The Idler.

When Tom Hodgkinson decided to produce The Idler as a hardback I have to say I had serious misgivings. I mean who would be able to afford to buy it? Or more to the point, who would be willing to part with so much dosh for what is, after all, just another magazine? One part of me was saying that but another part of me, the part that loves a bit of flash, was gung ho for the project and going hardback with a small circulation magazine is nothing if not flash. It really is in the spirit of the Situationist International who's original journal was ostentatiously produced and in stark contrast to the grim duplicated offerings of their equally grim rivals on the left. Anyway, I put The Idler on my birthday list and hoped for the best. I was not disappointed. Not by my nearest and dearest - nor by the publication itself. The Idler is so bloody English , and so incredibly relaxing. You only have to open it's pages to feel the tension just ebbing away. All those concerns about Red Milliband turning into a PolPot for our time, or even a Harold Wilson for our time, will drift into the ether. So pull up a chair, chuck another log on the fire and open The Idler. There! See what I mean?

A modest proposal.

I think that it's important for us older comrades to keep as mentally agile as possible. Try to stay at the cutting edge of libertarian political debate and ideas, that kind of thing. So here's the plan. Time was when food in pubs, if available at all, was consigned to a special area, usually upstairs, and known as "the dinning room". This meant that a chap could sit at the bar and enjoy his pint while reflecting upon the Gaitshead Koran Burning, Ed Milliband and the lurch to the left or whatever without having to watch a load of office workers eating their fucking dinner. Can you see where I'm coming from here? Truth is that there are a number of pubs in London that have maintained their dinning rooms and they tend to be pretty reasonable boozers. It's clear to me that what is needed at this juncture is an Anarchist Luncheon Club. A group of committed and dedicated comrades who would explore these pubs, discuss matters of the day and have a few pints before repairing upstairs for a decent roast. Bit like the the Pickwick Club, but probably not as radical. What do you think?

Down with the miserablists!

What is it with anarchists? Well, that's not fair actually. "What is it with some anarchists?" is closer to what I'm trying to say. What I'm referring to is the seemingly perennial strand in the anarchist movement that having, quite rightly, come down on the side of the poor and downtrodden as apposed to the rich and powerful, decide to show solidarity with the oppressed workers by trying to live the life that they imagine real workers lead. Nowhere is this miserable attitude more noticeable than in the minefield of consumer choice. What's the naffest, down-market shop we can find? Well lets do our shopping there. Might as well. Some of us are so fucking scruffy no self-respecting up market shop would let us through the door. We mustn't aspire to the good things in life in case we get accused of being middle-class. Apart from the very dubious politics involved; where is the fun in this. No wonder we don't get taken seriously by normal everyday folk who would quite like to have the best for themselves and their kids. I would like to see more anarchists striding along in the Crombie (fell of the back of a lorry guv), twirling a rolled umbrella as they make their way to the hostelry of their choice for lunch. I never had that much time for Derek Hatton but immaculately turned out in Armani suits he was everything that lefties were meant not to be. No anorak, combats and sandals for Degsy; and a serious two fingers to the miserablists.

A blogger returns.

There has not been a lot of activity on this blog recently although I am on target for my usual fourteen posts a month. Amongst the number of lame excuses for not writing has been my short visit to the Derbyshire Dales where I learned that the area is a bit like Last Of The Summer Wine; all dry stone walls and old people. I also discovered that a Bakewell Tart is actually a Bakewell Pudding and that this delicacy is, well, a bit ordinair as you might say. Wonderfull scenery though, and Bakewell itself has a bloody good market.

Of Popes, pints and pumpkins.

On Friday about 150 of us turned up to boo Razinger at Twickenham and yesterday about 15,000 packed into Whitehall to let the old Nazi know what we think of him and his weird paedophile cult.It was actually a very good day out. The high point for me was the appearance on the balcony over Fortnum and Masons of a "Pope" swathed in sheets and tablecloths and blessing the multitudes below to rapturous applause. Top work! As someone pointed out, "he will probably get the sack tomorrow but it will have been well worth it". And we had a nice little drink in the Red Lion afterwards. And I won First Prize for biggest pumpkin at the allotments autumn social today.
And they say that the anarchists can't get anything together.

The Tea Party. Is it a load of old wank?

My insistence that laughter and ridicule are amongst the best weapons against the Forces Of Darkness frequently gets me into hot water and for sure it's easier to laugh at the Right if you are standing where I am as opposed to say being a Roma in France right now. But every time that I start to feel twinges of guilt about my flippant attitude toward the stormtroopers of the new order along comes some new nutter to cheer me up good and proper. Latest addition to the cavalcade of rightist show stopping side splitters is the lovely Christine O'Donnell. The Tea Party candidate wants to share with us the good news that her Bible studies have revealed that MASTURBATION IS A SIN. Way to go Christine! Some old chestnuts never wear out do they? You might have to think about that last bit Christine.

Work and the drinking classes.

Walking over Hungerford Bridge this afternoon I paused to watch one of Cory's tugs with a pair of thousand ton barges in tow working up river on a strong flood tide. Carefully getting the right line the skipper made a perfect job of shooting Westminster Bridge. Watching a master of their craft at work is always a pleasure. When Ian Bone interviewed me on his radio show a couple of years back he remarked that I was perhaps the only old hippy who believed in the dignity of labour. Not that I havn't enjoyed several periods of voluntary unemployment in the past and am now embarked on what I hope will turn out to be the lengthy voyage of retirement. That said, and even though I am an admirer of every champion of idleness from Paul Lafargue to Tom Hodgkinson, I still feel that to be denied the opportunity of employment is also to be denied the right to the self-fulfillment that can be found both in the workplace and in work itself. I don't have any problem at all with people choosing to not work. The cost of the benefits involved is a drop in the ocean and many jobs are not only boring and alienating but totally useless as well. What I would say though is that when unemployment is visited on a community it generally proves to be a curse rather than a liberation. The idea of a generation growing old and never feeling the elation of a job well done is nothing to celebrate. The dignity of labour is not the same as the work ethic. As I was once advised- serve the task, and not the master.