“London 2038 – The London, The P.M., & The P.A. Episode 2” (A story – Work in. Prog)

(episode 2 – to read episode 1 click here https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/06/12/london-2038-the-london-the-mayor-the-p-a-a-story-work-in-prog/

To say that Harrison Arnold Twotimer had a lot of personal problems was like saying that the universe had ‘quite a lot’ of stars. Harrison was the oldest of three siblings, & as such had followed the tradition of so many firstborns who are overly motivated to plunge themselves into leadership roles. Harrison’s first power grab was at Eton where his diplomat absentee father had managed to arrange him to attend a full year earlier than usual at age 12. Harrison knew what his father was up too – & like the millions of other aging ex ‘boarding school syndrome sufferers’ – he never quite forgave his parents, & his father in particular, for abandoning him so easily & swiftly like that.

Harrison had shown his true political & social climbing asperations colors early in life. This would naturally be noticed firstly in his schooldays. At Eton Harrison had put his name forward on the first day of school to be the ‘Class PM’ against a far more talented boy named Paul Pritch-Simmons III, who would later become a billionaire computer-chip making industrialist. The election was held after each boy made a spirited ten-minute stump speech to his fellow Etonians.

Where Paul had talked of the need for England to be more forthright as a nation again, & return to its manufacturing base, Harrison had argued that the price of sweets had trebled in the last three years, that & this was a travesty. Where Paul had astutely said that ‘under-unemployment in the Etonian region was a ‘festering problem which may result in less professionals in a decade’s time’, Harrison had said incorrectly that ‘Eton must do more to reverse the decline in mathematics scores – when grades had indeed improved significantly due to the targeted hiring more seasoned international STEM (Science, Tech, Engineering, Mathematics) subject teachers. Where Master Pritch-Simmons III had mentioned the need to look after the handful of homeless people who had been seen wandering around the outskirts of Eton, Harrison had retorted furiously “why should we spend our hard-earned fathers’ dollars on those stinky lazy sods”. Harrison was so unpopular with his classmates that the last minute of his speech had to be scuttled due to the boys throwing their pencils at Harrison, while they bellowed repeatedly “Out with Harrison up with Pritch-Simons”.

On the face of it from the view of his voter classmates, Harrison was in this election as they say ‘Toast’. Given Harrison’s poor rambling & speech, full of flagrant inaccuracies relative to his more polished opponent in Master Pritch-Simmons III, that’s what they would expect – but then they didn’t know of the ‘Yellowpoke situation’ yet.

The old maxim of ‘it doesn’t matter who casts the votes – all that matters is who counts them’ later became one that the future adult Harrisons mentioned in passing, & for good reason. This ‘first ever political election’ deserved to be Harrisons first ignoble defeat to a far more able adversary – but this was where Harrison’s at worst abhorrent sneakiness, or at best his Machiavellian guile came in.

Harrison as PM nowadays, uses ‘The bribe’ liberally wherever he goes & can easily get away with it. He learnt the value of a ‘well placed bribe’ from that from that first election as a sticky fingered grimacing fat little schoolboy.

Before he had came to school that first election day, he had been wise enough to steal a fifty pound note from a tin his mother had put all her countless “loose cash”. Had had the presence of mind in the prior week to his first day at school to call the Etonian secretary & asked “who would be counting the “Class PM” votes next week miss, as I plan to put my hat into the ring”. He had found out duly that it would be the schoolteacher that would collate, count & return the verdict. Armed with this information as soon as Harrison had entered his classroom with all his fellow classmates, he had made a bee line for the teacher – Mr Yellowpoke. his conversation went like this

“Ah Mr Yellowpoke – Harrison Arnold Twotimer here”. He thrust out his half sticky lolly-fingers to shake Mr Yellowpoke’s hand. With Harrison being particular short foe his age & Mr Yellowpoke a towering six-foot four, he had to practically hold his hand-shake hand vertical – it looked quite ridiculous. My Yellowpoke played along & agreed to shake his hand, & did so firmly, but also partly haltingly.

“I’m Mr Yellowpoke, nice to meet you lad – I believe your father Edward is a diplomat currently in Brussels?”

Harrison replied without pause.

“Yes father is currently in Brussels, I believe right now he is actually fittingly trying to increase our exports of Brussel sprouts to the EU!”

Mr Yellowpoke laughed, well it was more of a chortle. Harrison had many flaws as a child, & even more as an adult – but not having a sense of humor was not one of them. He continued his plan with Mr Yellopoke.

“Now Mr Yellowpoke, I won’t hold you up – I just wanted to say that I’m glad to be here in your classroom, & at Eton – & I advise I will be putting my name forward for Class PM”. He said all this with a natural sense confidence, this was his other main feather in his cap – unwarranted, unshakable, confidence. Mr Yellowpoke re-plied dryly, as his patience was now wearing thin.

“Oh well that will happen this afternoon – I’ll write you name down then – you’ll need to make a speech at the end of the day to your classmates – good luck & now you better take a seat with the rest of the class – we have a lot to go over this morning”.

“Oh yes of course thankyou Mr Yellowpoke, but there’s one more thing” Harrison sounding like a teacher himself.

“Oh yes – what’s that Twotimer?”

“Well my father just wanted to pass on this $50 dollar note – he said to me that the teachers & their partners were known to have a ‘first week party’ & he wanted to shout you & your wife a drink”. Harrison had the 50 pound note folded in a small square in his hand – which he proffered up to Mr Yellowpoke under the guise of a “goodbye handshake” – something he’d seen done on old American films & was copying. Mr Yellowpoke suddenly blanched, this made him nervous, which then made him make the unwise decision to accept Harrison’s handshake & the 50 pound bribe. Mr Yellowpoke spoke twice as quickly as usual, wanting the conversation over.

“Good luck this afternoon Harrison – make your speech a good one & I’ll count the votes afterwards – say hello to your father or me”.

“Yes sir Mr Yellowpoke – and thanks a lot” A giant triumphant ear-to-ear child’s grin filled his face – a look he would never grow out of. He still had the exact same ‘child’s big grin look’ decades later, even now as the real PM of England.

Later with both master Harrison’s & Master Paul’s speeches over, Mr Yellowpoke came out from the teachers back room to the class again. With the small wooden ballot box still locked & held firmly between his lowered two hands he slowly announced the fateful words

“The winner of Class PM – by a landslide I might add – is Harrison Arnold Twotimer”

Master Pritch-Simmons III’s looked visibly ill, as did his fellow broadsided & ashen faced classmates. they sat like they’d been turned into stone, not saying a word. Until of course Mr Yellowpoke urged them to clap for Harrison, which they did in miserable fashion, with Master Pritch-Simmons aborting the clap simply maintaining his silent head down vigil.

Becoming “Eton Class PM” was Harrison’s first of many ‘shonky’ political victories to come. He sat beaming like a lighthouse, caring not a jot for the claw claps & muted jeers of the voters. Incidentally this ‘seemingly meaningless’ stolen schoolboys election wouldn’t be the first run in with Pritch-Simmons either. ‘The Billionaire & the PM’ as the tabloids now billed the adversaries as became sworn enemies after that first vote & are still at war as we speak – with the only slightly more honorable Pritch-Simmons’s victories still few & far between.

And I know you want to know – what of Mr Yellowpoke? He left teaching at age 55 when he was outed by a student kissing the 21-year old student teacher Ms Artichoke on the schoolgrounds. Being a very married man, with his wife working at the school office it was best for all concerned. After the divorce his wife initiated, he finally entered a profession he was better suited to – real estate sales. (Now lets get back to the main characters).

Now it goes without saying that Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer – but It’s worth saying it again:

Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer. . .

(End of Episode 2…..be here again soon for Episode 3……)

This article is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ).

If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely.

Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.

Ep 1. Crashlines Incorporated – The story of Yassap I. Y’tae (A Serialised Story)

by Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Hi my name is Cal, short for Calvin. Last name Coolix. Yes my parents gave me a cartoon name – Cal Coolix but it’s been good to me – no one forgets my name. In business & in life that’s a plus. But I’m not here to tell you about me. There’s someone far more interesting than me that’s shown up on my radar.

Yassap I. Y’tae….is a very underrated international businessman…at least I think that’s what he is right now. Not exactly a mystery of a man, not an enigma – but certainly perhaps best described as a riddle-that’s-only-half-written. You have not heard of him yet – no one has.

Mark my works he will change the world. He is not on the internet! He is biding his time, choosing his words carefully, doing his due diligence, crossing his t’s & doting his I’s. Like a cornered Tiger, he is waiting to pounce. Well that’s what I’d tell you if I had to make a pitch about Yassap I. Y’tae right now. You must always sound confidant – even if you have zero intel.

There is slight static on the line. He informs me he will be launching soon. I pressed him what “soon” meant – he chose not to elaborate only saying in his true mysterious fashion: “If I gave you a specific date when the best date possible to launch has not yet materialized, I will only let both of us down – but I will contact you soon, that is my promise”. I said “ok but can I ask…” before I could finish I heard the engaged sound. I felt foolish, as I should have left it at “ok”. It was not my first or last “schoolboy error” & I hung up the phone.

I was overdue for a Cappachino, perhaps that’s the reason I felt a little off my game on that call. “stop beating yourself up Cal, you just need coffee – that’s all it was”. I began my journey to the lobby cafe – short walk through my small rented workspace, I would enter the lift, & go down three floors.

In the lift was Anne, she was also renting some space just like me – but for her own project. We exchanged pleasantries, but no more than that. For these were cold hearted hard business times, & both Anne & I knew it. All anyone cared about right now was business survival.

With so many ventures going to the wall these eighteen months since the crash, just surviving was almost like being a billionaire nowadays. Although my hunch was that Yassap I. Y’tae probably wasn’t in the same boat as me & Anne or anyone like us. I didn’t know anything about him other than his energy was all different. In my half century on this Earth, I’d learnt that what that old 20th Century physicist Nikolai Tesla said was right – energy, namely vibrational energy is everything.

The doors opened with a weird low pitch ‘ting’. As I heard my boots step on the hard polished concrete ground floor, all I could think of was getting caffeinated & figuring out who the hell was Yassap I. Y’tae??……..

(End of Episode 1. . . .the next will be coming soon!)

“Toast Your Inner Void” (Prose)

by anton martin smith by antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I have an inner void.

It’s there.

But that’s not the interesting thing.

The interesting thing is this question:

Is the void normal, or is it a pathology.

I used to think it was depression –

But then when older & wiser, I realised this wasn’t so.

Was it the void that all ‘children of divorce’ carry their whole lives?

Perhaps the void is the child of the ‘child of divorces torment’ itself.

Perhaps the void is some generalised genetic trauma.

Of being a bedraggled ‘colonial sendoff’ out of England in the 19th century to New Zealand.

Perhaps it’s a lack of love, now so ubiquitous & long lived –

That I’ve forgotten every mammal – including myself needs it.

Perhaps the void helps me,

Perhaps it’s there to make me think.

Perhaps if I forced myself to not think about the void,

I wouldn’t be writing about it now.

The truth is that the void becomes your colleague –

Because it’s always there, it’s predictable – there’s a maligned but real comfort.

You don’t know what it would even be like to be without the void.

They say the everyman lives a life of quiet desperation.

Yet I’m sure my ‘the void‘ is more special than that.

My void writes poems, while their voids write better CV’s –

It can’t be the same thing as everyone elses void.

Please lord let my void be unique, one of a kind, a gem, a unicorn.

Make my misery mine, I do not want to share.

Some times all a man or woman has is their misery –

Or the delusion that’s it’s becasue of their personalised little grief story.

Maybe to be human you have a built in the void as per factory settings.

To deny our void-truth we try to reprogram ourselves with fancy life-setting.

But no matter how we try, the ‘return to factory setings’ button is always pushed.

Perhaps it is child-like folly to think I, or anyone, can beat the void.

For no one can deny their destiny & be better off for it.

Let us all raise a glass to the mysterious the void – be she a pervasively permanent beast,

Or he a spectre-like figment of our depleted imaginations.

I mean really – given we know nothing at all – what else is there to do?

To the void,

Our hang-around friend, our arch-enemy,

Our source of inspiration & exasperation,

We know you’re not going anywhere soon,

We all think you’ve been given far too bad of a rap lately,

So sit down & have a quiet drink with us won’t you?

I’ll make a table for the four of us –

Me, myself, I & you – the void.

if its anything like the last time,

It’ll be a real knees-up.

Oh..and one more thing…..

My dear the void, if you do decide to come – whatever you do….

….don’t tell anyone.

I have a new domain name for the site! (an update by me)

Hello there all!

Well I finally bit the bullet – I shelled out $42 (NZ) for the basic upgrade to my WordPress site. I had delayed this for too long. I think self-sabotage was at least 50% to blame. I think you really need to watch out for the always pervasive “self-sabotage syndrome”. I think as a Kiwi or an Aussie it is too easy to do this – as we are programmed with that stupid “Tall Poppy Syndrome” – the need to keep your head down at all times, never daring to stick it above the pulpit – for fear of recrimination. So at least I did something to combat ‘the syndrome’ as I will perhaps refer to it as.

I have decided to call the site antonmartinsmith.com, this is a recombination of the former site – with Anton Martin Smith I decided to go with this for my ‘writers name’, just to separate the two worlds I live. 1. aspiring writer & two 2. Day jobber slash hopefully also an entrepreneur (Why do I see an old timey teacher scolding me for daring to dream?). I imagine if this separation between ‘dreamworld’ & ‘real life’ works successfully then next week an interaction like this might happen:

“Hey you there digging that ditch there down in the mud – did I see you write poems on the internet? – Your names Mr X Y isn’t it?”

“No Sir you must be mistaken – my name is Mr Y X – I’ve never written a word in me life! I likes dirt ya see! I come from a long line of dirt diggers & I ain’t changin’ for none!”

“Oh sorry – my mistake – I’ll employ you next week again then My Y X – just as well as I can’t have a dreamer digging’ my ditches! They’ll stay clogged!”

“No worries my fine laird”

This is why writers need ‘pen names’ or as the French word – ‘non de plumes’….it pays to separate your day-to-day life with the weird world of creativity.

So I hope the 50 odd subscribers like the change, I’ve already made the site look a little better. I guess now I need to look at deleting the “bad stuff” from the “good stuff”. I must be a hoarder – for I don’t like the idea of doing that. I’m afraid to let go. Perhaps I could just create a “B-side section” & rename every poem “B-side 045”, “B-side 046” etc etc. I’m sure this talk is from childhood trauma.

I’m sure that’s why we are all here (on WordPress sites probably) placking away, telling all of our repressed fears & neurosis, out loud but more subtly in the subtext that lies below our words. Otherwise, we’d just be like everyone else at the 9-5 soul destruction labs called ‘office jobs’.

So anyway, I won’t hang around too much. I’ll just hope you notice that I’ve been writing at a fair clip lately. The stuff I’m most proud of lately is my science-based essay (The one about Jungian Synchronicity) and my proto-Novella called “Trafficlight Dystopia” (have a look they are there in the last twenty odd posts).

Cheers to all, have a great night & week! (perhaps I should do these letters more often).

PS I’m currently reading Journey Into the Night by Celine – it’s good so far but there are a tonne of pages..it’s a marathon. I don’t know why Novel’s ever need to be so long (seems like a child-like thing to say, but my theory is that a Novel is just a Novella with unnecessary padding).

Lets all dig the dirt of words my friends.

But let us stay healthy in the widest sense of the word too (It’s very hard, nigh on impossible to avoid that zombifying blue light these days isn’t it?).

Anton Martin Smith

“Bob Lazar Vs Barb Le Marre” (Prose/Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Marriage with children?
Or endless Bob Lazar videos?
Sometimes the choice is that stark.

Your dad will sit you down & say to you:
“Hey son – marriage ain’t so great –
& sorry but kids just ain’t my bag –
I highly recommend staying single –
Live a life on the couch with Bob Lazar!
Dedicate your life to Ufology son”

Next day your Mom will sit you down & say:
“Marriage & kids is great! –
Stay away from Ufology! –
It’s Black magic, can’t you see! –
Get Married!
Have Kids!
I like the way you turned out!
Your dad’s an ass but I love him!”

So you (being most likely) a young man have a tough decision:

Is it Bob Lazar & UFO’s or Barb La Marre & ICO’s (Identified Child Objects)

Either It’s time to put the ‘U’ back in Ufology,
Or the ‘Mi’ in Family.

So young man – you have exactly twenty-four hours to report back to your parents & myself as the narrator of this prose with your decision.

You cannot be late!

Unless of course you get abducted by a Bob Lazar designed UFO form Area 51 as part of the US Govt’s disinformation program.

Oh & did I mention?

A would-be-half-pie-poet has passed on to me this sage advice for you – they said this:

“Yes – some people marry UFO’s for fun,
And while Marriage can make you numb,
So can dying alone & without any sun”.

I trust you will make a wise decision.

“Sexist But Breaking News” ( A Skit)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

And now we interrupt your streaming service to bring you the latest breaking Sexist But Breaking News, with Earth’s weirdest-faux-alpha-male-yet-still-highly-likable-host…Phil E. Stein….

“Wifewars” (the undeclared WW3) has got so bad that the number of ‘Gnarlies held in purses’ instead of ‘Gnarlies held safe in scrotums’ has skyrocketed to heights not seen since ancient times – namely since 5000BC during ancient Mesopotamia’s pagan human sacrifice rituals.

While it is true that only the weakest of soldiers have been the worst affected (“married & Defacto beta men”) the crisis is now so militaristically acute, that as we speak one in every two men only now has only on average point one of their two allotted testicles still residing safely in their scrotums.

Our military expert Ms Val. E. Hollows could not join us live as she had to do her hair – but we did ask her “how bad this ‘case of the dissapearing gnarlies’ get”? She said & I quote:

If we extrapolate the graph of ‘Gnarlies left safely untouched in mens scotums to ‘Gnarlies held under duress in their or someone elses Wives/Defacto’s purses’, we eventually come to the omega point – where all the men in the world bar one mega alpha male have become eunuchs’

We then pressed our expert on the matter by asking ‘what will happen then’? To which Ms Hollows replied:

“I’m not sure – but I hope to hell that last ever, literally very ballsy, manly manly man asks me out on a hot date, I’ve gone all giddy just thinking about it!”

And with that I’ll sign off till next time, & wish all you married weak-o’s a testicularly safe nights sleep.

This has been Phil E. Stein for Sexist But Breaking News.

Tune into Sexist But Breaking News for the next ball breaking crisis.

Special Post: Bananas Bananas….Jungian Synchronicity …And My Physics Thesis called ‘Synchronicity -Entanglement-Oneness’ (A Thought/Blog Post)

If I ever go into the Supermarket & a staff member from ‘fresh-produce’ comes over to me randomly & says “Yes we have no bananas” ….I will take that as 100% proof we are living in a simulation. Either that or it’s just Jungian synchronicity – for I just wrote some prose mentioning bananas. It’s one or t’other brother!.

On that matter, while I was in Dunedin NZ a few weeks ago I spent some time in the 2nd hand bookstores (‘Hard To Find Books’ in Dowling St), I read the first 30 odd pages of Jungs Synchronicity. It was very interesting & he posited (well this is my take on what he posited) that there is a ‘a-causal field’ psychic related probably to the consciousness/sub-consciousness that emanates outwards & perhaps everywhere in what physicists like to call ‘non local fashion’. I think there is truth to this, as I have experienced this synchronicity myself.

Now Jung did say that co-incidence can be confused with Synchronicity, & you need to be careful. Real Synchronicity is of the kind he mentioned with his “Scarab beetle” example while he mentioned in the book. He had a customer on the couch who was talking of her dream, which involved a Scarab beetle (or some rare Beetle at least). Immediately upon saying this, a Beetle of that exact description flew in the window & landed on Jungs hand – he presented it to her & said “was it like this”. The Beetle in question was not known to be in the area & the season for Beetles was all wrong etc etc – so the chance coincidence was the cause was of such infinitesimal unlikeliness, that Jung believed that the psychic/creative force that he called ‘Synchronicity’ was the reason.

I myself had something similar happen. A couple of weeks ago I went to my usual day job which was doing soem gardening for an older man. unrelated to this around the same time I went on a saturday drive to a town nearby, where I went to a Salvation Army store & bought a secondhand book, a autobioraphy by Hulk Hogan . In the book he talked of going back to his old childhood house, digging in the back yard & findign one of his old ‘dinky’ car toys (in NZ we use the term ‘Dinky’ for the little toy cars kids have). Ok back to my garden job. When I went to my garden job, I had not yet got to the page where Hulk Hogan tells of digging up the little car toy from his childhood. While I was on the Garden job, I myself dug up an old ‘dinky’ car toy. Two days later I got to the part in the book where Hulk Hogan talks about digging up the car toy.

I believe this personal experience was indeed Synchronicity. Coincidence can be discounted, as the chances of me buying a book where someone talks of digging up a toy car, in the same few days where I do the same thing are infinitesimal. It was Synchronicity. I’ve had a few things like that happen. Jungian Synchronicity is real.

I bet you have experienced it to.

This kind of thing is amazing phenomena. Modern science is perhaps not so denouncing of ‘psychic fields’ as it used to be, but I would say only slightly so. Modern science still feels embarrassed about this kind of stuff – even though the Truth of quantum physics, (with all its non local effects & instantaneous fields & entanglements etc) which has been totally accepted, proved & used in our various electrical technologies. Science & Physics shame on you! Be more courageous! It ( that is a-causal Synchronicities like Jung described) is not weirdo stuff!

I have my own ideas about it all. Let me tell you my idea. Physics has its big bang theory. At the start of the big bang, everything that would constitute the later universe of today was all melded in together in something the size of a grapefruit, or perhaps even only a golf ball. Entropy theory tells us that this grapefruit (or golf ball) was almost perfectly ‘ordered’, & then it slowly became less ordered & more chaotic, differentiated – the less order allowed what we have in our daily universe – protons electrons gravity, electromagnetic waves etc etc. My theory is that at the start the universe was basically one amorphous thing, there was no real differentation (other than what was required by the Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle – which incidentily was the seed for the Universe to evolve). So atthis early stage, the Universe acted as one thing – you might call it a “pre-entangled singular state” – (but this is probably neccesarily an imperfect description).

My theory is that the universe could not ever possibly lose this oneness – dispite the appearences of our universe as it is (lots of seemingly different things, obeying different applicable laws of physics – Gravitation, Electrostatics, Nuclear etc etc). Synchronicity must happen, as the universe still has lingering effects of the totalised oneness at the beginning of the Universe. Physicist believe that the information content in the Universe cannot ever be lost – so this would marry up with the idea that Syncronicity is the (very real) informational echoe of that information about the oneness of the Universe that can’t be destroyed.

P.s. I should also state that Synchronicity is also an effect of the eternal oneness of the Universe in the way that we see everything in the universe being entangled with everthing else (Entanglement has been proved by Physics in terms of particles, & perhaps also very basic atoms but not for much larger objects like a Human) . I believe that Entanglement does apply to everything big & small in the Universe – particles, quarks, photons, bosons, Cats, Planets, Black Holes, Rocks, People, Clouds etc).

Synchronicity -Entanglement-Oneness these are all seemingly different phenomena of essentially the same thing.

Anyway that’s my theory – I hope you enjoyed it, & maybe you have an idea or twon on it all.

Now Goodnight from a very cold, very wintery, but beautifully starry night in Central Otago New Zealand

Martin A. Smith 14 Jun 2025

“Yes! We Have No Bananas” ( A thought/Prose)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The only truly good thing about ‘big time sports’ is the crowd hubbub – for crowd hubbub is a human kind of birdsong.

It is beautiful in its brutality.

The athleticism of the athletes is of second order rank, the contest itself an even more distant third rank.

The score of the game is totally irrelevant, but the outcome isn’t. The score is something like 34-12, but the outcome is not at all the score.

The outcome is one man turning to another & saying –

“Hey Joe what a great game!, it made me forget how me, you & all our kind are modern age forever slave-serfs”.

That casual epitet of the everyman is the true outcome of a ‘big time’ sports event.

Centrally planned contrived escapism for the slave serf so to delay a People’s Revolution.

And it’s worked a treat since the coliseum days, which incidentally never actually ended.

Yes, “The Truth About Us” is depressing, but from Truth does enlightenment flow.

All good philosophers intuitively know this.

All bad politician-authoritarians do as well.

And that we know the truth – our pathway to enlightenment – that ain’t a bad thing at all, at all.

The ‘ignorance is bliss thesis’ is just slave-master propaganda.

So let us enjoy the sports match, but also kick the politician-authoritarian up the arse now & then.

Becasue our serf-slavery won’t end anytime soon,

That is self evident to anyone who reads History.

The point of our enlightenment is this:

Our slave-serf conditions have deteriorated far to much lately & we deserve better.

Let us aim to kick politician-authoritarian arse regularly & non violently.

Like John Lennon said “We’ll do it with humour”.

For he’s right – humour is the only thing the Slave Master is really afraid of.

In Closing:

So Bra –

lets Ha Ha Ha…

to the La-de-dah.

to get thrown a better…

Ba-na-na

“London 2038 – The London, The P.M., & The P.A Part 1” (A story – Work in. Prog)

By Anton martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

(Episode 1. )

A leopard can’t change its spots & a steaming turd like Mayor Twotimer can’t change his flies either – a line overheard from the banter exchanged by labourers in an inner city London building site.

London England 2038 AD POP 17 Million.

Under the seemingly incompetent yet perversely-still-in-power Mayor of London – Harrison Arnold Harrison Twotimer – London has gone from a metropolis mostly on the go to a definite sad tale of woe. Upon Twotimer taking office, London was the first Western country to descend into a poverty stricken, knife crime infused Third world hellhole. Now eleven years into his Mayoralty things have somehow somewhat improved. Temporarily? Permanently? Who yet could tell?. Yes London was & still is, for the most part still full of mean dispirited losers – but the old litany of weekly crisis have suddenly stopped. The everyday London losers (i.e almost everybody in London in AD 2038) are either in the eye of a storm, or some quasi half-pie would-be-paradise.

The most optimistic Londoners are waxing lyrical about a ‘return to the halcyon days of Empire’ – where London was the centre of the World. These wags of course are the most delusional of the clueless inherited wealthy, rose tinted glasses set. But there has indeed been a marked difference in London over the last three years. People have noticed that all of Mayor Twotimers usual typical blunders are now seemingly being reversed from the typical train wrecks they very well ought to be. It is as if there is now a shadow Mayor of London fixing Twotimers massive fuck-ups in expert, clandestine, last nano-second fashion. It’s like a political Superman is swooping in (from the planet Krapton?). With this sudden about face in London’s fortunes, all Londoner’s tongues are all wagging furiously and all agree that the steaming turd of a leader that is Arthur Harrison Twotimer cannot be he who has revived London from a total abject through-and-through shit-hole to a shit-hole-that-is-maybe-on-the-up. This is indeed the case – for it is not him turning grime into gems, it is another man entirely.

Arthur B. Pertwee was a great man. His service to the pale greater spotted grub was something many Etymologists would have been proud of. The problem was that Arthur B. Perwee wasn’t an Etymologist – he worked in Politics. He was the PA to the Wartime Prime Minister – one Harrison Arnold Twotimer. His nickname was “The Grub”. Grub by name, grub by nature. But Arthur served the bastard with aplomb. For that is the nature of Politics. You serve the ones you hate most, while denouncing the opposition, who you only hate half as much.

Twotimer was one of those fools who somehow get foistered into power, in moments when voters’ minds are an equal mixture of disarray, fear, mistrust, & stupidity. He was indeed a useless man, in all practical senses, but he was also a terrible thinker. His biggest accomplishment was that he knew all of his faults, & he played up to them. He also had one trump card – his shrewdness.

Twotimer decided early in his political life that he would court only the biggest losers in society. Using this strategy, he would gain power in a succession of easy victories & eventually be handed the Mayoralty of London on a plate during the fog-of-war of a foreign crisis. His appeal to all of England’s anti-winners was, and has been a masterful winning strategy given the socio-political conditions of the last few decades.

With the traditional never-ending supply of mean spirited backstabby losers in England, coupled with the fact that over the last thirty years a virulent mind virus had broken out, this has meant the numbers of abject forever losers had been rising exponentially for an entire generation. Over the last three decades Twotimer has had them all hanging on his every word, or more truthfully hanging on every empty platitude. He had the losers (he even called them this in private) in the palm of his hands, & he has had their votes stuffed into his many overfilling ballot boxes.

Twotimers ascent to power, & his perch an the top of the mountain of London Politics, was & has been in equal measures both brilliant & utterly disgusting. Twotimer’s success has been brilliant in the a Machiavellian sense – he gained power by whatever underhand means necessary; it was & has been disgusting, in that he was a leader of London, who had actively & knowingly chosen to bottom trawl the worst of the negative aspects of humanity for his own personal gain, and to their own detriment. To call Harrison Arnold Twotimer a bastard would be like calling a blue steak a well done steak. It would be undercooking it in the extreme. There is excrement on many a shoe that if it became sentient overnight, would refuse to have anything to do with Harrison Arnold Twotimer, long term Mayor of London.

Thankfully for England, by some cosmic force – or perhaps it was God – had arranged that Arthur B. Pertwee would be his long-term PA, his personal assistant. This would be the man who was initially invisible everyone, but in the future would be known humorously as, but also reverently as, The saviour of England, the Pertwee we all needed.

This is not just the story of how the brits were led up the garden path by a useless power crazed snob, & then along came a smarter guy who saved us all. That is a gross over-simplification. This is the story of how Harrison Arnold Twotimer led all of England down the garden path to within a hair’s breadth of its totalised destruction, and how Arthur B. Pertwee had predicted the actual time-bomb at the end of Twotimer’s garden path, quietly defused it with ease, & then as if that wasn’t enough – he then planted an actual King’s garden where the void was – all while the embattled but very loser-fied Englanders were all totally unawares of Pertwee’s back of office angelic touch. It is quite the story. Let me begin………(End of Episode one)……

“Caviar At The Work Table” (Prose/A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The World Waiter will serve you shit sandwiches.

Then tell you it’s caviar.

When you scream:

“Can’t you see that’s shit between bread???”

The World Waiter will say:

“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you...Workers….

He bends over backwards for you…you.. ungratefuls……

Now eat your effing caviar you…you…WORKER YOU!”

And then if you say:

“And what will you do if I refuse to eat this shit sandwich World Waiter sir?”

They will say:

“We will make sure you cannot work yourself to death…er I mean are employed in our work camps….er I mean Work tables…

..We will conspire amongst ourselves to ban you from slavery..er Work.. & you will die in a ditch!…

You’ll get no shit sandwhiches…I mean you’ll get no delicious caviar… you..you…Worker swine! – you’ll starve fool!!!”.

You think for a minute – soaking it all in.

You know those workers who refused to toe the line.

Those ones under the bridges.

Those starving ones.

Those ones wearing threadbare rags.

Those ones all The Workers like you are afraid to one day become.

Those ones who couldn’t play anymore or were kicked off the sick game on offer .

Those ones who saw the shit sandwhiches as shit sandwhiches.

You make a decision & bite down hard on the shit sandwhich, its contents oozing down you chin.

You look up merrily & say to the impatient & now fuming World Waiter:

“My word this caviar is delightful!.. This is the best shit sandwhich.. er I mean caviar, I’ve ever tasted…so juicy! Give my regards to the glorious & bent over chef”.

The World Waiter now placated half smiles & slowly dissapears to the next Worker Table.

You think to yourself.

“I swear this shit sandwhich is starting to taste like caviar”.

You suddenly feel ashamed, for you think you know what’s happening.

Your cowardly thoughts somehow soothe your confortably re-battered soul.

The thought goes on:

“Oh well, at least I’ll be retiring from this Work Table in fifteen years.

It’s not that long – I’ve been here twice that time anyway!…

…and then I’ll be able to have all this shit tasting caviar without even having to sit at a Work Table”.

As you feel less fearful that you’ll end up like “The Others”, you hear the The World Waiter from accross the room.

“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you..Workers….”.

As you finish your last bite, you feel a twinge on cameraderie wash over you.

“Ah..so this is what it feels like to be truly alive, among colleagues, well fed, with a roof over my head…and sitting at this highly polished Worker Table….Long life the glorious World Waiter & The bent-over Chef!….I am so lucky! Lucky-Lucky-Lucky!”

But then you find yourself in the midst of a sudden involuntary “GULP”.

You know somethings up – but for the life of you,

You can’t quite figure out what it is.