Saint Patrick: Killer, Imperialist, Fundamentalist

As is the nature of scepticism, and my disdain for most examples of patriotic pageantry and religious ceremony, I have long regarded Paddy‘s Day, and the global cult around it, with deep suspicion. I once even wrote an essay – poorly crafted and of dubious accuracy – claiming that Patrick had never existed, not in the way we understand him anyway, and that the vast majority of his life story was a subsequent fabrication. That essay, incidentally, was submitted as part of a First Year History Exam.

I passed.

Yes, I experienced explosive flatulence upon hearing the news. Who doesn’t?

Anyway, I never really gave the bugger, or the myths surrounding his life, much more thought – until, that is, my knowledgeable girlfriend mentioned that, yeah, our Patron Saint probably killed someone. This certainly piqued my interest.

Turns out, those ‘snakes’ St. Patrick banished from Ireland? Yeah, they were probably a metaphor for the Pagans, who had lived here before he introduced Christianity. I always loved the term ‘introduced’, by the way. It conjures up images of a dinner party, where some Pagan returned from Britannia with new ideas in his head is enthusiastically showing off his new find, saying ‘Oh darling, you simply MUST let the teachings of Christ into your life, the ceremonies are positively ADORABLE – and they let us keep our feasts, just with new names and more creatively imaginative legends!’

In fact, our lad Paddy introduced Christianity to Ireland in the same way that Hitler introduced gas chambers to Jews, or the way Britain introduced their language to over half the Earth’s population. Any Pagans who refused to convert, or to recant their beliefs, were rent asunder. The snakes metaphor works on two levels; first, in Christian theology the snake is frequently another name or identity of the Devil – who, after all, tempted Adam & Eve in the Garden of Eden? – and second, Druids often had tattoos of snakes running down their arms – it was their symbol of medicine & science, just as it is today. Patrick banging his staff on the rocks a la Moses and sending the snakes scurrying into the sea? Some speculate that there was a grain of truth in this; Patrick would demand that some poor Pagan bastard convert, and if the person refused then Patrick would hammer the ground with his staff as a signal to his followers – who would then, dutifully and I’m sure in a holy as FUCK way, tear the resister apart.

“Get ‘em, boys!”

So yeah. There’s that. However, it is speculation, based on stories only committed to paper three centuries or so after Paddy’s death. Nonetheless, it makes a shitload more sense than snakes, dontcha think? Plus, the pagans didn’t fade from the scene until around that time, so it makes sense that only when the, let’s be honest, genocide had been completed that people would start admitting that, yeah, we didn’t really mean snakes. Of course, by then, the incredibly literal-minded and gullible people who make up the bulk of the church had already bought the snakes tale, so to speak, hook line and sinker.

Still, it is not incontrovertible fact. There is little in the way of archaelogical evidence to back it up – where are the graves? The evidence of a mass exodus? The next part, on the other hand, has quite a bit of hard factual basis…

One of the less-well-known stories of St. Patrick concerns a ‘she-witch’ who he had banished to Lough Derg. There’s this island in the middle of Lough Derg called St. Patrick’s Purgatory, to commemorate his action in sending Caoranach, the she-beast, to stay there. Now, simultaneously, there are quite a few references to a woman who followed St. Patrick very closely, but it seems that no one ever knew her name. It is mere conjecture, but some believe it extremely likely that she was his consort. Anyway, after St. Patrick stated that he had banished the ‘she-beast’, this woman was never seen again.

Fast-forward to 1998. A documentarian takes a team up to Lough Derg to search for any evidence regarding these murky events. Chillingly, they found a woman’s mummified remains under the water… Carbon Dating placed the body’s lifetime as being around the 7th Century CE. The documentarian was convinced that this confirmed the story’s veracity. Rumour has it that he was given a stern warning by our government to avoid doing anything to change the people’s feeling about their Patron Saint.

“I dispatched her with my Nine, like so… Amen”

As well as the glorious Christianity Patrick introduced to Ireland – which is a myth in itself really, since Palladius had been sent before him and was an all-round nicer bloke, by all accounts – the future Patron Saint was also instrumental in teaching the natives Latin…thus laying the groundwork for the eventual inculcation of English, and the general decay of Gaeilge into the minority language it is today. In this particular instance it’s hard to blame him personally for too much of that – after all, somebody else certainly would’ve arrived with a new language at some point, and whatever the lingua franca was going to be going forward, it never looked like being Irish.

All the same, celebrating the life of a genocidal, homicidal, colonialist git isn’t my idea of a festive day. I’m soft like that.

Happy Paddy’s Day!

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…☭

Crimson Emerald: 1798 Volunteer

I have been a gamer all my life, and have noticed some settings & perspectives which have been neglected over the years. As popular as World War II is as a basis for a game, for example, it rarely sees you take up arms as a bog standard German soldier in the Wehrmacht – something I pointed out on this very blog. I have not played much of the Assassin’s Creed series, but I have always admired their willingness to take advantage of this shortfall, thereby creating a world which has rarely, if ever, been experienced by gamers. Crusades-era Middle-East, Renaissance-era Europe, American Revolution, the 18th Century Pirate Republic… It’s all damn good stuff. Hopefully, they will tackle the French Revolution at some point, as this is a similarly ignored period of history (in gaming terms) that also perfectly represents what Ubisoft’s series is about. However, this got me thinking of other rarely-tapped environments, and I came up with the following…

This is, sadly, what you will all be thinking very shortly

The year is 1798. Revolution has swept across the colonies of America, toppling the Ancien Regime in France, and Europe is aflame with the passionate ideals of liberty, equality and fraternity. In Ireland, the rebellious United Irishmen prepare to follow the example set by Jefferson et al, seeking to free their island from the rule of George III. The Battle for Ireland is about to begin…

You play Gabriel Hogan, a founding Methodist preacher’s son, driven by ideals of egalitarianism and freedom. Your character quickly gains the trust of the Defenders as a result, and the earliest part of the game sees you aiding them as they raid houses for arms in 1793. At this point you are barely 20 years old, but your passion, athleticism and intellect set you apart, and when the Society of United Irishmen link up with the Defenders, the United Irishmen leaders begin training you to become their most important operative. You must conduct espionage, free prisoners, train volunteers, seize equipment, plant false intelligence and conduct assassinations – you must be the thorn in England’s side, if the Republic is to triumph.

Sure thing, piece of piss.

Then, in May of 1798, the Rebellion begins outright. For almost 6 months, the Irish Rebels and the Crown’s Forces clashed, across the length and breadth of the country – and you will be right in amongst it, desperately trying to provide the outnumbered and outgunned Irishmen & women with any advantage you can possibly give them. The rest of the time you’ll be in and around your base in Dublin, raising funds, snooping around Dublin Castle for info, bumping off particularly meddlesome individuals, and generally acting the maggot.

That’s the setting and extremely vague storyline in essence, anyway. The gameplay will be that of an action-RPG and hopefully would be playable in both Third and First Person – Third Person for a lot of the roaming around and cutscenes, First Person for a good bit of the combat and other specific instances that show up during the narrative. The game would involve customised weapons, gained skills, and side missions in order to gain cash – some of these will be on behalf of the establishment, so you will have to weigh up just how badly you need the money versus just how much of a dent your reputation may take with your brothers-in-arms.

Oh yeah, there will be a Reputation system too – in combat situations you will be able to scare the shit out of soldiers et al if you reputation is high, but on the flipside you will be more prone to discovery during infiltration. That goes for the basic moral system too – be a dick and rob fucking everyone, kill whoever you like, and you’ll have lots of money to buy/customise weapons, but also everyone will hate you and try to kill you. Help as many people as possible, risking poverty as you do so, and you might find that in certain scenarios NPCs will help your character out.

Basically I’m just thinking out loud (can you do that with the written word? I mean, I’m not actually saying anything verbally) but the game will be heavily influenced by the aforementioned Assassin’s Creed games, Dishonoured, Far Cry 3, Operation Flashpoint, and Pacman.

Ok, maybe not Pacman.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters… ★

Hounslow: Part XV – Malaise

Her head was throbbing. She knew the cause, though it would be difficult to explain to anyone unfamiliar with the Dais or, more commonly, anyone for whom the gigantic compound did not elicit physical discomfort. It was just… There was something in the air that served to sicken her, some form of real or imagined claustrophobic pressure that made her sinuses ache and her eyes puff up. She knew it to be psychosomatic; research had told her of people who hated certain places with such fervency that the mere act of spending time in or around their loathsome locations cause them to suffer a very real and very ailing condition.

Melissa mused at the bizarre circumstance of her psyche that could allow her to circulate around areas like Hounslow, areas which were submerged in atmospheric pollution and riddled with disease, but give her maladies when in the nominally pristine environment of the Dais. It would be enough to make her smile, were the experience not so unpleasant.

If one were totally unaware of the current travails and travesty of justice endured by the inhabitants of the hinterlands, this place would appear beautiful. Even Melissa Myung-Bo had to admit that, albeit grudgingly and through gritted teeth. As she stepped along Wellesley Road, watching well-fed children playing with gay abandon in the lush gardens of their gleaming, attractive, spacious homes, there was no question that, if this image were recreated universally, humankind could finally have been said to have reached the zenith of its capability. That this were not the case, that it was so rare, that there existed such a disparity between this scene and the prevailing situation of the less-fortunate…that was what made Melissa simultaneously want to cry out in despair and roar with outrage.

The shining white carriages of Light Urban Dais Distribution service passed her by with less than a whisper of sound. Entirely automated, these modern-day trains ran with clockwork precision and immaculate reliability – serviced, invariably, by the labourers brought in from outside the compound. The LUDD network had been in operation for almost a quarter of a century, adding new lines and expanding exponentially with the Dais itself. It was a pristine, comfortable, relaxing mode of transportation, and both its passengers and workers appeared to feel abundant pride in its operation. Even Melissa was forced to admit; this was one area where the City Authority had spared no expense – and it showed.

Pausing to admire the passing tram, she pulled a slender grey tube from her jacket pocket, clicked the minuscule activation button on its side, and inhaled deeply from one end. One or two nearby children interrupted their frolicking to gawk at her as she blew out a perfect stream of bluish smoke before resuming her stride. Clearly, they had never beheld such a sight – to say that they lived a sheltered existence would have been true in a literal sense, but an understatement in reality. Sheltered was one thing – having absolutely no regard or even knowledge of a world outside their horizons was quite another. The parents of the Dais’ little ones kept their offspring as ignorant of the outside as possible, and why not? The whole point of this enclosed existence was surely to provide new generations with lives untainted with the folly of yesteryear.

Myung-Bo picked up her pace and continued to suck on the slender grey tube – known colloquially as ‘stems’ – while contemplating her next move. She could not contact Barnes while in the Dais, and her meetings with the Old Man and Letchkov were more than enough for one day – enough to keep the Spozi guessing, at any rate – so maybe it was time to head home and resume her work there. She nodded to herself. Get this last errand out of the way, and then Return To Base. Melissa smiled at the thought of the military jargon. Well, it does fit…

Presently, she arrived at her destination. Gunnersbury. Centuries ago it had been a train station, now it was the central processing hub for all information relayed to the Communik8® stations across the South-East. Everything newsworthy online, every up-to-the-minute bulletin, event or incident, every word deemed suitable for the public – and a good few that were not – went through here. The Communik8® had long ago – fifty, sixty years maybe? – become the device of choice for people who wanted to be kept abreast of the latest developments, capable of providing the sort of customised, user-specific twenty-four hour coverage that media barons from centuries past could only dream of. The Authority had wisely decided to collaborate with the C8 head honchos in order to maintain a healthy amount of influence over what made it to the screen…but C8 was still steadfastly independent, and fixated on their bottom line over all other considerations.

It was this lack of partiality – politically-speaking, at least – that brought Melissa to their door. She might not get the answers she was looking for, but she would certainly get some that neither the Authority, the Deepo nor the Spozi wanted her to hear.

That alone made asking the questions absolutely imperative.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…★

Hounslow: Part XIV – Chills

Even one who knew the cost of its construction could not deny the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the Dais on such a day. The Sun, amplified and warped by the translucent canopy, seemed to shimmer in the Autumn sky, and the park in front of the imposing Directorate Headquarters was brimming with flora and fauna. Eye-catching plants and animals, some brought back from extinction and others genetically retooled so as to be no threat to human life, blessed the green common which had become affectionately known to Dais inhabitants as ‘Dial Square’. At its centre, the twenty-eight foot sundial from which the park earned its unofficial moniker appeared to worship the heavens. ‘Thank you’, it might have said. ‘Thank you for all that you have surrounded me with.’

Priscilla Letchkov was completely oblivious to the wonders of her environs. A cool, collected and unwavering individual, the recently-appointed Director of Pragmatic Organisation fixed Melissa with an unimpressed stare. Myung-Bo was no shrinking violet, but she nonetheless found it hard not to flinch in the face of such a glare. So this is what her Deepo minions have to endure. Letchkov had not to speak a word to convince her audience of the authority she possessed; it emitted from her eyes like a solar flare – beautiful, but potentially lethal.

“The Spozi are thugs, pure and simple. Their methods are medieval, their manner uncouth, their objectives incoherent. They are all bloodlust and no brains. They exhibit no foresight, no strategy, no…chicanery, if you’ll excuse the ugly term. There is no…there appears to be no plan. When you acknowledge this, it becomes more easy to see how readily they can tread on the toes of our…more delicate operations.”

Letchkov’s words were incendiary, but her tone was bored. She paused to briefly suckle on her Holmespipe. Cigarettes, cigars and pipes of tobacco might well have been a thing of the past, but many still had an oral fixation that required satisfaction. Added to this was an overt fascination with stories from the past and antique implements, a nostalgia for a bygone age. Electronic models of centuries-old smoking apparatus were in vogue.

Melissa Myung-Bo waited patiently. This was her, what? Twentieth? Twenty-fifth? It was her twenty-somethingth meeting with Priscilla, and every time it gave her pure gold in terms of inside information. She could not use any of it, of course – the Directorate’s operatives were far more zealous than the Old Man’s at identifying and neutralising her recording equipment. Nonetheless, these conversations gave her a vital insight into the functioning of the Authority.

“So… There has always been a little friction. You could argue that the Secretariat are yesterday’s men. They were needed – my stars, without them the whole island would have descended into anarchy decades ago! We owe the Spozi, of that there is no doubt…but anyone with eyes can see that these are different times. The era of unsubtle enforcement must end.”

Melissa had the unsettling and unfamiliar feeling of sympathy for the Secretariat. An unwelcome sorrow, at how easily they could be dispatched. This was bizarre. They were the fearsome opponents of every aspect of social justice she believed in, and their fanatic devotion to the Dais and the Authority was absolutely unquestioning…and yet, Melissa could not shake the notion that their viciousness was preferable to that of the formidable figure before her. Their abhorrence had an honesty to it, at least. She got the sense that Priscilla Letchkov’s lot would hug the hinterlands tight while surreptitiously ripping out its guts.

“We have but one remit. You know it, but it bears repeating”. Priscilla punctuated the next sentence by softly slamming her right fist into the palm of her left hand at every key word. “‘To organise-” punch “-facilitate-” punch “-and coordinate-” punch “-all activities in the Dais and beyond which pertain to Authority programmes.’ Now, you are a smart girl…”
Melissa groaned inwardly. The second time in a day she had been called a ‘smart girl’ – something told her that Priscilla saw her as anything but.

“…so surely you can see how much of an obstacle the Spozi represent, the sort of barrier they are to progress. Nobody wants the SPO to disintegrate, for heavens’ sake…”
This, it was clear to Myung-Bo, was precisely what Letchkov wanted.
“…but they must be reorganised so that our two wings of government can beat in harmony, lifting our Authority to even greater heights!”

There was a fire in Priscilla’s eyes. An excitement of almost carnal nature, a passionate exhilaration. She totally and utterly believed her own mendacious words. The hallmarks of a pathological liar.

Melissa shuddered.

“Are you cold? We can go in.”

For a second, Melissa wanted to object. Being near to the noble wonders of Dial Square made for a nice counterweight to the cynical machinations of Director Letchkov. However, it was obviously less suspicious to agree to the offer.

“Thank you, Madam Director. I hope I didn’t pick up something while I was outside the Compound.”

Priscilla shook her head, put an arm around Melissa Myung-Bo’s shoulders, and smiled with a maternal air.

“My dear, whatever we have to fear, it does not lie out there.”

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…☭

Director Priscilla T. Letchkov, 64 years old.

Héroe de la Revolución Cubana

Brow furrowed in concentration, the General continued to draw up his analysis of the situation in the Middle East. A renowned internationalist, with combat experience going back thirty years, ‘El Moro’ was certainly the man for the job. It was a Spring day in Havana, and the weather was warm enough to leave the windows open. A slight breeze ruffled the papers on his desk. The General paused. He reread the opening lines of his conclusion. The policies of the current Soviet administration have left the Palestine Liberation Organisation militarily exposed and politically isolated. In this context, Arafat’s acceptance of Israel’s right to exist is no surprise…” The General removed the over-sized blackframe glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. A Hero of the Revolution still has to work, he mused. The phone rang. He sighed, and plucked the receiver from its cradle. The conversation was brief, but his head was spinning when he replaced the handset. Christ, Raúl wasn’t joking.

Commander of The Western Army.

They were going to make him the third most powerful man on the island.

Fidel. Raúl. Then him.

***

It was Celia who had founded the movement. Fidel and Ché were the natural leaders and the biggest characters, but she was the one who had brought them all together. Nobody could have done it on their own, of course, but she was the one who had the knack for measuring people, sensing how they needed to be dealt with, understanding how they should be treated. She was sharp as hell, and the man who would become known as ‘El Moro’ had warmed to her immediately when they first met in Manzanillo. She was barely 25 then. Extraordinary. El Moro had much comradely affection for her. Nothing unseemly, of course. Besides which, it was rumoured that herself and Fidel had something of an intimate relationship with one another. Good for them, had been El Moro’s reaction. Life had to be seized. At that time, none of them knew how soon it might end.

***

Neither of the brothers could believe it at first. It was simply not possible. The man was a hero – but more than that, he was comrade. His fidelity was beyond dispute. Once confronted with the full weight of the evidence, however, they were convinced. Raúl, friends with The General since the very beginning, cracking jokes all those years ago on the Granma, was particularly devastated. He squeezed his eyes shut, balled his fingers into fists and hammered at his own temples, muttering oaths to himself – at one point, Fidel and José had to each put an arm round him and speak soothingly to calm him down. Then Raúl quietly wept into his hands. How could this be – the man with whom he had grown so close during the assault on Santa Clara? It was heartbreaking. A routine background check… Who could believe it?

***

Impressed was not the word. Ché often spoke of his admiration for El Moro, Camilo regularly pointed out the man’s fearlessness, determination and strategic genius, and Raúl beamed with fraternal pride whenever El Moro’s name was mentioned. Friend and foe alike regarded this revolutionary fighter with respect – in the Sierra Maestra and at the Bay of Pigs, he had been like an ancient warrior; calm, composed, but fearsome. Fidel knew what an asset he had at his disposal. El Moro was quickly enrolled in the War College at Matanzas, to hone his skills before being sent to the prestigious Frunze Academy in Moscow. El Comandante had big plans for this comrade; he intended to use El Moro, as best he could, to lead Cuba’s Brigadas in their future interventions around the globe…

***

Raúl pleaded with him to come clean, to reveal everything, to beg forgiveness and ask for clemency. The General never denied the charges with any great passion, and yet despite these repeated pleas – and those of numerous other revolutionary brothers & sisters – he stayed stubborn as a mule. El Moro would not cooperate. After a month or so of this desperate wrangling, it became clear that there was just no reasoning with him. The Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces had no choice but to arrest The General, and announce the shocking charges against him. The country was rocked. Even then, his closest comrades continued to do all their power to convince him to say something, anything that might result in a lenient judgement or ameliorate his sentence. He was not senile by any means – he was only 59 after all, and with his shock of well-kept black hair and smooth looks, he appeared younger – but it seems that, in this instance, his head was in the clouds.

***

They had performed well in Angola. El Moro had once again led his troops with zeal, intensity and panache. The victories over the FNLA had won the appreciation of both the Soviets and, more importantly, of Fidel. South Africa, that racist, apartheid state, had received a bloody nose – arguably the beginning of the end for that abominable regime. El Moro had nothing more to prove…but he had everything to lose. We will never know why he delved into the sordid trade of diamond-smuggling and ivory-selling. Greed? Perhaps – but what need had a man like The General for more money? Later he would claim that there were “mitigating circumstances”. His soldiers needed vital equipment, and the only way for him to procure the materiel required was to raise funds – quickly. That would be understandable…except for the fact that he then smuggled guns in Nicaragua and, worst of all, had used his position to enable drug traffickers to utilise Cuban territorial waters for their operations. The prosecution asserted – with some justification given what happened to Noriega less that a year later – that had the United States learnt of this, the Yankees could have used it as a pretext to invade Cuba. The General was sullen, downcast, deflated…but he insisted:

He was just trying to secure the weapons that could be decisive in the War for Angola…and then one thing led to another.

***

They still loved him. Every single one of them. There had been many executions since the rebirth of Cuba – what revolution does not experience this? – but none had caused as much sadness to the populace as a whole. The atmosphere leading up to the trial had been one of sadness. The response to the verdict, one of sombre acceptance. Almost all accepted that there was no other choice. What other choice could there be, for one convicted of treason? Out of respect for his part in the great Revolution, his last two wishes were granted.

He was allowed to wear his blindfold.

He was allowed to command the firing squad.

I confess, I was crying floods of tears as I walked over to his riddled body, slumped against the walls. Big, fat drops were rolling down my cheeks and splashing onto the hard ground. It was a hot day – oppressively, crushingly hot – and the droplets vaporised almost as soon as they splashed.

As I put the final bullet into his head, I caught the reflection of the sun in one of my own tears; a flash of brilliance, and then nothing.

Solidaridad, hermanos y hermanas… ★

Arnaldo ‘El Moro’ Ochoa 1930-1989

 

Hounslow: Part XIII – Ructions

“You seem like a smart girl. Too smart for the profession you’ve chosen. A chip on the shoulder, perhaps? Class envy in the blood? Or from the other side, maybe. Yes… That’s it, isn’t it? An itchy self-loathing? An awareness of your comfortable upbringing? A bit of melodramatic, misplaced guilt at the social status your parents afforded you? Ha! You brats – you think you’re so clever, and you’re so very, very naive…”

Melissa Myung-Bo patiently sipped at her MelaCola™ and let the red-faced buffoon rant on. It was hardly anything new – she must’ve heard this sort of nonsense a thousand times, from a hundred different people. Same guff, same reactionary, reductive, reprehensible guff, from idiots mistaking their own blinkered pop psychology for insight. She sighed. At least the regularity of hearing it had tempered her reactions; the first bastard who smarmily tried to ‘show her the error of her ways’ had to learn to live with a few less teeth.

She smiled at the memory.

Noticing her faraway expression, the elder statesman abruptly halted his diatribe. He softened, and idly stirred his own caffeine-based bevarage while he chose his next words.

“Melissa… I know I must sound like a raving, past-it old fool…but there’s a reason I have been here so long. You have simply no idea how fractious, how feral even, the halls of power have become in this great City. Now that the scum-”

Melissa inwardly shuddered at the word, but maintained a blank visage.

“-have been put in their rightful place, everyone left wants to be top dog. Leader of the pack. That means having sharper fangs than the next ambitious little pup, and being more willing to resort to their use. Since we erected this magnificent dome, everyone within it has become that little bit more vulpine…”

Melissa couldn’t resist. “That means fox-like, your Eminence”.

Theo Marksson’s security detail visibily stifled a snigger. All five of them, situated in various tactically significent points in this plush 41st floor penthouse, managed to repress their mirth – but it was a close-run thing. Theo merely scowled, before continuing.

“Listen to me: The Spozi and the Deepo are this close-” He made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger, “-to tearing eachother apart. Already they are at loggerheads. Already they eye eachother, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness or uncertainty. Neither of them care about this beautiful place- “He pointed in the direction of the window, before rising from his chair and sweeping his right arm to indicate the idyllic landscape below. “Neither of them give a damn about what we have struggled for! These…these…these morons will destroy everything this place was meant to represent!”

Melissa eyed him with feigned curiosity. “And just what, pray tell, was it meant to represent?”

The most revered and respected man in the City seemed to sag, and he sighed. Sighed with the fatigue of over half-a-century’s plotting, scheming and, most importantly, winning. He returned to his seat.

“I… We wanted to give ourselves a chance. We couldn’t take everyone, you know that! Once you realise that, how do you decide? You can’t take those…those thugs, criminals, wasters, deadbeats! Not over decent, law-abiding, hard-working families! There are some, you know who they are, who are against the expansion programme for this very reason-”

“And you know as well as I do, your Grace,” she spat the word, “that as soon as an area is absorbed by the Dais it is immediately gentrified and its populace replaced by the overspill of your beautiful, majestic City’s excess population. So don’t you dare try to make yourself into some sort of martyr. You can spin it however you like in your speeches and press releases, but don’t insult my intelligence by trying to pull that one.”

Marksson siged again, this time a touch more philosophically. “The citizens who move in have proven themselves worthy of our project. They have shown their loyalty and enterprise – qualities which, need I remind you, have often been lacking from your lovely self.”

“So why allow me to stay? Why allow me to travel? Why allow me to write what I wish to write, say what I want to say, and do what I wish to do?”
Melissa was being facetious, but nonetheless it never hurt to make yourself out to be less intelligent than you actually were.

Theodore Winstanley Marksson gave a wan smile, and gave a nod to his senior bodyguard. Almost instantaneously they began to prepare his exit. Marksson reached across the table and shook her hand.

“Melissa… You are the only one who is honest enough to be rude to me. Well…you and my son. But he is an idiot.”

With that he winked, and made his way into the lift which was waiting to take him up to the Heli-Gantry. Melissa couldn’t help but smile, she enjoyed these occasional meetings with the Old Man. As the security detail shuffled into the lift, she made one last comment:

“I never know with you, your Eminence. You can be, at turns, so brusque, so patronising, so warm, so empathic, so cynical, so enthused, so dejected…”

“It is as a game of poker. To win, you can either try to look as impassive as possible, or show so many faces that nobody knows which one is the truth.”

Melissa could have sworn that she saw the slightest hint of sorrow cross his face, before the lift doors closed.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…☭ 

Seb’s Favourite Films of 2012

Another year gone, lads & lassies, and with its passing must come the inevitable totting up of the best and worst examples of mankind’s artistic endeavours. So, without further ado, here are my cinematic picks – the theatrical releases that I enjoyed most in 2012:

The Divide

Marvellous post-apocalyptic horror fare. Tension turned up to eleven, moments of stomach-churning gruesomeness, toe-curling discomfort and spine-chilling terror. Magnificent performances abound, particularly from Michael Biehn (jaysus, welcome back fella, where’ve you been hiding all these years?!) and Milo Ventimiglia (wait…the bloke from Heroes? Who knew that he could act!). Utterly unnerving, utterly disquieting, utterly enthralling.

Coriolanus

Full disclosure; had never even heard of the play that this is adapted from, so I cannot comment on how true it is to the content of the Great Bard’s story. Nonetheless, as a work of art it is absolutely faultless, looking and sounding thoroughly believable in spite of the Shakespearian language. Ralph Fiennes does a phenomenal job in modernising the material, and the casting is simply superb; Cox, Chastain, Butler, Nesbitt and the great Vanessa Redgrave are all just brilliant at making a good story into an excellent film. Modern-day Shakespeare at its best.

The Raid: Redemption

Take note, Hollywood: THIS is how action films should be done. Simple premise, simple plot, complicated martial arts and gripping action sequences. Gareth Evans has got to be one of the most exciting writer/directors around, and he completely hits it out of the park on this one, if you’ll excuse the baseball phraseology. Beautifully shot, with invigorating originality and breath-taking execution. All for an outlay of just one million dollars. Extraordinary.

Iron Sky

I had been excited about this movie ever since the brief, work-in-progress teaser trailer was released back in 2009. Or was it 2008? It is so long ago I can barely remember. Unusually, this is a film that lived up to my expectations, and a perfect example of crowd-funding to boot. Fantastic shlock premise, quite impressive special effects given the budget, glorious ham acting (especially from veteran Udo Kier) and a hilarious send-up of Sarah Palin… What more could you want?

And now for my outright fave film of 2012….

Battleship

Ha, just kidding.

No, the real outstanding piece of film-making this year was, for me, Bobcat Goldthwait’s masterpiece:

God Bless America

An overpowering mix of He Was A Quiet Man, Natural Born Killers, Bonnie & Clyde, Monster and even Office Space, this is a movie that manages to be better than all of them – and I don’t say that lightly. Darkly humorous, bitingly satirical, bitterly frustrated – all descriptions which are not only apt for the movie itself, but also for its spree killing protagonists, who are wholly unapologetic and totally sympathetic characters. That Goldthwait convinces you to ally with these individuals in spite of their deeds is testament to his writing skill, and this is complemented by memorable visuals and a faintly surreal, ‘plinky plonky’ indie score. Not a conventional film by any means, but one that is surely bound to become a cult classic. Check out my longer review in Film International.

Honourable mentions:

• Ted
• Compliance
• Seeking a Friend for the End of the World
• Hunger Games
• Moonrise Kingdom
• Ruby Sparks
• Lawless

 P.S. Cannot believe that I forgot Polisse, easily in my top 5 (retrospectively).

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…★