Stranger in a strange land
A disaster capitalism story
A disaster capitalism story
(Editors note: My client was at a loss as there wasn’t any baseball for him to watch on the evening he penned these very words, so caveat emptor)
I am the poster child for disaster capitalism! Hooray! But we’ll get to that soon enough or maybe we won’t, who knows? I haven’t written any of this article yet except inside my head and that’s not a reliable place to be at the best of times. It’s the last knockings of a Friday night before the night we in the UK call “Bonfire Night” whereby all across the country, fireworks are ejected into the sky in celebration whilst we burn an effigy to a man who failed.
Have you ever wondered why we’re fucked as a species?
I have, and on more times than I’d admit to without being restrained and at the sexual whim of a beautiful lady but let’s not get off track here. I am, the poster child, for disaster capitalism! I’ll tell you why shortly but it’s been a long week, a strange week, a sad week, a reflective week but frankly, that’s par for my particularly strange course. I’ve been ruminating again on the reliability and persistence of memory and especially, do we have a memory that we love and cherish so much we may actually have simply made it all up? Did you really have sex with (insert name here) on that sunny Sunday afternoon in a public park in your college days? Did you! Did you really meet that famous tennis player’s brother outside a courthouse before a tense court case on another particularly sunny day in the Matrix? Did you meet the Mayor of your city or did you really want to meet the Mayor as a kid and over a decade or three, simply make it all up? Famous tennis player’s brother! You silly arse! Sex outside? In the free spirited years of the early 1990's? In the city park? By the Guildhall? With the office building you’d work in for 7 years looming like a dinosaur and blocking the rays of the sun on the horizon?
It’s the unreliability of memory of a unreliable narrator and I wouldn’t believe a word of this nonsense if I were you, but then again, I’m not, and perhaps that’s for the best. Before I tell you about the incredible news that I’m clearly the poster child for disaster capitalism, let me cheer you up a little. Whilst completing a couple of capitalist duties this morning I was driving my son and I around the tiny town in which we live and lo and behold, “Everything in its right place” by Radiohead began to gently whisper out of the speakers.
It had been the moment of my life I had been waiting for.
My son knew the song but couldn’t remember where or why but no matter, I eagerly espoused the wisdoms and merits of the Cameron Crowe directed, Tom Cruise starring, Vanilla Sky from 2001 and how it was a strange concoction of materialism and lucid dreaming or perhaps a hidden portent to the Matrix connections of today and the ability to live another life within the Metaverse, let alone the online game of life we all play here. He’s a fan of Kurt Russell let alone following a little of my adoration for the acting skills of (or certainly the ability to pick some incredible films) Tom Cruise, so I told him about the alarm clock, the car crash, a little of the reason for Kurt Russell’s inclusion in the film as well as droning on and on about the very nature of dreams and dream states and I probably said “we live in a Matrix” a dozen times before hopefully describing what a blooming wonderful spectacle it is of seeing Tom Cruise driving into an empty Times Square in New York and the swirling, discombobulating camera work employed to represent his befuddled astonishment at an empty New York, and all accompanied by Thom Yorke and Radiohead singing about waking up yesterday and sucking lemons and there are only two colours in my head?
He quite rightly looked at me as though I were a piece of mouldy cheese and that’s ok. My son was with me.
Everything was very definitely in its right place.
Shall I tell you about the incredibly brief tete-a-tete I got into with a TV and radio personality here in the UK on Twitter or shall I just say the replies were all rather bizarre from his followers and the TV personality didn’t respond or acknowledge my reply directly to them in which I proffered a suggestion to the quotation previously published before thanking them for addressing me as my full name rather than the abbreviated form and complimenting them on being in the highly esteemed company of my dearly missed Mum, and the only other person within God’s green Matrix who ever addressed me as Stephen? My sin was to state that interviewing the BBC’s “Mistress of Truth” or to give the lady her correct title, “Disinformation and Social Media Correspondent” was
(Editor’s Note: It was here that my client originally penned the words “Have you ever wondered why we’re fucked as a species” akin to The Shining, a film he’s probably watching as you read this article).
I know, I know! You probably have a similar lady or gentleman in this very role within your own One Party state. Don’t come crying to me you might be saying. We have our own troubles. 2+2 has always equalled 5 you’ll say. The Ministry of Truth has always been there you’ll suggest.
Just like Jack Nicholson in the Overlook Hotel.
Shall I tell you about how I opened my heart to my doctor today, telling her that 6.01pm was kind of a witching hour for me and that, after those bells of freedom rang my depressive, bodily draining anxiety of a horrible world lessens, just a little and, as a certain TV advert here in the UK constantly suggests, “every little helps”. Saying that being with my son helps would be a monstrosity of an understatement, even for me, but as the light of the evenings draw to darkness far too soon and we have the nightly terrors of the firework fanatics leading all the way to the end of another dreadful year for the human species, closer to home, I fucking despise this time of year and my particular black dog has never barked this loudly before.
I could tell you about a funeral I went to yesterday (that’ll cheer everyone up, exasperated Editor) a personal hat-trick of recent times and all rather aptly, for a football fanatic who, we all found out yesterday, scored not one but two hat-tricks (6 goals) in the same game and all whilst wearing biker boots! Not for wearing traditional football boots was our Pat and although I hadn’t seen him since the ill fated FA Cup Final of 2012, I’d shared thousands of miles in the company of a beautiful man in the decade before that. Pat came from a generation that would have called him “Football mad” or “Football daft” and I’ll miss the kindly old soul and his throaty laugh. We sang the old soul into the next life with the Liverpool anthem “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and it was understated, hushed, poetic and damn blooming beautiful.
Or should I simply end where I started, at the beginning, and when everything seemed to be in the right place before I received a telephone call around 3pm confirming that whilst I’m far too old to be a poster child for anything let alone disaster capitalism, it was a telephone call from a kindly, warm hearted sounding lady informing me that I’d be going to court for the second time in my life. The first time, and for the very same reason I’ll be attending one of the highest courts in the land it seems in early 2023, I was met by a burly gentleman in the foyer of the court, and before we entered the hallowed chambers of the courtroom itself, confirming that my case had been “taken off the list” and I’d had no need to attend court that morning. My case was under review and they’d be contacting me separately from the court.
That was over 6 years ago.
I could detail the details of the case until the cows have proverbially come home, gone back out again and were lazily ambling their way home again, but suffice to say, two years of bitter hell led to me being taken to court for the very first time in my life. I was in a vortex of doom and not of my making. That was six years ago. Now here in the UK this is normally and customarily followed by:
You can write off a debt after 6 years!
Have you spoken to the Citizens Advice Bureau?
Can you still get Legal Aid?
Don’t let the bailiffs in!
and, following knowing looks all round, “they’re bastards, aren’t they?”
Six years ago, and then I obviously hit the algorithm of doom within The Matrix by applying for credit perhaps, and boom, the disaster capitalists have their man, a man and an address, an address we can send a threatening letter to and then, remarkably, just mere weeks later, come knocking at that man’s door. After zero contact for six years. Count ‘em Jack! 6 years! And if I don’t ring them within 2 hours they’ll obtain a warrant of entry and other such nonsense and all without the knowledge that I’ve spoken with the Citizens Advice Bureau, taken a modicum of legal advice and completed the required forms for the court in the game of a very strange life indeed.
Disaster capitalism, buy a debt for digits in The Matrix and stomp over anyone that hits the roulette number of a casino they don’t have a membership for, having never partaken of their products, not been a purchaser or a stealer of their goods and having next to zero knowledge of the reason for the digits of doom being created within The Matrix in the first place. They have no skin in the game other than a greed for more digits at the expense of someone, anyone. Everyone. There is no contract here, despite what my legal Editor may say. We haven’t contracted, exchanged goods and more importantly we haven’t transacted or exchanged any energy. They have no knowledge of the hell and the painful “story” I have for the reason for the debt that isn’t mine.
Who are these creatures, these vultures, these vexatious vermin?
I’m just a statistic in a disaster capitalism story and I’m going to court in the New Year.
Maybe these are all dreams, lucid dreams, events I’ve made up. Like Leonard Shelby in Christopher Nolan’s Memento. Creating a riddle I can’t solve.
I’m a stranger in a strange land Jack.
Send word.
Selah.
Thanks for reading. There’s a cave of wonders within my archives or here’s a selection of three of my most recently published articles:
Rookie breaks Phillies hearts in a thriller. Astros a game away from World Series glory
Houston Astros 3 Philadelphia Phillies 2, 3rd November 2022.medium.com
A rainy night in the Evil Empire
Conversations with the ghost of Hunter S Thompsonmedium.com
“The Bird is Freed”
Twitter Watch Vol.11 — Let the freedom bell ring!medium.com