lemon revolution

The arguments in the air at the time of '97, were pressing on an agenda for the independence of the Bank of England. But why should the BofE be independent from government? Why should the peoples of a country, through the mechanism of democracy, not hold the reins to monetary policy? It is simply too important a function to be left solely in the hands of academics and financial industry spivvs. Democratising the BofE would engage the public more thoroughly in economic arguments, and in time, would lead to a monetary policy which is more in line with the demands of the economy. For people forget, 'the economy' is an aggregation of the activities of however many millions of people living within a given nation-state. And who else knows better how to run the lives of these people, than the people themselves?

"With less than a month to go before the country goes to the polls, we've been hearing from voices away from the frontline of politics... Hillary Alexander, the Telegraph's former Fashion Editer explains how she'll be voting in the EU referendum, and why" BBC Newsnight, (24 - 05 - 16) 

is beyond good statues made of matchsticks crumble into one another my love winks, she does not bother she knows too much to argue or to judge Statues made of matchsticks, crumble into one another. Statues made of fucking matchsticks crumble into one another. Our realities rise like towers, melt like wax, and our love watches on, a face turning only with the crawl of a knowing smile. What a song.

This sort of shite. I was first told about Haig's whiskey by my history teacher at high-school. He explained his Granddad simply refused to buy the stuff. His Granddad had fought in the First World War, and had witnessed the reckless tactics of Field Marshall Douglas Haig - the man who had ordered soldiers to walk, en masse, directly into the line of enemy fire, a tactic most infamously used during the Battle of the Somme. Douglas Haig's father was the head of the very distillery and company which produced and sold Haig's whiskey. I don't know anything about Haig's marketing strategy but I've seen the company name pop up a fair bit of late, in social media posts by people I know and then in this GQ video. What worries me the most about this sort of stuff is, primarily, the picture it paints of aspiration. Of two white celebrities dressed in designer clothes, discussing gentlemen etiquette, sipping on luxury drinks and together, trying to dream up the most

In waiting rooms where the footsteps click And laughing chatter And silent posters Where angel's kisses hold the heat Before the cold winter rattle And organs bruised and blue Extend a tired reach For hands to warm them red

when England rocks it's lights flashing gently neath the red tinged darkness and warm winds kiss my brows and feather my hairs the darkness seems to fade off its own horizon and visions of fired hells and weeping bones slip into the night sky from where sparks in glimmers of blue rain down on my person on the airs upon the land and above the shaking cities

What a cunt. And that includes the arse-blowing BBC reporter. Fundamental problem: are all mainstream journalists so far detached that they think not to question the crumbs of information fed to them by the Establishment? 

Disappointed but I don't know why. Has a cornered hint of something reassuringly good. But feels like music contrived by a focus group in the offices of a major label. Sounds like PR-scripted tripe. Sounds like Coldplay. Why the fuck was Paul Epworth allowed anywhere near them. Parallels between Squire-Brown and Morrissey-Marr. Songwriting duo able to hit impeccable heights, writing together and uncovering something precious and infinite, timeless. Unable to ever recreate or reproduce those elements apart from one another, and Squire-Brown have proven that after 27 years, even reuniting doesn't make it any easier.

If you consider yourself left-wing, then there are a shedload of reasons to dislike Andy Burnham. But this speech is definitely not one of them. He's brilliant in this, and his exposure of Establishment corruption and wrongdoing here is one of the most forthright, honest and emotive I've seen from Parliament in years. Burnham's turning point came in 2009, after his speech at the 20-year anniversary Memorial Service was jeered and sliced by chants of justice. This prompted him to setup the Hillsborough Independent Panel, whose revealed evidence prompted the latest inquiry, leading to the verdict of an unlawful killing. It begs the question, just what would have happened had Burnham's speech passed through without comment? And what would have happened had the Hillsborough families not hunted down the truth of the disaster so tiresomely: paying for private prosecutions, or, in the case of the criminologist Phil Scraton, ticking carefully through investigatory steps ac

than being paid to do something you love? *=degrading, depriving, destroying, lobotomising

The hand grasps hand and waves goodbye   Hearts glow warm like matchsticks lie In a swamp of blood and pixel flesh   An orb a star in nightskys mesh   Though I know my road takes me far away from here

Dry scratched skin like rough old bark Sweating limbs in cabin yard Use eyes soaked black deprived of sleep Watch sadness rise from morning feet A smokey foam a mushroom cloud Not one lie could make you proud Throws bricks of freedom to windows of the mind which thinks it Crying mirrors to history's hymn image of tears and thoughts of sin And rivers of light below my legs The holes I use to see it dead Filled with pain and blocked in black The tongue springs out but words don't catch Nothing but the bitter glare of a bitter man who sits twisted in a ball of string Black whips crack across black skin The years of hate to hearts of tin In a hollow tone rips through our bones Where crying breathes in trojan groans Pregnant with our oil lives In leather fumes they sweat and die Trying to fix my way through a maze in the stone black darkness So don't fear If you hear A foreign sound, to your ear It's alright Ma, I'm only sighing Blood on b

I've been listening to and watching a lot of Dylan recently. In particular, there's a documentary on the man from 1967, Don't Look Back, which follows him around during his '65 tour of the UK. One scene stands out, in which Dylan is taped utterly eviscerating a journalist from Time Magazine. The conversation goes something like: JOURNALIST: so are you a folk singer? DYLAN: what do you mean am I folk singer? who are you? you don't even know what a folk singer is JOURNALIST: ...yes I do DYLAN: no you don't. why are you here? why are you talking to me? who are you? JOURNALIST: i'm here so i can tell people about you DYLAN: what do you mean tell them about me? tell them a little tale you dreamed up about me in your little magazine?  JOURNALIST: no, so i can tell them the truth DYLAN: the truth? you know nothing about the truth. who do you work for...Time Magazine? that right? what an earth do you know about truth? is that what you think you