OK so. I been away n’ting. Sorry.

Well – I’ve not just been away – I  mean it’s been almost three weeks since I put anything up. I guess I’ve not found that much objectionable about the news lately. Or maybe I’ve just not had time to watch much news. I’ve been hellas busy in my day job. Still am. That panic inducing busy-ness that means I can’t seem to spare a thought for anything but work. WORK. Work Dammit. Work. The thing you do to live. And living… what’s all that about? Isn’t life what you just *do* before you die? And you work just to ensure you can live? Jesus that’s depressing isn’t it.

Even more depressing is the fact that we’re in such a hole anyway. I mean. What happened there? Oh yeah. Capitalism ran riot didn’t it. Caused a massive overextension, reckless lending, reckless borrowing all the cogs and animal spirits and all that shizzle went a bit mad. Now we’re all paying. Working to live with nothing but more work to look forward to. Pension ages rising so that we’ll probably clock out one last time and then get a taxi to a care home or hospice to shuffle off our mortal coil – cared for by people who are working well into their sixties or seventies themselves. Meanwhile, of course, the financial sector will recover, banking bonuses will come back and we’ll still see the super rich earning enough wealth to retire in their thirties while the rest of the grunts work off the debt they rang up in the heady days of the noughties.

Maybe bankers are an easy target. But My ire was prodded by this Evening  Standard article the other night which talked about how *hard* things had become for bankers. Gawd fucking bless them – they might not even be getting six or seven-figure bonuses this year? Hell. They might not get ANY bonus to add to their six or seven-figure salary. Times are hard…. REALLY hard, when you read quotes from Cityboys like

“I think there’s an air of realism in the City, hard as that may be to believe. There’s a lot of downsizing going on. We’re back in M&S suits, though the Charles Tyrwhitt shirts are still de rigueur.”

Awww diddums and all that jazz. Oh – but what’s this? An article from just one paltry week before the bankers were all crying into their flaming ferraris? This wonderful little ditty. If you can’t follow the link here’s the tagline:

Banker’s £37,000 night of lapdancing

Lapdancing club Spearmint Rhino had its biggest spending customer last week. A banker, who arrived alone at the club’s Tottenham Court Road venue, went on to blow an astonishing £37,000 on dancers, Cristal champagne and food before disappearing into the night.

That’s right. On the one hand we’re being fed the whole “we’re all in this together” pap then, on the other, we’re seeing consumption levels at the sickening level of vulgarity that we’re being told died with the credit crunch.

The facts remain pretty simple. There is still loads of money in the world. The rich are still getting richer. Corporate profits are on the up. Prada announced a 75% increase in quarterly profits today. Yes. Prada. The luxury goods firm

God. I wish I could strike. I really do. I wish I could take a day, stand outside my offices and rail against all those high and mighties who think that we should be digging in the dirt for worms while they sup Cristal off a lap dancers belly laughing about how they fooled the world. But I can’t strike. I work in the private sector. I don’t have a union. I don’t have anyone to represent my views.

But the people who can strike? Well that’s a different matter. They have all my backing. If they can get something… anything to improve their lot then great. If they can our government to start targeting the people who havethe money to bail out their own errors then all the better.

Look - peaceful happy smiling community. I love this

I love strikers. They remind me that people still care. People still stand up to be counted. There’s a buzz about it all. A sense of community we thought we’d lost in the 80s when the culture of “me me me” really started to hit home under Thatcher. And in these times of hardship I don’t see how anyone could begrudge strikers from finding their voice to tell our government to try picking on someone else if they want to keep their accounts in order. Like… maybe the people who are largely responsible but who still seem to be able to spend 37 grand on lapdancers and booze in a single night.

Of course, not everyone loves strikers. It’s a political hot potato isn’t it. How many times do you hear people moaning “they should just get back to work! I’ll have to work til I’m 100, why shouldn’t they” – how nice and warm. Instead of moaning these people might be better placed realising that they wouldn’thave to work til they were already dead if they had the opportunity for collective bargaining.

So these kids were striking to end child labour. Should we hate them?

But this is a newstantrum. Not a peopletantrum. So… the Daily Mail hates strikers. Why? I don’t know. Today they ran the headline:

Yes. Actually I do.

Well 2 million people can’t be wrong can they Paul? But whatever. You’ve made your point – lets just forget it. Let it go. Yeah?

No! Of course not. Anyone daring to venture to the home page of the daily mail today will be almost physically assaulted by a stream of strikehate. here are all the key headlines:

Heathrow has never been more efficient! Passengers’ glee as border agency strike ‘SPEEDS UP queues at passport control’

The strike is on: Millions of parents forced to stay at home as the majority of schools close and routine surgery is cancelled

Misery for the sick as thousands of NHS operations are cancelled due to strikes and staff take to the picket lines

‘I’m not picking a fight with anyone’: As millions of public sector workers walk out over pensions Osborne goes on the defensive

The private sector can no longer afford to indulge state workers who, for too long, have got away with murder

Overkill? Lets not forget that Daily Mail poster boy and all round strike-hater Gove still has this amusingly embarrassing pic of him standing on a picket line going round… people in glass houses and all that.

I bet he spat at scabs too


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