Yes Sir, I Will

Language: English

List of versions

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(Eppu Normaali)


"Yes Sir, I Will", pubblicato dai Crass nel 1983, fu l'ultimo album ufficiale della band. L'LP è composto da una singola traccia (spezzata in due) che conteneva un amaro e violento attacco all'allora primo ministro Margaret Thatcher e al suo governo nel periodo immediatamente successivo alla guerra delle Falkland, cantato sopra un accompagnamento arrabbiato quasi improvvisato degli strumentisti del gruppo. Gran parte delle parole di questa canzone sono riprese dalla lunga poesia "Rocky Eyed" del batterista Penny Rimbaud. Nele note di copertina dell'album sono riportate parti dell'articolo di Rimbaud The Pig's Head Controversy che originariamente erano apparse nella rivista International Anthem.

Il titolo del disco è ironico ed è ripreso da un ritaglio di giornale che riportava una conversazione che avrebbe avuto luogo tra Carlo, Principe di Galles e un soldato gravemente ustionato (forse Simon Weston?), appena tornato dalle Falklands.

"Rimettiti presto," disse il Principe. E l'eroico soldato rispose "Sissignore, lo farò".

Un film dell'artista Gee Vaucher pensato come accompagnamento a "Yes Sir, I Will" è stato presentato al festival di film punk "Stuff the Jubilee" nel 2002. La traccia è stata recentemente remixata da Penny Rimbaud che ha aggiunto un'ulteriore strumentazione jazz suonata da Ingrid Laubrock (sassofono) e Julien Seigal (contrabbasso).

da Wikipedia


Released by Crass in 1983, "Yes Sir, I will" was the band's final 'official' album. The record consists of one single track (broken into two) made up of a bitter and virulent attack on then prime minister Margaret Thatcher and her government in the aftermath of the Falklands War, set over a raging and an almost free-form improvised backing provided by the groups' instrumentalists. Many of the 'lyrics' of this piece are extracted from drummer Penny Rimbaud's extended poem Rocky Eyed. Sleeve notes for the album include parts of Rimbaud's article The Pig's Head Controversy that originally appeared in the Crass produced magazine International Anthem.

The title of the record is ironic, taken from a news cutting reporting a conversation attributed to have taken place between Charles, Prince of Wales and a badly burned soldier (possibly Simon Weston?) who had returned from the Falklands;

"Get well soon," the Prince said. And the heroic soldier replied "Yes sir, I will".

A film made by artist Gee Vaucher to accompany Yes Sir, I Will was shown at the UK National Film Theatre's Stuff the Jubilee festival of punk films in 2002, and the track has been recently remixed by Penny Rimbaud to incorporate additional jazz instrumentation provided by Ingrid Laubrock (saxophone) and Julien Seigal (double bass) to augment the original performance.

from Wikipedia
The door stands open -
Across lines, invisible hands are held, golden streamers building in the night.
Alone, the possibilities are enormous.
Step outside and parasites, deprived of their meat, wait to suck on tiring flesh,
Unending statistics that fatten leaders, prisoners of their morality.
Afraid of death, we can not save ourselves.
To breathe is not enough.

Yes sir, I Will.

When you woke this morning you looked so rocky-eyed,
Blue and white normally, but strange ringed like that in black.
It doesn't get much better, your voice can get just ripped up shouting in vain,
Maybe someone hears what you say, but you're still on your own at night.
You've got to make such a noise to understand the silence,
Screaming like a jackass, ringing ears so you can't hear the silence
Even when it's there. Like the wind seen from the window,
Seeing it but not being touched by it.

Words sometimes don't seem to mean much;
Of anyone we've used more that most.
Feelings from the heart that have been distorted and mocked,
Thrown around in the spectacle, the grand social circus.

Up against the rows of grey robots who control our lives
The things we have to offer sometimes seem so frail.
As they plan destruction and gain respectability,
We offer our creativity and are made outcasts.

We didn't expect to find ourselves playing this part,
We were concerned with ideas, not rock and roll,
But we can't avoid that arena,
It's become a part of us even if we don't understand it.

In attempts to moderate they ask why we don't write love songs.
What is it that we sing then?
Our love of life is total, everything we do is an expression of that,
Everything that we write is a love song.

We look for alternatives,
But the enormous power of the media makes it so difficult
To establish foundations. Their lies and distortions are so extreme
That everything becomes poisoned and corrupted.
We can become media personalities, but it is always on their terms.
We're tired of living up to other people's expectations when our own are so much higher.
Intelligence seems so easily dismissed when it doesn't conform to mainstream values.
Lennon said "They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool",
He was right. Social intelligence merely requires agreement and compromise.

The boundaries are becoming narrower as the State becomes more paranoid.
Under authoritarian rule, conformity becomes the only security.
Fear is a powerful weapon against human development.
Cowering in our temples of self there's little chance of change;
The State is aware of that. The bomb serves many functions.
If fear of the omnipotent God is no more,
The nuclear Father will govern with his shepherd's crook,
Drawing his flock closer to the valley of the shadow of death.

Those of us who stand out against the status quo
Do so against all odds.
We cling so closely together
Because we have little other than ourselves.
Critics say that it's just punk rock or that we're just naive anarchists.
They hope to discredit us with their labels and definitions.
Throughout history societies have condemned those who are later celebrated as heroes,
In so many bourgeois homes Van Gogh's sunflowers radiate from the walls,
Yet he lived in utter misery, condemned by those very same people.
Why is it that the kind and gentle are subjected to violence and riducule?
How is it that the small and mealy-minded have gained so much power?
What perversion has taken place that we are governed by fools?

We've had problems from self-appointed Gods from Bishops to MPs.
They've tried to ban our records saying that we're a threat to decent society.
Fuck them. I hope we are.
What kind of depraved idiot thinks they can silence others by denying them their voice?
For fucks sake, who are these lobotomists?
As if walls only had one side.
Whispered intimacies might not get through,
But cries of anguish know no barriers.
But how long do we shout for?
Denied the airwaves, we trust in the wind to carry what we say.
But sometimes we've found ourselves shouting into the wind
When we should have been confiding in each other.
It seems so absurd that we are denied the chance of ever being truly free.
The terrible inequalities of the peoples of this earth
Make freedom at best a dream, at worst an insulting privilege.
What space is there for self-expression and personal development
When over half the world's population is starving?
There are so many things that might have been done,
But rooted on this spot in the desire to find solution,
There's little to see and feel but the sighing and dying of our world.
But for suffering we might have been a part of it rather than apart from it.

Making the compromises,
Brave fronts, deceitful disguises. What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
Turning a blind eye to the lies just to keep it all together,
But sometimes when I'm alone like this I wonder whether it's worth it.

Smiling and socialising.
Endless philosophising. What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
Surface agreements, statements of fact, trying to prove we can do it,
But sometimes when I'm alone like this I wonder just who can see through it.

Bargains and sacrifices.
Cheap tricks, cheaper devices. What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
Holding the vision, but losing our sight, endlessly searching solution,
But sometimes when I'm alone like this I wonder how much it's just institution.

What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
What did you know? What did you care?
Anarchy's become another word for 'got 10p to spare?' What did you know? What did you care?
Another way of saying 'I'm O.K., sod you out there'. What did you know? What did you care?
Another token tantrum to cover up the fear. What did you know? What did you care?
Another institution, another cross to bear. What did you know? What did you care?
etc. etc.

Anything and everything can be so easily institutionalised,
A poor parody of itself. Itself contained by itself.
There's no point in just mouthing the words.
The token tantrums just aren't enough,
Nor is speed and weed and the Positive Creed.
Exclusive clubs where the various tribes congratulate each other for doing fuck all
Will achieve nothing but the strengthening of the status quo.
Punk has spawned another rock and roll elite,
Cheap Rotten Vicious imitations thinking they'll change their world
With dyed hair and predictable gestures. Nouveau wankers.
There's a thousand empty stages waiting for their empty performances,
A thousand empty faces waiting for their empty stances.
How many times must we hear rehashed versions of Feeding of the 5000
By jerks whose only fuck off to the system has been one off the wrist?
It's the Feeding of the 5 Knuckle Shuffle.

If there was no government, wouldn't there be chaos
Everybody running round, setting petrol bombs off?
And if there was no police force, tell me what you'd do
If thirty thousand rioters came running after you?
And who would clean the sewers? Who'd mend my television?
Wouldn't people lay about without some supervision?
Who'd drive the fire engines? Who'd fix my video?
If there were no prisons, well, where would robbers go?

And what if I told you to Fxxk Off?

What if there's no army to stop a big invasion?
Who'd clean the bogs and sweep the floors? We'd have all immigration.
Who'd pull the pint at the local pub? Where'd I get my fags?
Who'd empty out my dustbins? Would I still get plastic bags?
If there were no hospitals, and no doctors too,
If I'd broken both my legs, where would I run to?
If there's no medication, if there were no nurses,
Wouldn't people die a lot? And who would drive the hearses?

And what if I told you to Fxxk Off?

If there were no butchers shops, what would people eat?
You'd have everybody starving if they didn't get their meat.
If there was no water, what would people drink?
Who'd flush away the you-know-what? But of course MINE never stink.
What about the children? Who'd teach them in the schools?
Who'd make the beggers keep in line? Learn them all the rules?
Who's tell us whitewash windows? When to take down doors?
Tell us make a flask of tea and survive the holocaust?

The rock and roll swindler says it's O.K. to plunder,
So the pirates set sail to rape any ethnic culture they can plug a mike to.
The imperialists rub their hands in glee
As the slave-boy hunts out butt-ends in the garbage cans.
Is it any wonder there was such sickening celebration over the Task Force
When so called radicals work hand in hand with the ruling elite?
Yesterday those wily creeps rejected the status quo,
Today they smarm and charm passageways to its very heart.
Where's the free individual in all that?
Where's the hope and aspiration?
Identities have become corporations,
Social egos and media moulds,
Scholars of ad-man's dreams. Prescribed futures;
Must we all down aspirins and shine beneath borrowed tans?
Are we really so dumb, so cowered into submission
That not only are we prepared to eat shit
We're also prepared to say thanks for the privilege?
Why should we accept servility as a bargain for dignity?
Why should we passively accept death as a bargain for living?
Why accept this robbery of life? Why accept this pillage?
For Christ's sake take up your bed and walk.
Let the blind see end the deaf hear.
The rights of the individual are dependent upon
You realising your right as an individual.
People are so easily deluded into thinking they've instrumented choice
Where in reality they're nothing but passive observers.
Passive observers do nothing but passively observe,
Passively soak up creativity and say "Wow, that's me!",
Passively soak up destruction and say "Oh no, not us, not me".
There are those who strive for value and meaning;
Who search for reason and purpose;
Their efforts are negated by the passive observers.

They spend days before the T.V. set so burned out,
Is it any wonder they've lost all sense of vision and possibility?
What chance does anyone have when all the spaces are filled?
Sipping breakfast teas to the sound of Space Invaders.

Television is today's Nuremberg.
Bowing to its authority, they become it.
I've seen four year old children conforming to media roles.
Main-lining the gross theatre that will become their lives.
The television has so dampened people's anger.
The population is mesmerised by the flickering screen
And the streets, where the politics of reality were once created,
Are deserted at night and the rulers sleep secure.
They are under no threat as long as the people are sedated.
Those who suffer head-aches from excessive intake of electrons are prescribed valium,
Or pay for a fix at the pub where men have to piss up the wall
And the stench of urine lasts well into the next pint.

Entertainment is designed to gloss over real problems
And very often those who profess dissent only add to the deception.
Words are banded about, but always at the whim of the puppeteer.
Actionless sloganeering is just another Punch and Judy show.

Any information that we receive concerning the real world is carefully controlled,
Why else would fiction have such licence?
We are allowed to see endless theatrical deaths,
But when the real deaths started on the Falklands
Government censors prevented us from seeing them.
We were given the excuse of 'National Security'
By the lying shits who were interested only in saving their political skins.
It didn't matter a fuck to them how many died
As long as their popularity ratings didn't suffer,
For that reason alone we were shielded from the truth.
While the real violence is kept from us
We are exposed to constant pantomimes of death and destruction.
Those in power are rightly aware that if we had access to the real facts
We would cease to be simply passive observers.
Media coverage of Viet Nam created massive dissent in the U.S.A.
Thatcher's government was aware of that when, embarking on the Falkland charade,
They refused press cards to anyone who they knew would not support their line.
Those who did travel to the Falklands found their reports dramatically cut down.
Meanwhile, at home, we were fed fabrications of Britain's 'glorious war'.
The truth that is now filtering out paints a very different picture.

It's often been said that truth is the first casualty of war,
It is, but the same could be said of life.
From birth we are threatened and beaten into submission
By family, church, school and state.
From then on we're easy game for the powermongers.
Like pathetic circus dogs we hunt out praise
Or, when our true nature finds its way to the surface
We hide in the darkness, our tails between our legs.
At all costs we are prevented from realising our own potential.
We are conditioned into being passive observers.
If the ring-master offers war,
We have been conditioned to passively accept it.
War can only exist through passive acceptance.
It is nothing but a demonstration of the weakness of human will.

If the clown offered peace
We will have been conditioned to accept that too,
But peace can not and will not be maintained through passive acceptance.
Peace will require constant demonstrations of personal strength,
Constant effort, constant hard work,
Reappraisal, consideration and devotion.
Which of those qualities were you taught in schoolroom?
Whereas war simply requires the masses as cannon-fodder,
Peace requires individuals to realise their own potential,
The odds are hopelessly against because the State deliberately destroys human will.

Passive observers offer nothing but decay.
The flowerbeds need weeding, the roses need cutting back before winter.
Freed from sedation, released from bondage,
People would demonstrate their own strength,
But the powerful elite are aware of this
And already have tabs on those who they regard as subversives.
It is easy for them to single out and intimidated us
And easier still for us simply not to bother.

It is impossible to gauge the effect that demands for peace may be having,
The authorities are skilled at concealing dissatisfaction.
For so long people have been saying "No more war",
But for all those demands little has changed.
Seeing that the Peace Movement was growing in strength,
Thatcher appointed Heseltine as Minister of Defence.
One specific part of his job is to discredit CND,
Such is the nature of Conservative democraty.

As pacifist we are too easily forced back into tokenism,
Making hollow gestures against the wheels of the juggernaut.
The line is delicate.
The spaces have always been created by the gentle and caring,
To be later filled by bullies and egotists.
We can try to fill those spaces with the strength of our love.
Gandhi called it Ahimsa. The Greenham Wowan call it the 'Politics of Whimsy',
But it doesn't end there, neither is it enough.
Gandhi played a major role in liberating India from Britain rule,
But conditions in India are still appaling for the ordinary people.
Limiting Greenham Peace Camp to women only is a sensible political ploy,
But if it is a demonstration of sexual exclusivity it is a sham.
Aren't we seeking to destroy all forms of exclusivity?
Does our own oppression give us the right to oppress others?
Unless we are prepared to oppose all oppression,
We stand guilty of direct contribution to it.

The neo-fascist plunder our land
And we must resist them on every level.
As outsiders we have few right with which to oppose them,
But on our own, together, we seek them.
They have their law and those who impose it.
We only have ourselves and each other.
They have their order and those who impose it.
We only have ourselves and each other.
It is easy to dismiss those who seek peace as dreamers,
But isn't our whole culture built on past dreams?
It is essential that our dreams become a reality
Or there will cease to be one.

Harrods boast that it can supply any whim that its wealthy clients might express,
Well let them supply me an Exocet missile and a starving Third World child
And I'll tell them the politics of choice.
Equality doesn't enter into the ghettos of wealth.
Beneath the protective sheath of Thatcher's economy
The right, rich and privileged get even richer
And they, in turn, support her barbaric policies both at home and overseas.
The Falklands war cost Britain over sixteen thousand million pounds - in whose pocket?

Throughout the world millions of people are employed making armaments,
Don't they realise that it's ordinary people like themselves who'll suffer the effects of their filthy labour?

The wealthy obscene with their obscene wealth
Applaud the carnage from their grandstand.
It's as if they were at Ascot laying their bets;
Five to one on the Four Horsemen.
They believe that money can buy them out of the responsibility
That they have for the world that they bleed dry.
They are the true pornographers
The real stylists in human perversion.
Rich educated tarts sit dumbly by
Watching their fortunes rise and fall
In the neatly pressed pin-striped trousers of the City.
Debutante whores in rich men's castles.

The ruling elite with their puppet figurehead
Queen Elizabeth the Second, Regina Virgina,
Strut about on the million of bodies
That they have sacrificed to gain their position.
Who are these leaders but those who have made violence pay?
Who are they but the inheritors of their ancestors greed and theft?
Their blood stained flags are rags to our future,
Tattered remnant of our individual rights.
These rulers are common murderers and thieves,
But still we bow before them.
For how long will the masses be so pathetically manipulated by God, Queen and Country?

For fucks sake where are we in all this?
We're given life yet we court death.
For Christ's sake how long? How long, oh Lord, how long?
Still we lay prostrate before a stylised figure on a crucifix.
As if the stone fool might be resurrected.
We are expected to bargain our lives for his
And join him in the ugliness of perpetual Christian guilt.
He hangs there as a remainder of our own subjugation.
Let it be known that he alone is Christ,
Those who dare emulate him shall suffer thus.
Each settlement is spiked with that stupid image,
Each conscience nailed to that diet of corruption.

Military acts are bathed in those gory tales.
Tired Marines, edgy to fuck and sleep, are blessed in his name.
Pious virgins in desire kneel in worship before the myth.
In anticipation of their own death, they await his coming.
Sweet Jesus have mercy on me.
Sweet Jesus, they share his agony.
Sweet Jesus, they share his misery.
Fuck his loaded deity.

Over half the world's population is starving,
Crucified by the greed of landowners,
Helpless against the imbalance of priorities
Practiced by the major powers who, if they wanted to, could help.
Every minute of the day millions upon million of pounds
Are spent on the machinery of war.
If only a half of that was spent on the machinery of peace,
There would be no more starvation on this planet.
Yet governments pay no heed to the cries of suffering,
They perhaps make token gestures to appease their consciences,
But no real improvements are made
Because to ensure control the superpowers need to maintain the imbalance.
Natives are slaughtered in their homelands

By governments seeking out new possessions.
Most of the wealth of the so called developed nations
Has been gained at the expense of the Third World
From whom natural resources, both mineral and human,
Have been unscrupulously exploited.
Peoples' pride and dignity is burnt in Napalm
And hand-held flame-throwers.
The poor and underprivileged are raped and tormented
By leaders who use their power not to assist, but to oppress.
At the wave of a gloved hand
These people can, and do,
Send young men to their death,
But not before others too have fallen from their bayonets and guns.
Such armies are invariably called 'peace keeping forces'.
The hypocrisy is as appalling as it is obvious.
The wealthy, educated, privileged and secure
Make the lives of those less fortunate a complete misery.
Million upon millions of people are dying from malnutrition
Because, to stabilise their economies, governments destroy food rather than giving it to the needy.

"Let them eat cake" said Marie Antoinette
As she wiped the calf's blood from her lips.

"Proud to be British" said Margaret Thatcher
As she wiped the Falkland's blood from her hands.

The ruling elite have no concept of what it is to suffer want,
Yet it is they who are directly responsible.
In a world where there are people who can't afford a crust of bread,
These arrogant scabs drive around in Bentleys and Rolls Royces.
Perhaps it amuses them to rub shit into the faces of the poor,
But there'll come a time when such overt displays of wealth
Will not be tolerated by the people in the street.
In a sane society wealth and possession would not be an asset.

A few years ago a politician was on the radio
Saying that no one in the UK suffered from want.
Next day I saw an old man pleading for a handful of coal;
His wife was dying of cold and he was penniless.
Maybe in the morning, as the politician sipped breakfast tea,
She lay cold and dead before the empty grate.
Every year thousand of people die of hypothermia,
Too hungry, too cold, too poor to stay alive.

At times of national crisis it's always the poor who suffer.
"Back Britain" we're told
As the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
At times of international crisis it's the same story.
"Back Britain" we're told
As the rich get richer and the poor get killed.
In the event of a nuclear crisis,
The rich will retreat to private bunkers with their wealth and possessions.

The injustice of inequality is sanctioned by the church.
With its tradition of finance from the gentry
The church has always been obliged
To ensure that its flock remains servile.
"Repent ye sinners or be devoured in the flames of hell."
Those very same flames that devoured their enemies in countless religious wars.

So often the church has marched hand in hand with the military
Casting its blessings upon the writhing bodies of the battlefield.
Each stab of bayonet is God's word.
Each crash of steel is God's word.
Each torn limb and splash of blood is God's word.
For he so loved the world he gave our only begotten sons.
Each sodden grave and sodding death is God's word.
For he so loved the world he gave our only begotten sons.
For he so loved the world he gave our only begotten sons.

In Christian societies executions are attended by representatives of the church.
Goggle-eyed before the gallows, the electric chair and the gas-chamber
They administer their Christ's blessing.
In America poison is injected into the blood-stream.
Another Christ dies, jacked up by the state.
Another glorious advance for civilisation.
One small step for man.
One giant step for mankind.
For he so loved the world.
He gave us his only begotten son
And likewise we are expected so to do.
For he so loved the world.

Violent, vicious hypocrisy.
How is anyone supposed to deal with these contradictions,
Confusions and lies? They defy reason.
Oh yes, you can inwardly laugh at the absurdity,
Satirise the obscenity, but the hysteria soon wears thin
And the tears wear a colder complexion.
Humour can offer diversion,
But it dilutes real anger
And nothing gets confronted.
We are ruled by dangerous mad-people,
What's funny about that for fucks sake?
The world is daily threatened with annihilation,
Is that really something to be trivialased?
The world is under constant threat.
Against this background of fear
We struggle to create our own authority.
While being bludgeoned into conformity
We struggle to find our inner selves.
Of course I feel uncomfortable when I'm laughed at in the streets,
But I don't want to be one of them.
I want to be an outsider,
At the same time I'd like to come in out of the cold.

Urgency overrules personal fears.
Against the scenario of total destruction
We demand a sanity that might save the world.
That alone excludes us from the mainstream of thought.
History offers no solutions,
Quotes from Mao or Stalin, Hitler or Marx
Simply confirms the oppression.
I'm tired of political experts,
Tired of 'if onlys'.
They have always been the same people,
Grey visionless robots
Who would have us all share their death.
History is simply a justification for oppression,
Written by those who practice it.
It is being constantly changed and rewritten
To conform to the requirements of the ruling elite.
A tempest of convenience that blasts across the blistered bodies of the dead.
We receive at best only filtered truths.
Most of what we see and hear is lies.

The Falklands War was rewritten as it happened.
It was not a glorious victory for the British spirit,
Nor an heroic defeat of a fascist dictator.
It was a callous and savage piece of electioneering
Designed to cover up horrific domestic problems.
At a time when a peaceful settlement was a possibility,
Thatcher personally ordered the sinking of the General Belgrado
Killing over three hundred men
And horribly mutilating many more.
She did this because her political neck required bloodshed
To prove her wisdom in releasing the Task Force.
The history books will not document her as a cold-blooded murderer.

I'm tired of the dull rationalisation of the politicians.
Weighed down with their sums and inadequacies
I feel only anger and bellied hatred for them.
How can anyone become so distorted?
How can anyone be so far from real human values?
I feel only disgust for their twisted minds.
How can peace be achieved through threats of violence?
What kind of hope is there in that strait-jacket?

The authority of those who oppress us
Is supported, maintained and defended
By those who are themselves the most oppressed;
Those who, because they have no alternative, are in service to the rulers.

How can I feel anger towards the squaddy?
Weighed down with his guns and inadequacies
I can feel only pity and bellied compassion.
How can anyone be so distorted?
How can anyone be so far from real human values?
I can only feel pity for his twisted mind.
How can freedom be achieved if the poor fight to uphold
The privileges of those who directly oppress them?

We look through one eye hoping the other won't see,
That way we only need deal with a half of it.
Like bloody ostriches, oblivious,
Not because we are, but because we choose to be.
Most people see through the lies
But are too afraid to admit it.
It's so much easier to be the passive observer.
How much longer can people afford to just sit by like this?
All the indications are there.
Massive unemployment,
Recession, depression.
But who's looking? Who cares?
Tamely the population is being led down the road to total bondage.
Government is daily strengthening its powers.
Those who stand against it are ridiculed,
Discredited or abused and punished.
Those in power are totally cynical.
Rather than analysing the seriousness of the problem
They simply strengthen the army and police to combat it
They are ready for the inevitable response.
It happened in Brixton, Toxteth and Moss Side.
It happens daily in Northern Ireland.
Under Thatcher's regime there has been massive increases in police brutality.
In London police shot down a man
Only to find it was the wrong person.
We regret to inform you. Regret to inform you.
Regret to inform you. We regret to inform you
That today another Christ was shot in the back of the head.
We regret to inform you. Regret to inform you,
That another Christ, not yet ten years old, was shot today,
By agents of Her Majesty's Government, with a plastic bullet.
They say that plastic bullets were designed not to kill,
They do.

I say that human beings were not designed to kill, not us, not me;
We do.
We regret to inform you.

1984 is a book about the positive danger of totalitarianism,
Under Thatcher's unfeeling guidance the scenario is one year early.
With the cold mechanism of the pin ball arcade
We're flicked around as numbers by the hidden computers.
Software in the hardware. Documented and filed.
We have no access to the information that they have stored on us.
Ticker-tape alter egos, print-out portraits.
We are becoming another.
As individuals within that mechanical system we are arbitrary,
Wanted only for what can be taken from us.
Our future is of no concern to the mega-corporations
Who determine the nature of our economic well-being.
Thatcher's policies require massive unemployment
Which makes her order to 'support our boys' nothing but a fucking insult.
When they were eight thousand miles away dying for her arrogance
She fabricated what was a complete mockery of compassion.
When they're at home, jobless on the streets,
She doesn't give a fuck for them.
Self determination and self enterprise are her big lines,
But just how much of that does she offer to others
In her contemptible use of people?
She was prepared to risk world peace
Saying that it was for the self determination of the Falklanders,
Those very same people who over a year ago
She was prepared to abandon without a thought.
And now, for all her empty talk,
They are forced to live in a fortress waiting for further hostilities.
Thatcher has recently sanctioned a loan of one hundred million pounds to Argentina
Claiming that it was to stabilise world economy.
The purchase of further Exocets and the development of nuclear potential
Should do much for world economy, but very little for world security.
Just what the fuck was all that bloodshed for?

Thatcher has signed away British self-determination in one single stroke.
She has agreed to install deadly cruise missiles on British soil
Over which the Americans have total control.
The American military presence is designed solely
To limit nuclear war with Russia to the 'European Theatre'.
Meanwhile we are sold the wicked lie of protection and deterrence.
American war planners have repeatedly stated that they intend
To fight the Third World War on European soil;
Cruise missiles greatly increase the danger of that happening.
Designed to avoid radar detection by skimming the earth's surface,
Cruise missiles are seen as the ideal 'first strike weapon',
They also guarantee a massive response that would make Britain into a nuclear desert.
Military naivety is astounding. The experts seriously believe
That they will be able to limit war to the 'theatre'.
In this particular show the world will be the stage,
There'll be no encore.

Thatcher and her cronies talk of 'limited tactical response'
And 'executive action' causing 'collateral damage'.
These terms are borrowed from their American counterparts
And are designed to mask the ugly reality that they describe.
In everyday language 'collateral damage' simply means civilian deaths.
In the event of nuclear attack on Britain that would amount to thirty-eight million people.
Is it any wonder that these crazy psychotics
Invent jargon to assist them in their studied madness?
Every year hundreds of innocent people still die horrific deaths
As a result of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
It is probably that an all out nuclear war
Would destroy all life on planet Earth.

We are not talking fantasy,
Nor preaching doom.
We are talking of an existing reality;
The one that we allow to exist around us.

Defence Secretary Heseltine disputes the kind of information that we offer
Claiming that it has 'no basis in fact'.
There are no words to describe the utter contempt
That we feel for people of his kind.
They sit in their seats of power
Distorting and perverting all human decency.
How can they dare be so blatant?
How can they dare be so hypocritical?
Who is this Heseltine with his corrupt lies?
Who is this Thatcher with her arrogant deceit?
These hideous mutants cast their shadows
Across all that is worthwhile and good.

Cruise missile will be installed because Thatcher has created some kind of deal with Reagan.
We will probably never know the details of that arrangement.
It will almost certainly involve some kind of economic juggling act,
The massive corporations turning political thumbscrews
On U.S. investment in Britain.
Russian tanks in Afghanistan are nothing
Compared with the bargaining power of American capital in the UK.
Whatever the nature of that deal is,
It has made Britain into America's front line,
The fifty-third State, with no rights of citizenship.
To many people that might not matter,
Fed from birth on American propaganda and Hollywood trash,
The resistance levels are low.
As long as we passively accept American domination
We can except no real advance.
We are being sold down the line.

To many people the missiles and warheads might not matter.
To many people nuclear reality is too huge to contemplate,
Yet for all people the reality looms constantly in nightmares.
In the nuclear state we are expected to accept those nightmares.
Is this really all that we can hope for as life?
Is this really all that we can hope for as death?
Maybe our lives don't matter that much,
But why impose our madness on future generations?
Or is it perhaps that you no longer believe that there will be future generations?
In your passive acceptance of it
You have already allowed the holocaust to happen.
The future is ended.

We are not talking fantasy,
Nor preaching doom.
We are talking of an existing reality,
The one that we allow to exist around us.

The nuclear hardware produces in the last three decades
Will pollute the Earth for thousands of years.
A nuclear war will destroy it.
Is that why the cherry trees blossom?
You are destroying and corrupting.
In condemning them to the nuclear nightmare
Are you willing to accept the burning of tomorrow's unborn?
They know nothing of this sorrow.

Suffer little children to come unto me.
Suffer little children to come unto me.
Suffer little children to come unto me.
Suffer little children to come unto me.

In your refusal to act against these hideous dangers
You are guilty of being the gutless passive observer.
Are you so inhuman that you will let this happen?
Just a helpless bystander waving your flag in mute acceptance?
Take up your eyes and see.
Take up your ears and hear.
Take up your mind and think.
Take up your life and act.

It is up to us all as responsible citizens of Earth
To work towards the downfall of the powerful elite.
Their rule has created dreadful suffering.
Their insanity precludes all reason and compassion,
They lie, trick and manipulate.
They are the maggots in the flesh of decency,
The vultures that pick at the bones of hope,
The carriers of famine, war, pestilence, and death.

They must be stopped.
Why should people die for their insanity?
Why should people starve for their insanity?
Why should people suffer the spitefulness of their greed?
We must not be intimidated by the authority that they appear to have.
We must be prepared to oppose them on every level,
To fight back in the knowledge that if we don't
We will have failed in our responsibility to life itself.
It has happened before
That the powerless have risen against the oppressor
Only to be beaten back.
But there have been cases where they have succeeded.
Ours is a just cause,
It is up to each one of us, alone, to do our best.
We must learn to overcome our fears.
We must realise that the strength that they have
Is the strength that we give them.
It is you, the passive observer who has given them this power.
You are being used and abused
And will be discarded as soon as they've bled what they want from you. You must learn to live with your own conscience,
your own morality,
your own decision,

your own self.
You alone can do it.
There is no authority but yourself.

One squaddy, horrifically burnt in the Falklands War,
Was approached by Prince Charles during a presentation.
"Get well soon" said the Prince, to witch the squaddy replied,
"Yes Sir, I will".

2005/8/28 - 12:31


December 7th. 1977. 5.30pm.
The old man weeps. Crusty eyes. His nose is snot-running. His child writhes on the pavement. The rubber bullet has glanced off the child's eye. The right eye. Cobwebs of blood form on the white of eye.
"Right lads, wait until you see the white of eye. Wait lads, wait."
The cobwebs pass into the iris. The cobwebs pass into the pupil. The cobweb pass into the retina. A darkness. Half the brain is cast in darkness. Dusk. Half darkness. The soldiers chuckle on the cold street corners. The wind moves stealthily through the streets. It has no motive. The guns are still warm, stealthily through the streets, slung on exaggerated shoulders.
The child paws helplessly at the blinded eye. Searches light. Nothing but the cold stain of dusk. Pre-birth twice.

Her Majesty's Forces. God save the Queen.

The child falls towards the gutter. Heaves half-digested comfort across the street. Egg, bacon, toast, hamburger, relish, potato chips, boiled sweets. Now simple slithers of primary colour held in the saliva.
The soldiers chuckles on the street corner.

I sit, silenced. London 25 miles. Belfast 350 miles (Approx). I have no positive uniform. I wear black. My preference. Black is the colour of death. I am always naked for my clothing exists in the shadows. I wear silver wings on my breast-pocket. The wings are flight.
London 25 miles. Belfast 350 miles. Paris 350 miles. New York 3000 miles (Approx). The wings are flight. Silver wings on black surfaces. Black is an aspect of death. In the graveyard there are rows of granite blocks. Hard granite. A stone. The lead caskets remain as testimony. Beer cans in the ether. The bodies are long since rotted. Each my father, my mother, my son, my daughter. Each an aspect of self. Each a reflection of my own existence here. They die so silent. The granite. (Did they perceive the nature of their ways? Did they live this moment?)

The chalk squeaks across the slate.
"This, child, is the nature of your ways. This, child, is your life here."
"Yes sir. Yes sir."
I rush the words, afraid of being identified as a liar. (Take this, child, take it. Take it. It is all that they can offer you).

The rubber bullet has glanced off the child's eye. It ricochets across the damp street and falls, bounding, at the feet of the bored cat. The animal licks small patches of human blood. Lean beast abandoned in this moment of grief. The child. The old man. The mother, her perfume, a cheap supermarket toilet-water that clings mothily to the cat's fur. She too cries. The old man holds her. The old man holds her again. The old man holds her again, his snot runs across her bare shoulder.
"He not died" he mutters, "he not died. Blinded only."
She looks across the barren room. The wall covering is orange/gold/brown. The monocolour television promotes tinned meat pie.

The family, a tight unit of four, are seated at a well laid table. The meat pie steaming in it's container, is the center piece of this tableau. A bunch of plastic chrysanthemums, ethereal in rich steam, lends a majesty to the occasion. The family smiles it's sterile satisfaction at this packaged delight.

Her Majesty's Forces. The Virgin Mary. God save the Queen.

The old man's piss warms her leg. It runs in spurts through the cotton of her dress. She can not distinguish the piss from the tears.
"He not died. He not died."

I move my head from the blankness of self to the blankness of window. It is night. All days it is night. Silent forms move as shadows in the darkness. Beads of sperm cling, as yet undried, to my clothing. I kindle the delight of my body.
Carefully, I withdraw my penis from the meat pie, the jagged tin edges threaten my pleasure. The uncooked pastry cakes my hairs. The meat lays in tempered lines upon the erect flesh.
I drop the devastated meal by my side. I leave it there for the animals. I can not accept the histories, the oppressions.

The child is blinded alongside the slaughtered cattle, alongside the yard. The endless yards.
She screams at the sight of placenta.
Her cotton dress drops in white folds beneath her, a damp balloon, drawn beneath her. The old man pushes her against the cold glass of the television. Between her legs an army recruitment programme shines from the screen.
"It's a man's life."

I recoil from the histories, the oppressions. I wear black. Black is the robe of death. My blood is red (as yet unspilled). The banner. An ancient flag that seeks an ancient freedom.
In my anarchy I choose no-one's boots, I seek only the determination of my own will. These paths that carry body from machine are the routeways of the assassin's bullet, I follow them not. They are nothing but the beating of manly chests, the blandness of history's cheap deaths. Silence on the walk to a communal graveyard. Unremembered.

"This, child, is the nature of your ways."
Quickly now, quickly.
"Yes sir. Yes sir."

I too could quote you voices from history, but they are the voices of the dead.
Marx. Christ. Freud. (Swirling rhetoric from the tomb).
I seek my own explanations, exhilarated by my own presence upon this living earth. I live beneath and beyond these surfaces of death. I want nothing of that blackness. It is your externality that I wear.

The child groans in the acid stench of the sickness. The tanks shake the tarmac of his pillow. His head jerks in sympathy to their motion. The blinded eye does not register the closeness of the caterpillar-track and the hand.
One by one the cold bars of thetrack mash the child's hand into an unrecognisable mass of broken flesh, muscle and bone.
Slaughtered by the cattle, by the yard. The endless yards.

Is this a heresy?

The old man stands confused by his impotence. It worked before. The cerebral fusion of broken child/distraught mother/birth/death had worked before, has stimulated some part of his lost sexuality. But now it stand quite desolate.
The cathode-ray injects coded messages deep into his brain. (Fuck. Rape. Buy. Steal. Own. Possess. Capture. Destroy. Seduce. Overpower. Demand. Envy. Hate.)
The lascivious nature of the male ethos from which he is excluded by age. The messages only confuse.
She reaches the on/off switch of the television. It fades as a procession of drum-majorettes turns the corner of Wall Street in celebration of profit. Her hand slides nervously across her thigh, she feels the moistened surface of her own flesh, skiddy in the old man's piss.
The tanks are parallel with her window, their massive shapes blank out the minute amount of light that might otherwise filter in from the street. The room is quite darkened. The television is a fading dot. The blankness of the window becomes the whole room. They stand, a tableau of fear, as the soldiers leap from their metal machines. They beat at the door with their gun-butts.

I add that autumn is over, the moisture created by my presence in this room runs, condensed, on the cold glass of the window. I have not drawn the curtains, nor fastened the blinds. Silent forms move as shadow in the darkness. I do not want to choose action. Silenced, I can generally withstand the pain.

I step off the plane. Flight GK020. New York/London. (Passengers shall comply with government travel requirements and present exit, entry and other required documents).
It is 10.30am. London time. December 7th. 1977. Yellow mist. 3000 miles. 6½ hours. The layers are the inherited roles. The layers are the years of insidious erosion. Social erosion that has enabled the few to rule the many, has taught the proud to accept humiliation, has taught each master to be the servant. Privilege stands unquestioned in this social abattoir. Natural rulers. A nation crawls on it's knees in homage to this history. Faded flags hang like corpses in the streets, testimony to the acceptance of oppression. Inherited privilege, inherited servility, each accepting it as a reality. There is no question. They stand in jubilation before the palace to celebrate their slavery. The arm of the parent, first wavering move away from catatonia. They wind in single-file to the panelled school-room. Each child the replica of a false dream, an imprint of the manner in which it will be needed to serve. There is one apparency, servility.

"Is that right, child?"
"How can I question you Sir? You give me not the vocabulary."

Servility to God, Queen and Country, all demand death as final proof. These boys choked on the mud of war for that trinity. The old suffer exclusion as their death. All in an ignorance, each in turn, taken to the slaughter. The point of birth perverted to the process of dying, nothing created but replica, no new mind fostered where the flesh is cannon-fodder. Perverted, they teach the hatred of the flesh and the reverence of mind. The mind is a condition, the flesh is a fact. They can not face the facts. Systems need support to exist, they destroy potential to create stability. The mind becomes fiction, alienated from the body in it's desire to serve. Society is a psychosis. The mind is a social deliberation created to suit the needs of a pyramid of privilege. The body remains the fact of that structure.
How then can I move?
Marx. Christ. Freud. They are amongst the prophets of this death because they demand acceptance. (Suffer not little children). The untold arrogance of sterility.

The guns-butts break the door in sharp splinters, a crown of thorns in this sorry home. The crucifixion is inevitable. The father and the son. Agony in the cowebbed eye, the decimated hand. Now this old man.
Is that a devastation?
The old man recoils from the beating fists. They jab his frail stomach. Insistent. Harder now. Enough?
Harder still. Adrenalin soaked crap slided through the old man's underclothes, onto the floor, beneath the shiny boots, beneath the gaiters, beneath the combat uniforms, beneath the oppression, beneath the centuries of this Union Jack, is this MY HOME.

Flight GK020. New York/London. (Passengers shall comply with government travel requirements and present exit, entry and other required documents).

These squaddy-boys fuck, rape, buy, steal, possess, capture, destroy, seduce, overpower, demand, envy and hate, legitimised by God, Queen and Country to use the ethos to maintain the ethos that maintain God, Queen and Country. All sewn up in the prison cells and psychiatric wards of MY HOME.

Is this hand of hand of Imperialism?

The old man is not yet dead, but he is ended. The child is not yet started, but he is already ded. These system? What is their demand? What is their cost?

The young squaddy bends her tortured body across the television cabinet. He breathes in wafts of perfume, a cheap supermarket toilet-water. The traditions of victory are his.
She feels the squirt of warm semen against the walls of her vagina, feels his withdraw.
She will never know the father of her second child.

December 7th. 1977. 5.40pm.
I sit, silenced. Forms move as shadow in the darkness. A cat licks translucent liquids from the jagged opening in the meat pie container. I adjust the silver wings on my black clothing. The wings are flight. I am not yet free, but I am not dead. I am started, but see no end.
These systems? What is their demand? What is their cost?
I do not want to choose action. Silenced, I can generally withstand the pain. The shadow in the darkness is my own consciousness, slowly it takes form, slowly exposes itself to the light, slowly demands my commitment. I can less and less withstand the pain.

14th. Dec. 1977.

2005/8/28 - 12:37

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