronouncement of the man on the street, 'they make me feel safer and
if you've nothing to hide why worry?'
I considered making my own drone to
watch the drone that was watching me. It's a simple matter of making
a remote control aircraft with a camera attached that sends the
images to your laptop. Then I remembered that homemade drone
manufacture is illegal. This is to prevent terrorists making drones
and flying them into cars and so on. That has never happened but it
probably would if it was allowed to. Besides that, as Sir Myers
argued on a recent TV panel discussion, 'what's the point in being
watched if you are watching back'. The audience applauded.
The drone followed me all the way as I
visited the Mother in the old folks home. My drone met her drone
(they've been following her since the first day the state outsourced
law enforcement) and the two drones seemed to get along very well.
The Mother said the world had come to a sorry pass. She said it was
Orwellian but then she remembered that Orwell's analogy was about
communist countries so 1984 couldn't possibly apply to us. Then she
went off and joined the other oldies as they did that new form of
extreme Tai Chi to the tune of White Riot by The Clash (the oldies
love the tunes from their own day). I headed off. My fuckin drone
followed.
In the following days and nights the
drone bothered me more and more. It was whirring outside my window
late at night. The noise off the thing combined with the perpetual
hum from the coastal fracking operation and the two sounds really did
my head in. The lack of sleep eventually caused me to lose it and one
morning I opened my kitchen window and fucked a saucepan at the
levitating shithead. I hit it and it made a funny noise and crashed
into a lamppost. It wasn't long before security personnel arrived and
I was carted off to the community assistance centre (formerly known
as the cop shop).
They smiled and spoke gently as they
scanned my retina, took my prints, and attached an electronic tag to
my ankle.
'Why are you so disagreeable Mr.
Fugger?' one asked.
'Because the world has become
disagreeable.'
'I don't think most people would agree
with you there Mr. Fugger.'
'That's because most people have lost
the ability to disagree with you.'
'Me?'
'Yeah, you lot.'
'And just who are us lot?'
'The powers that be. The servants of
the establishment.'
'This all seems a bit nebulous Mr.
Fugger. Could you be more specific?'
'If you don't know it's too late for
you.'
'Do you not like being protected Mr.
Fugger?'
'Not when I'm treated like the thing
that I'm supposedly being protected against.'
'There is no need to feel that way Mr.
Fugger.'
'Yes there is, you've tagged me.'
'We're only protecting our property Mr.
Fugger.'
'There are more important things than
property.'
'Like what Mr. Fugger?'
'Liberty for a start.'
'Aren't you free Mr. Fugger?'
'No.'
'Well, let's imagine for a moment that
you are correct Mr. Fugger, which you are not but let's imagine for a
moment that you are. What would you do with your freedom if you had
it?'
'Well, I'd. . .'
(I paused.)
'You'd what Mr. Fugger?'
'I'd. . .'
(There was a longer pause as I thought
about it.)
'Are you happy Mr. Fugger?'
'Huh? Yeah! Sure! . . .sometimes.'
'Are you happy with your lot?'
'In some ways.'
'We don't think you are Mr. Fugger.'
'And how would you know?'
'We've been watching you remember.'
'Oh yeah.'
'And we haven't been watching a happy
man Mr. Fugger.'
(I said nothing.)
'We think you're seeking catharsis by
transposing the source of your woe on to our little system. A system
everyone, all the rest of us, have agreed upon Mr. Fugger. A system
that only wants to see you safe and secure and happy.'
'Yeah, as long as I can pay for it
right?'
'Money greases the wheels Mr. Fugger,
most have agreed to that social contract, the exceptions being
internet malcontents and, of course, terrorists.'
'You're saying I'm a terrorist now?'
'No, Mr. Fugger, I am saying that you
are a very unhappy man.'
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe
it was the anxiety caused by my arrest, but something about that last
thing he said caused tears to run down my cheeks. I was silently
crying and soon I was loudly sobbing. My head was on the security
person's chest and he was cradling me and saying 'there there, there
there'. I felt a right fool but I also felt I had broken through
something, something inside my own head. Why was I so defensive? Why
did I kick against a world that was only there to make things easier
for me? A world that was only watching me so it could watch my back.
Why did I accuse the world of denying me freedom when it was me who
was denying myself freedom. It dawned on me that the real source of
my misery was fear. A fear of my own freedom. I didn't know how to
handle it and so had made myself prisoner of the fantasy of societal
unfreedom. My God but this fella was good. Within the space of a
short conversation he had shown me that my prison was self-imposed
and that I could actually be a free and content man. All I had to do
was shut up. All I had to do was shut the fuck up and go home and
watch the telly or call a friend and talk about the telly or whatever
else we wanted to talk about because we were free to talk about
whatever we wanted as long as we didn't talk about not being free
because to entertain such notions was, in and of itself, a threat to
freedom.
I was allowed to return home later that
day. When I got back I climbed into bed and tried to get some well
needed sleep. The ankle tag bothered me a little but the drone had
gone. It seemed I didn't need watching anymore or maybe the tag was
doing the job. Either way, I no longer minded. Ultimately, I was only
being protected from the enemy. Ultimately I was being protected from
myself. I dozed off to the gentle hum of the fracking and I was
happy. I was a happy man because tomorrow was another day and
anything was possible. I was a happy man because I was free. I was a
happy man because the future belonged to me. It belongs to to all of
us. Enjoy it. You must.
Did you know that swimming trunks were
invented by a man called Clive Togs? Yeah, it's true. That's why they
are sometimes called 'togs'. And did you know that the chair was
invented by Lady Agatha Chair, an 18th century noblewoman
and wife of the 7th Earl of Westmeath? She found standing
up to be 'frightfully common' and so fashioned a chair from the
corpse of an Irishman. This novel idea led to the chair designs we
know and sit upon today. Asides from that, did you know that chairs
were considered luxury items and unaffordable to the working class?
Yes, working class people only started getting access to affordable
seating and actually sitting down in the wake of WW2 and the birth of
the welfare state (which, by the way, was dreamt up by a British
civil servant called Reginald Welfare-State).
Did you know that racism began as a
children's chasing game and that homophobia was originally a parlor
game from the late 19th century? Yes, it's true. And, most
interesting of all, did you know that 'war' was originally a popular
board game for the whole family until one day someone said, 'hey,
let's try this for real'. True. It's surprising where things come
from.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to
get back to perfecting a new card game I'm inventing called 'Complete Global Economic Collapse and Breakdown of Societal Cohesion'.
Ah sure we just can't govern ourselves.
We pissed the cash against the wall and outsourced the care of our
kids to an ecclesiastical paedophile ring.
It's an embarrassment really. Best just to let others govern our
affairs. After all, they know what's best for us. They're grown ups.
They're more sophisticated than us. Just look at the clothes on them
and the way they carry themselves. They have dignified poise whereas
we're just a bunch of emotionally damaged drunks staggering about the
place. They go to war too. They go to war to protect their interests
whereas we just go to war with ourselves. It's not easy going to war
to protect your interests. It demands mature deliberation. Can you
see us maturely deliberating? No, me neither.
We are certainly disrespected abroad
and we are probably hated. It has come time to change that. It has
come time to tidy ourselves up. It has come time to have a wash and a
shave and do as we're told. The time has come to cop on. And that is
what we have done. That's what we did on Thursday. We bowed our heads
in supplication and handed the keys of the car back to Daddy before
we crashed it again. Some might extend that analogy to point out that
Daddy was in the passenger seat, drunkenly demanding we overtake
traffic and keep switching lanes, but that kind of talk is
disrespectful. Have more respect for Daddy. After all, he's a grown
up.
Some of us still live in the past and
talk about risings and rebellions but supplication is the game these
days. There's no shame in it. We gave the whole independent nation
thing a go. We really did. But, you see, there's something wrong with
us. There is something seriously wrong with us that we refuse to take
responsibility for ourselves, that we can't invest in ourselves or
have faith in ourselves, or even consider that self-improvement is a
remote possibility. We have failed ourselves so many times that we
have dismissed ourselves entirely. Quite right too.
We're very lucky that they're helping
us out. We should remember that every single morning. Every single
morning we get out of bed we should give thanks. They are very kind.
We're really not worth the bother. We're as bad as the Greeks. Sure
if the Greeks go all that will be missed is a bit of feta cheese and
if we go all that will be missed will be the odd sack of spuds.
Let's get serious people. We're a joke.
The people of Ireland took the right decision on Thursday for the
right reasons. I, for one, am proud of Ireland. For the first time in
my life I am proud of Ireland because Ireland has at last realised
that it should be ashamed of itself.
Ah the auld shame, now that is what it
means to be truly Irish.
