Worlds within Worlds

Of course there are realities within realities, truths within truths, lies within lies and if we are to believe some scientists, worlds within worlds. All inexorably bound together by thin threads of time and space, into a shimmering web of infinite possibility and potential; delicately balanced by conflicting gravity's somewhere between past and future, light and dark, good and evil, life and death. Only the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

The Iraq Inquiry

In the week before Gordon Brawn gave evidence to the Iraq inquiry felt like being sat on by a bullying bull elephant in musk and as the last futile gasps were forcefully squeezed out, gallons of brown with a hint of irony poured over everyone from the leaking Victorian sewers under Westminster. When inquiry members became white faced clowns for the day. Specially trained in the Latte karate market arts not to bit the hand that feeds; the office of State that rises all born with the conscienceless gift of Fibonacci lies and the cold blood of reptiles, to the House of Lords and liars. Vibrant heart of beneficial bonus culture and unaccountable elected/unelected dictatorships. Before the self serving Ministry of Minions and the blessings of daily re-birth in the patented regeneration cabinets and media's distorting mirrors.

You could see from the deference sprayed like gourmet air freshener, essence of gold bullion and old masters upon those whose bottoms were sniffed and licked by lower status pack members, as greeting and the indifference of congenital subservience. A 'silver back' male gorilla and his trained convoy of water porers and ego smoothersarriving at the front door with all the shameless disregard of men convinced of their own innocence, at least before an inquiry they convened and controlled at the end of the pier, end of the summer season, end of the credit boom and bust recycling of Keynesian history in the timeless, crimeless worlds of coke snorting high finance and the international markets.

Sexual addiction not just a constant dribble of drivel from the corners of their ever open mouths but a fundamental right, within the constituents of greed and affiliations of personal need. Gordon, the dominant political 'silver back' sat upon a silvaneour 'stone of scone' inflatable cushion, beating his chest with the commitment and enthusiasm of someone playing the bongo drums and annoying the neighbours. Before leading Labours lost tribes across rivers of bland, lofty sounding vacuous rhetoric and prophetic warning from this years crop of creative writing courses and the diarist of diarist's. The inconsequential dull brown birds tweeting constantly upon the Internet for the fast buck merchants, short sellers and commodity markets around the electronic world.

Speaking for hours that at times felt like days as collectively, we drifted into and out of hypnotic trance. Occasionally managing a forced, alien grin of contempt upon the granite features of the Joker from a recent Batman film. But not actually answering any of the previously agreed and rehearsed questions. The white faced clowns wearing kid gloves respectfully put to he who must be obeyed - Celtic warrior Priest of the feted bogs and stinking sewers under the Rats Palace (Westminster). Lord and master of a government of all the tyrants. General in the terracotta army of nodding dog politicians with the charisma and personality of an unlucky piece of Scottish white heather or dead ptarmigan.

Whispering seductively, secretly while occasionally managing to speak, smile and make semi apologetic hand gestures all at the same time,without answering a single question. Or resorting to prompt notes once the implanted electrode in his befuddled brain, overheated and stopped working. He just smiled secretly, serenely, knowing that technically he was not actually lying, just being economical with the truth as another version of immediate history was spun upon the potters-wheel, another sacred relic from the 'Beaker People' all form and no substance. Besides, any marginal damage his omissions of truth caused, would soon be cured by another action man photo opportunity. When he flew like a conquering hero into Afghanistan and the 'great game'.

Playing the led role in Carry On Up The Khyber thanks to a decade of his economic policy, the Iron Chancellor, a man who one day would be King of a 'Granola Promise' and unelected Prime Minister. Despite thirteen years of New Labour economic and foreign policy, this was a man who never saw the Juggernaut coming until the accident was over and the motorway blocked in both directions. Air heavy and thick with Eu de toilet of hypocrisy and certainty of last nights whisky wisdom. Because with all his confidence in the contrived conspiracies of silence, he gave the military everything they asked for.

Which was why front-line British troops died for want of personal body armour during the second Gulf War. Or increasing numbers were blown apart because of inadequate training and Snatch Land Rovers. While of those who survived the initial battlefield trauma, many were lost due to insufficient numbers of helicopters for medi-vac, transportation and assault operations in theatre. Because with all the humility of a bully and more close protection than God, he as Iron Chancellor gave the military everything they asked for. Despite not even knowing what was going on within the black hole Labour politics made cabinet government into.

Born of a pulsating tartan chrysalis, tended by sleepless machines, supercomputers, voice and acting coaches, public relations men and politics Priestly class, the semi divine spin Doctor's and opinion pollsters. Gordon had become whatever it was they said would win the next general election before walking through walls, upon water and over international and national law for the political convenience of vengeance without justice and might is always right politics. Of those born to success, wealth, the comforts of power and bing, bang, bung religion of men promised the ruptured 'rapture' of the chosen and blessed. Those talking in tongues the international language of the flipping, fooling, fiddling men and their friends, the giant Bung Beetles who push steaming sleazeballs and their three magic beans for a cow 'O' level economics around Westminster's gold paved streets.

Like Rob Roy dancing upon thin ice, Gorden came out of the mist, kilt blowing around his head and genitalia hanging like dried-up prunes and an uncooked pork sausage. Waving ledger and day books as if the combined damnation of the old and new testament, a misogynists dream of slavery and service, mixed with a cold Calvinistic love of violence and deep fried Mars Bars. Granite hard and twice as sneaky as a hungry snake in the grass. With more than the odd share in the distilling industry and clean, efficient, eco friendly nuclear power - shame the waste material has a half life of fifty thousand years, still that will be someone elses problem like global warming and war without end.

At least it keeps the military and industrial complexes production lines working at full capacity. While beneath the Hollywood make-up and clever prosthetics, even the crocodile tear machine failed in the humidity, knee deep in spin and spittle as the paid arse lickers puckered-up and media prostitutes remembered to spit and not swallow.

Shuffling and squirming beneath the latex prosthetics making him look almost human and not a blob of decomposing pre-Cambrian monster washed up on the shore of Loch Mess. Miniature motors whirring and squeaking, they forced a dead man's smile and alien hand gesture to emphasis the vacuous, obtuse answer to a question they had not asked. So good were the prosthetics, make-up and computer designed scenery, not a nervous twitch ot tick, nor a single bead of sweat showed upon the granite hard exterior of the best computer rendering in the business, by Prixareus and New House of Nightmares Inc. For in the kingdom of the blind, the one eyed man is King.

Shape-shifting for convenience and personal amusement, born of sterile laboratories and cold test-tubes from the selective splicing of targeted gene sequences. He had been created by the image consultants and focus group magicians, Frankensteins monster created for a single purpose, other than New Labour's three magic beans for a cow 'O' level economics, a boom and bust fairground ride through dizzying blurs of colour and stomach emptying vertical drops , each time further still up Shit Creek without a paddle. As the labour government went on spend, spend, spending other people's money to buy again the legitimised criminality of politics popular television game show, 'Last Man Standing'. To win or steal his own election victory with more of the same and an acting coached smile that made him look like the Joker from a Batman film.

To read about the military programme used as a basis for America's fifteen tenents of torture go to nemesis-ser.spaces.live.com/blog