And now for something completely different 3

The third instalment of that story thing I posted a while back. Parts one and two can be found here and here. This may be the last you see of this in a while because I haven't written any more of it so another instalment would require me to do some work and I'd rather not do that. The reasons I'm not doing a normal blog this week are twofold; lack of anything interesting going on in either my life or the world at large, and a filthy cold which has robbed me of any inspiration.

It is odd how, when you take away someone’s face, they do not loose their individuality. Rather than use someone’s face as an identifying feature, you use certain mannerisms of theirs; the way they walk for example, or the way they hold themselves. Not only can you distinguish between people by noticing these things, you get in an insight into their character as well. When you also remove people’s names, these mannerisms become an essential way of recognising someone and then identifying them. We identify each other not by names; we cannot know each others names, but by nicknames which reflect our character. For the record I myself have earned the nickname ‘The Writer’ for obvious reasons.

It is, however, the consequences of this loss if identity that I have been contemplating and I wanted to get my thoughts down on paper. You see, the beauty of our rebellion is that it is entirely leaderless, entirely faceless and entirely nameless, it does not even have a voice, this is because none of us have faces, or names, or leaders. Superficially the Scotsman – for that is what everyone calls him – coordinates everything, but were he to die tomorrow another would merely take on his mantle. As a consequence of our lack of an identity, the government, our chief enemy, has not face, no name and no leader to attack. They cannot launch a propaganda war against us because they have nothing to launch it against. All they have is actions. No words, no face, no name, just actions. They can call down our actions, condemn them, denounce them over the radio and television directly into people’s homes, but with no name, or face, or slogans to relate it too, their rantings are almost entirely useless.

This is why we will always exist; because they cannot target us directly and because there will always be people sympathetic to our cause – there are always people who will stand up for what is right – we will always exist. Even if we are not coherent, even if we exist in different places across the globe we will always exist. We exist, not as an organisation with a name and a face and a slogan, but in the hearts and minds of all men, women and children who dream of freedom. We have always existed, ever since man has sought to suppress its fellow man; the flame of freedom had fought back as viciously as we fight back now. We are just this generation’s version of a movement that has been in existence for thousands of years.

I have been scratching hard into the paper with my rather cheap biro for the last two paragraphs so I ought to stop before I tear this page in half with my pen strokes. I am almost embarrassed at the viciousness with which I attacked my page just now but I suppose that is why I am writing this in the first place: ‘to vent’ as I told that most pleasant American the other day. Had I been feeling more sentimental I would have told her that I was writing this so that future generations could understand out struggle, and I guess, being either a government official about to feed this too the fire or one of those future generations, that you had assumed the same. I was not feeling sentimental a few days ago and I don’t feel sentimental now – I do not have the luxury of being sentimental.

The Writer put his book down and leant back, resting his head on the cold brickwork of the sewer wall. The wall curved upwards, making his head lean forwards slightly. He could feel the slimy texture of the pathetic excuse for plant life which grew on the walls, wallowing in the damp, dimly lit atmosphere of the rebel hideout.

He looked round the anonymous part of tunnel in which he sat, in the shadows several of the rebels sat, some doing various jobs, others simply sitting, watching. Several watched the Writer, their attention now wavering given that he had closed the small, tatty black notepad which he so closely guarded. The Balaklava hid the Writer’s smile.

It is slightly disconcerting when you stop what you are doing and look round at other people; at least half of the people present are watching you. Just sitting amid the grime and stagnant water, the dim lights that hang precariously along the roof of the tunnel barely illuminating them, watching. They sit in the shadows; the intensity of their faceless stare turns my skin cold. The most worrying thing is when you catch yourself doing it.

I suppose the most reasonable explanation is a mix between curiosity and boredom, but sometimes I get the feeling it’s more than that. The thing you most notice most when people do watch is the balaclava; after the first few days you get used to people wearing them, but when you see two or three people in balaclavas watching you it sends a shiver down your spine. They look like something out of a horror film; their faces eaten by the darkness, made expressionless by the tool of our anonymity. The way they watch you is the worst part; when you haven’t got a balaclava on, you use sidelong glances, you watch for short periods, averting your eyes when the subject moves his or her head slightly, trying to avoid being seen to be watching. When wearing a balaclava you just watch, protected by the facelessness.

“Can I read it?” The Writer was cut off by a voice piercing the silent air; it was the American woman, who had been nicknamed ‘The Hacker’ for obvious reasons.

“Sorry, it’s sort of private.” There was the vaguest hint of an apology in his voice.

The Writer bent down to put pen to paper again but he was interrupted once more. “What are you writing about?” she was sitting beside him now. He closed the book.

The Writer sighed. “Waffle mostly, I’ve sort of run out of steam.” He signed.

“You seem like quite an educated guy,” The Writer turned his head towards her. “Did you go to college?”

The Writer smiled. “Yeah, I went to Bristol, to study history,”

She mused for a moment. “I’ve never understood history, why study what is in the past? I mean, it’s happened, right? Why does it matter?”

The Writer paused for thought, trying to put into words the answer to her searching question. The existential question that had long plagued him through long nights of futile study in his tiny university room.

Finally he spoke in an overconfident tone, as though he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. “People are all fundamentally the same; they respond to the same stimulus, respond the same way to certain actions. With an acute knowledge of history we can help predict the results of certain decisions and hopefully prevent past mistakes.”

“But it didn’t help this time, I mean, we’re still in the mess we’re in. History didn’t help here.”

“That’s because it never had the chance. The government refused to listen to people who warned against what they were doing; instead they threw them in prison. Many of them are now tasked with rewriting history so that it conforms to the government’s ideals.” He paused and there was a contemplative silence. “’Whoever controls the present, controls the past, whoever controls the past controls the future.’” The Writer quoted.

“1984”

“You’ve read it?” the Writer sounded bemused.

“Yeah, I hated it; it was so depressing! I read for enjoyment and I just can’t enjoy something which is so downbeat.”

The Writer chuckled. “That’s not the point.” There was silence once more.

The Writer checked his wristwatch. “I’d better go; duty calls.” She nodded and he rose to leave.

As he was waking down the tunnel to wherever duty called, she called out to him; “Hey!” the Writer turned to her. “What’s your name?”

The Writer smiled, turned and walked away.

Meta-blogging

For a while now I’ve been reading this blog on the internet. It updates every Saturday (most of the time, although he has been known to be a little late and even not show up on occasion). It’s written by a guy in his late teens from what I can gather and yesterday marked its one year anniversary. While it’s predominantly a current affairs blog, he also does reviews of various different media, relates ‘interesting’ anecdotes from his personal life, occasionally writes fiction and showers his readers with photos from the obscene number of holidays he goes on (three in the last 12 months).

As I said his mainstay is current affairs and in the last year he’s rambled and ranted about news ranging from the benign, such as people who think the earth is flat, to the magnanimous, such as the MP expenses scandal. Despite this range he always manages to keep the same tone of not quite taking it seriously, which sometimes affects the quality of his analysis. He does occasionally make some quite telling points, although this is more likely to be sheer fluke given the general tone. He has an annoying habit of segwaying from everything to one of his personal pet topics, such as human rights, the role of government and nationalism. At times this feels father forced and gets tiresome. He also has a tendency to philosophise about even the most unphilosophical matters, leading him to over-think things a lot of the time. However, despite their shortcomings, his entries about current affairs are usually fairly entertaining, if lacking any serious journalistic credentials.

Over the last year he has also done a grand total of ten reviews, half of them about movies, one about a TV series, two about the very same videogame, one about a different videogame and one about an album. In terms of movies he reviewed The Dark Knight, The Quantum of Solace, Australia, Twilight and the Patriot; well to be fair he didn’t do a full review of the Patriot, instead he segwayed onto nationalism, again. Most of his film reviews are fairly decent, although pretty safe; he doesn’t exactly break new ground with what he says. He has a tendency to be a tad inconsistent; he always complains about length, whether a film is too long or too short. He can’t seem to decide whether a film should be short or long and it gets very irritating. His analysis is always very critical, while he often has a point; there is always the feeling that he’s being rather harsh, maybe he thinks being mean is funny. Being mean isn’t funny kids. Don’t be a dick. His reviews of video games are rather limited due to the fact that he clearly doesn’t play many games. Nevertheless his two reviews of Empire Total War were not too bad, mostly because he hid them amid some other stuff which made the entries bearable. Overall his reviews are normally pretty entertaining, if somewhat lacking on occasion. Still the reviews are on the whole better than the current affairs stuff, but maybe that’s because he doesn’t do so many of them.

He’s clearly a fan of music; as well as reviewing Guns ‘n’ Roses (badly) he often recommends various bands that he’s discovered over the last year, in fact one of these seemingly innocent recommendations turned into a full on rant about indie music snobs which was actually pretty entertaining, if a little harsh at times. He has an annoying habit of doing that actually; half the time is feels like his entries have ended going where even he did not intent them to, leading to the writing at time feeling rambling and rather disorganised.

Very occasionally, something happens in the life of our little blogger nerd that he feels he should tell us. Thankfully this has only happened a couple of times because they’re normally not very interesting. In fact half the time it feels like he just wants to laud what he’s done over us, for example he keeps bringing up the fact that he went to the download festival last year, as if that makes him special, the smug git. He also does this whenever he goes on holiday; for some reason he’s got it into his head that we want to see his holiday photos so insists on showing them to us. Annoyingly he also seems to go on lot of holidays; Austria, Japan and Madeira in the last year alone. You get the feeling that he’s just showing off.

So all in all it’s pretty entertaining, if a little inconsistent; at times it seem to take itself too seriously, and at times it doesn’t take itself seriously enough. The writer is clearly pretty intelligent and equally arrogant. He has a tendency to try a little too hard to be funny and ends up just being silly; I mean he even did one entry which was an entirely self-referential review of his own blog. I mean what the hell?

Anyway, I need to go buy myself a new fourth wall, so I’ll just finish by saying thanks for reading all year, I hope you had as much fun as I did. Here’s to as many years as I can be bothered to do this. Personally I’m surprised I’ve kept it going this long.

Banning the burka

In an interview with the Financial Times today the French Urban Regeneration Minister Fadela Amara urged the banning of the burka (a type of Muslim headdress which covers the entire face, leaving only a slit for the eyes), saying that it represented “the oppression of women”. These comments come at a time when a commission has been set up in France to look into whether the burka should be banned or not. Ms Amara (who is an Algerian) argues that the burka represents “the political manipulation of a religion that enslaves women and disputes the principal of equality between men and women”. In effect she is saying that the French government should forcibly remove this symbol.

However the burka is just that; a symbol. Covering up ones face does not, in itself, imply enslavement. The burka is the symptom of the real problem, removing it will solve nothing. If the French government wants to prevent the oppression of women it needs to go far further than banning a piece of clothing. While it may represent something, in reality it is just a piece of fabric. Simply banning the burka will do nothing to prevent women from being oppressed. Essentially President Sarkozy, in pushing for this ban, is making himself look like a hard line politician willing to do bold things to solve endemic problems. It is all elaborate shadow play; in reality he is doing nothing to solve the problem, he is simply removing one of the major symptoms of it, making it look like the problem has gone away when it hasn’t

I do not doubt the claim that, in many cases, women are forced to wear the burka and I do not dispute the claim that this is immoral. However there are women who wear the burka out of choice; to ban it would be an affront to their freedom, the very thing that is supposedly be protected by this proposal. It would be akin to banning the wearing of a Christian crucifix. While the burka is not an item of clothing specifically Muslim (it actually predated Islam quite considerably), it has become synonymous with extreme Islamist regime, most notoriously the Taliban in Afghanistan, who required women to wear the burka. There is some grounding for the wearing of a Burka in the Quran; it says that both men and women should dress modestly, but does not specifically mention the burka or any other variant on the headscarf typically worn by Muslim women. The Taliban’s forcing of women to wear the burka was of course absolutely immoral, however the question has to be asked; what is the difference between forcing women to wear the burka and forcing them not to?

The French government claims that this will make women more free. However this belies a complete misunderstanding of the concept of freedom; freedom is a mindset, just having the rights to do something does not mean that people will embrace the. By forcing them not to wear the burka, the French government are trying to force women to be free. Freedom is defined as being without compulsion, so forcing or compelling one to be free is inherently paradoxical. In a seemingly innocent act intended to be against the oppression of women, the French government is trying to square a circle, it will simply solve nothing.

However the problem with the French proposal runs deeper than the paradox of forcing freedom on people, or failing to get to the heart of the issue, if they ban the burka the French government will go against the single purpose of government; the protection of its citizen’s rights to life, liberty and property. All humans have a fundamental right to do what he or she desires so long as it does not infringe upon the rights of others, that is to say we all have the right to say, think, do, wear, eat, drink and write whatever we want. So long as we do not prevent others from doing what they want, the government has no right to stop us. Any attempt to forcibly impose a standard of decency completely goes again the principles of government. So whether it is banning so called ‘hate speech’ or preventing women from wearing the burka, the government is acting not as the representatives of the people, protecting their rights, but as a dictator imposing arbitrary standards on its citizens. The French proposal to ban the burka is symptomatic of what is fundamentally wrong with governments the world over; it is impeding, rather than protecting our basic rights.

So Ms Amara may be right that the burka represents “the oppression of women”, but so, paradoxically, does the proposal to ban it. If the French government wants to stop the oppression of women it needs to do just that; stop the oppression of women, directly and without compromise, rather than simply engaging on political shadow play to make it look hard line. It is the duty of the French government, and all governments around the world, to protect its citizen’s rights, rather than further oppressing them.

Holiday Schnapps

Oh look a late blog...

Yes it's that time again. Having returned from yet another holiday, that third I think since I stared this thing, almost a year ago actually which is pretty mind boggling, it's time for more holiday snaps. And yes this is late because I have better things to do in the last few days of my holiday that compile a blog of photos.

This time my destination was Madeira, a small Portuguese island off the west coast of Africa. It's not particularly exciting to be honest, but my parent like it enough to keep going back so there we go. Anyway, without further ado, some photos.We went to some botanical gardens, which were actually pretty nice. My camera can take the credit for this next one though, I really was not expecting this one to come out as well as it did.

Oh look, a nice house with a lake and a waterfall and some other random stuff... well I liked it

I don't know why these guys were even here to be honest, maybe they got lost on the way to the British Museum. They're terracotta warriors, from the tomb of the First Chinese Emperor; the British Museum did an exhibition of them a while ago, in case you didn’t get that joke. Obviously these guys aren't the real thing, just mock-ups, pretty well done though. I'm still unsure as to what they were doing in a botanical garden in Madeira

More nice flowers, well done again to my camera, I really can't take the credit for it.

My parents really like walking and they dragged me along on a couple of them.

unfortunately it was pretty hard to tkae photos becuase of the haze and the shadows making for very uneaven light and washed out photos. Nevertheless I think I got some decent photos to give you an idea of the truely amazing scenery.

As i'm sure you can see we were above the level of the clouds, which made for some pretty spectacular views.

Unfortunately the clounds closed in on the second walk, so I couldn't get many good photos, which was a shame because I'm sure the view would have been lovely.

Well that's about all I can be bothered for now, next Saturday, normal services resume, probably.

And now for something completely different 2

Due to the fact that I'm currently sunning myself in beautiful Maderia (with my laptop close by of course) I have no inclination to write a proper entry this week. Instead i present to you the second part of this little story, the first part of which I posted a couple of weeks ago. Un fortunately I really dislike this little bit and despite rewriting whole chunks of it i'm still not particularly happy with it.

Contrary to cliché killing is no easier second time round. While the situation may be more comfortable; the Scotsman was disturbingly professional, the horror of robbing a man of his life, no matter how much he deserves it, is always profoundly horrific. While the adrenaline may override sensibilities in favour of instinct, as soon as it is out of your bloodstream the true implications of your actions hit with the force of a high speed train. While I am certain that I am doing the right thing, I cannot get over the horror of killing, no matter how justifiable.

Our victim this time, although victim is not the right word; victim implies innocence and the man we killed was far from innocent, was relatively senior within the government; more so than the first that I killed. He took the same route home every day so planning the attack was easy. The choice of location was not very different from the scene of my first murder; dirt and grime covered the walls and litter was strewn across the street. I could hear the barking of dogs in the distance above the drone of cars. The only thing in the entire street which carried any semblance of modernity was the security camera, perched in the corner of a building, painfully out of place in the dingy street.

I waited for what seemed like forever in the entrance of a long abandoned house before the man walked past, wearing a smart, but well-worn suit and carrying a briefcase, slightly tattered, as though it had seen it’s best days; a perfect reflection of the neighbourhood. He walked quickly, apparently anxious to be home; perhaps he had a family waiting for him, kids waiting for daddy to come home so they could eat the meal lovingly prepared by a dedicated wife. I stepped out behind him and followed him, far enough not to attract attention, close enough not to loose him, I did not care that daddy wasn’t coming home tonight. When he reached the end of the street the Scotsman stepped out in front of him. Our target stopped dead. Although I could not see his face, it was clear from the way that his body stiffened that fear had him in an iron grip. He knew what was coming.

“I mean you no harm, I haven’t done anything, I swear!” he called out desperately, holding his hands up to protect himself from the Scotsman; he did not expect the crowbar to the back of the skull. He crumpled and fell to the ground. The blow had killed him instantly. The Scotsman slit his throat anyway, just to make sure. We did not speak as we returned to the tunnels

The woman walked up to the man writing the diary. Crouching beside him she spoke.

“I’ve been wondering ever since you started” she had an American accent, quite nasally; probably from the north east, maybe New York. “Why do you keep a diary?”

The man stopped writing and put the small book away. “It’s the first chance I’ve had to write for pleasure since all of this started.” He did not need to say what ‘all this’ was. She looked at him inquisitively so he went on; “I used to write, back when they didn’t read everything you wrote and check it for antigovernment propaganda.”

“Why did you stop?” Her voice rose, embracing the spirit of rebellion which lingered in the swears

“Fear. Fear that I would write something they didn’t approve of and get arrested. I wrote my opinion and when it became illegal to have an opinion unless it had been approved by the state I stopped writing.” The man sighed, lost for a moment in nostalgia of a better age.

“Did you ever have anything published?” Her question pierced his memories.

The man laughed. “I was never good enough for that, I didn’t want too anyway; I wrote for myself and I wanted to keep it that way.” There was a haunting pause. “How about you?” He spoke eventually, more out of desire for conversation than information “What did you used to do?”

“I used to write computer code, design websites, hack into places I shouldn’t hack into!” she accompanied the last few words with a chuckle of embarrassment.

The man smiled, but the balaclava masked it. “Criminal?” he asked jokingly.

“Nah, I didn’t used to do that kinda’ stuff, I wasn’t in it for the money, I just wanted to challenge myself, you know, I got a sense achievement from hacking stuff, as if I was beating the system. I had to stop when they started cracking down, they didn’t use to mind so long as you didn’t steal any information, but then they started caring and so I had to stop; I didn’t want to wind up in prison. When I joined the rebellion I stated trying to hack into the government’s system, trying to use my skills for something productive.”

“I’m afraid I can offer much assistance there; I’m useless with computers!” they both laughed at the poor joke, more out of formality than amusement.

There was a silence in which they both noticed the Scotsman watching them from a few metres away.

“You said you wrote reports, what did you used to do?” the woman reignited the conversation.

“I worked for a business; it was one of my jobs to write reports of our particular sector’s progress to the board, very boring, very technical. I hated it!” she laughed.

“I used to design websites for companies…” she paused for a moment, contemplating. “You said you were writing a diary because you had to stop writing once this all started, but why a diary in particular? Why not just write a novel; the same sort of thing that you used to write?”

The man stopped to think. “I needed somewhere to vent, somewhere to write down my thoughts, my…” he trailed off with a sigh. “I suppose I had to justify my actions to myself and try to get clear in my head exactly what had happened, and what is happening.” The conversation trailed off, the two masked figured sat, deep in thought.

Next week... holiday snaps, as usual

The Patriot

Earlier this week I sat down and watched The Patriot, a movie from 2000 staring Mel Gibson and the late Heath Ledger. Much as I would enjoy ripping the Triumphalist pile of American cock-suckery, I think that reviewing a 9 year old film might be just a little bit too far; even I have standards you know. Anyway, the film got me thinking about several things, one of which was where the nearest bucket was.

If you haven’t watched it, and I expect that you haven’t, I’ll give you a brief summary. If you feel like putting yourself through a couple of hours of futile misery by watching it then be my guest. If that’s the case you may want to skip this next bit for fear of spoilers. The film is set in South Carolina in the American War of Independence, or more accurately a parallel universe in which all Americans are righteous god-loving, high-minded demi-gods and the British are a load of snivelling, oppressive pricks that seriously lack a moral compass. The story revolves around a family, of which Mel Gibson is the father and Heath Ledger is the eldest son. In short Ledger’s character (named Gabriel... I’ll leave you to infer the obvious joke) goes off like all good flag-fucking young men should to fight in the name of freedom and justice. Meanwhile Gibson’s character pretends to be a pacifist in the name of character development. The war eventually comes to the family home and they agree to house some British wounded, in return their house gets burnt down, one of the sons gets killed and Gabriel, who is conveniently at home at the time, gets dragged off for execution. The antagonist in this case is the most stereotypically evil British Commander in the history of Film. Gibson along with his two remaining sons goes off and ambushes a rather incompetent column of troops and free Gabriel. For the next hour or so Ledger and Gibson run rings around the British with guerrilla warfare until the stereotype evil Brit starts killing everyone. With about half an hour to go, with Gabriel and any other family or love interests dead or in hiding Gibson unfurls the flag and embarks on the most sickeningly patriot conclusion to a film I have ever had the misfortune to sit through. I won’t detail it for fear of making you and me queasy.

To be fair to the film, until the last half hour the patriotism simmered gently under the surface of a decent story which focused on one specific family in the context of a larger war; it could have been any war and it wouldn’t have mattered. However once the writers killed off or conveniently removed any family interest and the director really let Mel Gibson off the leash the film took a turn down creation myth alley and it was downhill from there.

I say creation myth because the general perception of the American War of Independence is just that; a creation myth loosely based in reality. While it started as a revolution by the Americans for their own nation free from British rule, it very swiftly escalated into a much larger ‘Proxy’ War between Britain and France. The French funded the Revolution from the very beginning and ended up entering the war as the deciding factor. The war of Independence was as much a war between Britain and France as a Revolutionary War. Essentially the image which is portrayed by the media is a gross misrepresentation of the facts. It is a glorified creation myth designed only a self-gratification for the then emerging United States of America. Now that the USA is the one global superpower, this collective delusion only serves to inflate the already enormous American Ego.

The principles of Life, Liberty and a the Pursuit of Happiness are admirable ones and the American Dream, while mostly propaganda is something that we can and should respect, however the slogans and philosophical self-righteousness are a thin veneer placed upon the blatant and dangerous patriotism which lies at the heart of the American consciousness. It is easy too look at the flagpoles in every garden and chants of “USA, USA” at political rallies in a Romantic light, but in the modern world of fast travel wherever you want, it is ever more dangerous. America is no longer a distant ‘Brave New World’ an ocean away; it is a few clicks of a mouse away.

America can no longer afford to be so self obsessively arrogant. So long as films portray America as a dream world were everyman is born equal under God and Manna falls from heaven on a daily basis, American will be seen by the world not as a place were anyone can go from rags to riches with the right amount of effort and hard nosed determination, but as an outdated, self obsessed lumbering world power which throws it weight around under delusions of righteousness.

America’s collective arrogance is painfully outdated in the postmodern world we live in were people are rushing to distance themselves from their country. While there may be fringe groups and ferocious support for national sports teams, the embarrassing shadow of colonialism looms large over Europe and any national pride is left in Trafalgar Square or the Champs-Élysées. It is time that America leaves its national pride in its own monuments and approaches world affairs seeing itself on a level pegging with the rest of us, rather than trying to assume the position of superiority without consent. Rather than appearing like a teacher schooling children, America looms like a school bully ready to use force to get his way. It is past time that America forget it’s delusion of grandeur and treat the rest of the world as equals not inferiors. While this change may be gradually happening already, you need only look as far back as the Iraq War to see that it isn’t happening fast enough. Mel Gibson strutting around with a flag fluttering in breeze behind him is certainly not helping.

And now for something completely different

Because there is nothing of any interest going on at all in the world at the moment, I decided to dig out some stuff I'd written about a year ago because I sprung upon some inspiration. I think I may have just read 1984, or something given the basic premise. Anyway, have a read and tell me what you think.

Two days ago I killed a man. At least I think it was two days ago; I’m not quite sure. The last 48 hours (or however many hours it actually is) have been timeless. You’re probably wondering why I have thrown you into the end of this story, not the beginning like any mentally stable person, but I want you to understand my motivation for writing this down and inevitably incriminating myself. The truth is not, as you might reasonably assume knowing nothing of my situation, that I am feeling very guilty and regretful over what I’ve done. The truth is that I am actually quite proud of myself; the man thoroughly deserved to die. No don’t suddenly assume that I am psychopath who has some shallow, contrived reason why my victim had to die, I’m not.

The reason the man had to die is quite simple; the more of them I kill, the more it hurts them, and the more it hurts them the better. ‘They’ are the people who rule this country, who watch our every move, who regulate our every act. The most tragic thing is that we actually elected them. Their arguments seemed so persuasive, so innocent. They were going to protect us, they said. They were going to stop the attacks, they said. They were going to protect our liberty, they said. 10 years they have been in power (10 years without an election by the way), and none of these have happened; the attacks still happen, we feel less secure that we did before and they have slowly eroded our liberty.

First it was our anonymity; the cameras, the ID cards, the constant tracking. The government now knows exactly who we all are, exactly where we all are and exactly what we have ever done. We cannot do anything without them knowing about it. They can even predict what we will do next; they are always a step ahead of us. You might want to know how this happened, how we let it happen. This is one of the things we actually accepted, back when the government listened to its people. They told us that it was to stop the terrorists, to stop the people who wanted to kill us. ‘What have you got to hide?’ they asked, ‘If you haven’t done anything wrong, what are you worried about?’ So, a little begrudgingly at first, we accepted the legislation.

I suppose that there is nothing inherently bad about the government having all of this information, when it is a good government. When it isn’t, the information gets abused, and that is exactly what happened. At first it was people who preached terrorism and spoke up for violence against people. It was not long after this that they began arresting people for speaking out against the government. ‘To present a united front,’ they told us. They shut down any newspaper that spoke out against them and now the only papers left are filled with government propaganda. Anyone who doesn’t read them gets arrested.

Despite all their measures to stop the attacks, they only got worse. They called a state of emergency and suspended the election, then they dissolved parliament. Decisions were no longer debated, they were just enacted, and no one had anywhere to voice their complaints or grievances.

The last straw was taking away our children. At first it was voluntary to send children away to government run boarding schools, now it is compulsory. If you refuse, they break down your door, steal your child and throw you in prison. No one knows what happens to them in the school or the prisons, but when they come out they are a different person. There is no mark on them, but they are different: you can tell when they talk. It is a toneless drone and whenever you mention the government they are full of praise.

As I said, it was the last straw. We rebelled. Well the word ‘we’ is a little misleading; it implies some sort of cohesive group, implies that we rebelled in an organised, collective way. But how would that be possible in a society were your every move is monitored, your every word documented? No, it would be more accurate to say that I rebelled at the same time as thousands of others. We rebelled for the same reasons, at the same time, but we were not together; we were a collection of individuals, acting for our own reasons and for our own cause. Because of this we are unstoppable; there will always be rebels, so long as we are free.

So, two days ago killed a man. I went to the government offices and waited for one of them to come out, I didn’t care whom; in this battle anyone is a target. I still don’t know who it was that I killed; it may have been a senior government official, or just a pen pusher. It didn’t matter because the more we hurt them the less able they are to hurt us and the more afraid they become, the more they will think before they act. Before the attacks have all been on civilians; the occasional government official has been caught up in the blasts, but never before have they been targeted specifically. Now that they are being targeted, they will fear us, and that fear will destroy them.

So I followed this official, through the streets, passed the occasional bombed out building. Most of the streets are quiet; people tend not to go out anymore; they’re afraid of the attacks. I don’t know whether he was aware of me or not, but he seemed to take a very roundabout route; down back alleys. I followed, and when I was in one particular alley I made my move.

Fear and anxiety drove me; the adrenaline pumping through my veins gave me the extra strength needed to make it a swift kill. I bent as if to tie a shoelace and my fingers groped for the brick I had spotted to my left. Grasping it in sweaty palms, I knelt like a sprinter, I daren’t look back; there was a camera behind be. I chose this spot because the camera would not see my face; maybe I would be able to delay my death for a few days if they weren’t sure of my identity.

The brick was heavier than I have expected and I got off to a lumbering start, eventually however I built up pace. I sprinted down the alley and leapt onto the back of my target, taking him to the ground. He was smaller than I had expected; the thick winter coat he was wearing hid his true physique. It was not easy to subdue the man; he fought ferociously, like a cornered dog, starved to desperation and frothing at the mouth. Eventually my greater strength and the advantage a weapon afforded got the better of him. I struck him until his brains spilled out onto the ground. It was a disturbingly pleasant feeling. I looked back up the alley to check that my act had not been seen by anyone, turned and walked away briskly.

Near the end of the alley a hand wrapped itself around my mouth and I was hauled through a door to my left. I stab of fear shot through me: I had been caught.

“Your first mistake was allowing them to watch you as you followed him,” the harsh Scottish accent whispered harshly in my ear. “Your second mistake was killing him in the open.” The voice went on, I was frozen by terror, like a rabbit in headlights. “Your third mistake was looking up after you smashed his brains in; you got caught on camera; they know who you are and they will stop at nothing to kill you.” he paused, releasing his grip on my mouth. I turned to face my kidnapper. He wore a balaclava so I could not see his face.

“All in all though, not a bad job; you chose a secluded location and managed that camera well enough until you gave yourself away afterwards. You didn’t let them know what your voice sound like, which is a good thing and no one but me saw you. Most people fair much worse on their first go.” I didn’t quite no what to make of this strange faceless man who talked of death so calmly, as if he was experienced at the act.

Eventually I found it within myself to speak. “So you’re not one of them?"

“Very perceptive. I’m just like you in fact.” He came very close to me. “A rebel!” he whispered in the same tone he had addressed me with at first.

“So there are more of us?”

“Oh yes, lots more, but I can’t say anything more here, it’s not secure enough; we want to keep a secret as possible. Come with me.”

He led me down into the basement of the small terraced house. He pulled off the cover of the entry shaft into the sewers and ordered me down. We landed in a foot deep of water. The tunnel was not wide enough for both of us to stand straight, so, because I wanted to question the strange man, I was forced to crane my neck against the curvature of the tunnel wall. My companion fished out a torch and turned it on; the tunnel was illuminated to reveal grime-covered walls.

“You’ll be needing this.” He said, handing me a balaclava, much like the one he was wearing.

“Why do I need to wear this down here? Surely there are no cameras here?”

“No, but we can never know whether or not we have been infiltrated, so long as no-one knows who anyone else is, they can’t tell them who we are.” I put the balaclava on.

“But if someone has infiltrated us, couldn’t they lead the police to us?”

“The tunnel system’s huge and we know it a lot better than they do. We could fight a guerrilla war against them down here quite easily, and win it in no time.”

I had meant to question him more, but there didn’t seem much more to ask; I could answer all my own questions with relative ease.

I spent the next few hours on a guided tour around the sewer system. I met many of the other rebels. There was a good number more that I had expected; some it seemed had fled down here when things first started, many more had arrived as things became gradually worse. They also had a startling number of weapons hidden away, as though they were building an arsenal.

So for the last two (or three) days I have been living down here, in the sewers. When I first asked if I could keep a diary they were sceptical, but after a while a persuaded them. So long as I didn’t give anything away about our location, they said.

The Scotsman walked up to him as he was writing in the diary.

“Come on.” he said, “Time for your second murder.”

The man put the diary and away in a safe dry place and followed the Scotsman.

I've written a couple more instalments, which I may post in the next few weeks, I may even write a bit more if inspiration strikes. Tell me what you think