Showing posts with label Tone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tone. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 10, 2021

Torturers 'R' US (2005)

From the February 2005 issue of the Socialist Standard

Can belief in God help to nullify the effects of pain? This is the objective of an experiment to be carried out at Oxford University and funded by the US (where else?) John Templeton Foundation, which will subject volunteers/victims to painful experiments in an effort to determine whether faith in a deity will make pain more bearable.

The report (Times 12 January) goes on to say how the two-year study, headed by neurologist Susan Greenfield, will be undertaken at the Oxford Centre for Science of the Mind (well, they could hardly call it "Torturers 'R' US"). It will measure people's neurological responses as they are exposed to religious symbols while being tortured in order to "determine the efficacy of their faith in helping them to cope". The aim of this is apparently to develop new approaches "for promoting wellbeing and ultimately maximising individual human potential", although how this can be achieved by torture is (pun intended) mind- blowing.

Now far be it for socialists to advocate torture in any form; however, purely in the interest of science and more importantly, since these people are actually volunteering for this experiment, may we suggest that these sanctimonious bible-bashing nutters be strapped down and subjected to a continuous playing of Cliff Richard's abominable "Millenium Prayer."

Should these volunteers be heard screaming "Jesus Christ" at the top of their voices, this should not necessarily be interpreted as an exaltation of their faith in some alleged god.
Tone.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

February horrorscope (1984)

A Short Story from the February 1984 issue of the Socialist Standard

Good news and bad news. First the bad news. You are diagnosed as having a serious illness which will kill you in six months unless you are prepared to sell your house and car, your home computer, and all your furniture in order to pay for an expensive operation in a Swiss clinic. Now the good news. A team of British surgeons have just perfected this operation which can be obtained on the National Health Service.
P.S. There is a seven month waiting list.

A tall stranger appears on your doorstep today, but don't rush into something you might regret. Be ruled by your head rather than your heart. Before opening up to him ask yourself these relevant questions: have I paid the television licence? Did I reconnect the gas-meter?

You will have trouble at work today. It is discovered that you have sent a letter to a local paper complaining about the fact that the management have nice soft toilet paper while you grubbers on the shop floor have to make do with torn up pieces of the Sun. You are immediately branded as a red mole and suspended. The media has a field day. You are denigrated, castigated, and generally regarded as a not nice person. (You should be grateful that hanging wasn’t re-introduced.) After all. what better use could you find for the Sun?

Turmoil in the home. You are visited by a burglar who contrives to separate you from the rent money secreted behind the biscuit tin, along with the twenty-pence pieces nestling in the coffee-jar. He also takes some of the family heirlooms, including the picture of the green Chinese lady, and the three plaster ducks.

A letter bearing bad news arrives today. Don’t even open it and you’ll feel all the better for it. Throw caution to the wind and tear it up. (You can always get reconnected when you pay the bill.)

A slight bit of bad luck. You arrive back at work after your winter holiday week only to discover that the owners have dismantled the factory and scarpered. (Who says that you can’t take it with you?) This means that not only do you no longer have a job, but you don't get any redundancy money either, in spite of your twenty-eight years' service. Ah well, it never rains but it pours. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and for you this comes in the form of a consolation prize in a corn-flakes competition: a bike. Unfortunately, while out foraging for a job you fall off and break your ankle. Stay in bed.

You receive a summons to appear in court as a witness at the trial of six policemen accused of attempting to murder an innocent bystander by filling him full of holes. You tell the court how you saw the policemen sneak up on the victim who was bending down to tie his shoelace, and empty their guns into him. The judge remarks that anyone can make a mistake and commends the officers for remaining cool while reloading for a second volley, in spite of the potentially threatening gesture the suspect made by twitching his left ankle. He also recommends the policemen for bravery citations. You get six months for perjury.

A marvellous time for you, the very pinnacle of your life. Your child is one of the seven and a half thousand children whose stories have been selected to be published in a bedtime book of fairy-tales to be presented to Prince William. (And with a bit of luck your husband could be one of the lucky handful of unemployed hired to lift the bloody thing.)

You are in a spending mood and Asda are doing a real bargain basement in collapsible nuclear fallout shelters at the amazing knockdown price of £39.50. This gets you the nuclear family (no pun intended) size shelter which can be assembled in forty-five seconds flat. (It can be de-assembled even quicker.) It comes complete without groundsheet allowing you quick and easy access to the soil enabling you to dig your own private little loo (and also to dispose of anyone foolish enough to stick their face out beyond the mock whitewash sides). There is also a compact little pocket complete with zip, to store all those little necessities that you might require after all the fuss had died down, like money, a first aid kit, or even some cyanide capsules.

You are developing some strange habits. Asking questions and reading papers that don't have page three cuties. No good w ill come of this. Leave the thinking to people who can decide what's good for you. After all, if everybody started to get these ideas into their heads, where would it all end?
Tone.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Uforia (1979)

A Short Story from the April 1979 issue of the Socialist Standard

In Italy recently there was much craning of necks and straining of eye-balls when strange objects which many people believed to be flying saucers, were spotted in the sky. Photographs, and even a film, have been produced to substantiate this, and one Italian even appeared on television claiming to have spoken to creatures thirteen inches tall with lights in their foreheads. Since then the hysteria seems to have spread, with a report in the Guardian of UFOs buzzing an American missile base.

It would appear however, that despite all this aerial activity, flying-saucers, like ghosts, never actually make any serious attempt at communication, and one might wonder why these galactic interlopers go to all the bother of traversing space only to complete a couple of laps before zooming off again.

Perhaps the reason for their reticence in making contact is that they have been tuning into earth sci-fi movies in the mistaken belief that these were actual recordings of preceding missions. They would undoubtedly derive little consolation from a movie like The Day the Earth Stood Still in which poor Michael Rennie, while merely trying to warn earth governments of the folly of their ways, only got a bullet for his trouble (despite having a ten-foot tall tin pal who dispensed instant obliteration at the clunk-click of a visor).

Another reason might be the problem of choosing a landing site. Certainly ruled out would be the grounds of the White House, where one recent uninvited guest was assisted from the premises by a dozen club-wielding policemen. Another good place not to come down is Iran where any vehicle tends to end up as an instant bonfire. Nor Cambodia, where both sides in the set-to currently going on there aren’t exactly renowned for their kindness to prisoners. A worse fate for a space visitor would be hard to imagine—except perhaps to land with a green skin in among Rangers fans at a Celtic-Rangers match.

But more probable is the apparent complexity of the society that visitors would experience. Assuming that the spectators came from a planet whose society somehow evolved differently from that of the earth—Tribal Communism, Chattel-Slavery, Feudalism, Capitalism. The observation of the day to day running of the buying and selling system might be somewhat overwhelming. Perhaps to discreetly eavesdrop on one of these crafts might help to clear up the mystery.

“Our scanners show people blowing one another up, and shooting and clubbing each other to death”, 

“Is this all they do then?”. 

“Apparently not, in spite of the mayhem they appear to have developed quite a high level of technology.”

“So then, we can assume that everyone has ample food, clothing, and shelter?” 

“Now that’s an interesting point. Although the planet is capable of providing enough food to satisfy the needs of the entire population many times over, many millions are undernourished and even starving to death.”

“Perhaps they have inadequate methods of transportation?” 

“Well, here’s a transporter carrying milk and it appears to have arrived at its destination.”

“Are they giving it to the people?” 

“No they’re pouring it into a hole in the ground.”

“I see, a storage tank?” 

“No an abandoned mine-shaft. Now this looks hopeful, here are a group of people at a production unit stacking up sacks of grain in a huge pile.”

“Ah, then this time they must be storing it?” 

“Not exactly, they’re burning it.”

“Is here any logical explanation for this seemingly irrational behaviour?” 

“Well I’m not quite sure, but from what I can gather it’s some kind of weird religious sacrifice they dedicate to a deity they call profit. Apparently great numbers of these people go into production units and produce vast quantities of wealth taking only enough to keep themselves alive. On the other hand there is a small number of people who must be high priests judging by the amount of wealth that they own and consume, and by the way that the producers revere them, indulging in a curious ritual of inclining their bodies and pulling at strands of hair on the front of their heads.” 

“This is most difficult to understand. On our planet where we have long since mastered the technique of production, we simply distribute according to people’s needs.” 

“It would seem that although these people also have the wherewithal to organise themselves in the same way very few have grasped this simple proposition.” 

“Do you think we should land and inform them?” 

“Are you kidding? Look what happened to Michael Rennie.”
Tone.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Superfacts (1984)

From the April 1984 issue of the Socialist Standard

Look. Up in the sky.

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

No, it's a super geriatric!

No, it's not, it's Supermac.

Who?

You know, the Earl of Stockton.

Who's he then?

Why, he's ex prime-minister, Harold Macmillan, that's who.

What'd he do that was super?

Well for one thing he coined phrases that were famous.

So do Xmas cracker manufacturers.

Yes but his were more relevant, weren't they?

Such as?

Well he said: "You've never had it so good".

So he was into sex then?

Oh no, nothing like that. Whitehouse forbid. No, he was talking about the important things in our lives like our jobs, our respirations.

Aspirations.

Them too.

So what did be actually do then?

He gave us more jobs for one thing.

It is with us again, this condition they have repeatedly assured us was gone for good. Unemployment at the end of 1962 was pressing stubbornly upwards and was expected to top the 600,000 mark with the turn of the year. Once again we are seeing a lengthening of the dole queues. Some sections of workers have been affected more than others, such as those in manufacturing and construction. There has, for some time, also been widespread unemployment amongst teenage school leavers. (Grim New Year, Socialist Standard, January 1963.)

And another thing  . . . . 'Ere wait a minute! What's the idea of interposing a quote from the Socialist Standard circa 1963 into our discussion?

Well, you see when you have a discussion you can make all kinds of assertions, but when you introduce facts it takes on a bit of real meaning, and the reality is that even when we are supposed to be "having it so good" it was still bloody awful. The truth is that even when capitalism is going through one of its periodic booms, the needs of the vast majority can never be satisfied in spite of the so-called great leaders. Nor could it be otherwise since capitalism can only operate in the interest of the tiny handful who constitute the capitalist class. So instead of asking the slavish question: What did he do for us?, ask yourself this question" What can I do for us? Get it Mac? Super!
Tone.

Monday, August 3, 2015

Shop talk (1984)

A Short Story from the June 1984 issue of the Socialist Standard

In the town of Inverness a talking checkout machine was recently introduced in a blaze of glory by Your Caring, Sharing Co-op, which should be more accurately described as Their Profit Making Co-op. Computer technology is zooming ahead at such a fantastic pace that it is difficult to keep abreast of all the improvements. Clive Sinclair, the current whiz-kid of the computer market, has predicted that new robots will soon be on the go performing all sorts of mental acrobatics.

After the recent case of the supermarket check-out girl who was fired for intolerably bad temper towards the customers on Monday mornings, the logical desire for any supermarket owner is a machine which replaces workers (and therefore saves wages) while at the same time is constantly pleasant to the punters whom it is relieving of their cash. However, since even the most sophisticated machine is fallible, there is a prospect of one of these devices having a brainstorm: "Good morning madam, and what little delicacies do we have here?  . . . ah, yes, cold meat 75p . . . wholemeal bread 50p, better than that adulterated white stuff . . . smarm . . . nice little table-wine at £1.99 . . . sure to impress your husband's boss when he comes to dinner. (Not to mention the refuse collector when he clocks the fancy label) . . . please pay the girl at the till. Thank you and good day . . . Krrrrrkkkk . . . fizzle.

C'mon grandma, hurry it up, we haven't got all day. Let's get these pathetic morsels tallied so we can get onto the real spenders . . . right, two ounces of spam (Yeeugh!) 20p . . . a solitary carrot 5p . . . 1 lonely onion 5p . . . 1 small loaf 25p . . . my, we're really living high on the hog aren't we? . . . 1 tin of Crappo dog food 35p . . . wait a minute, I'll bet you don't even have a dog, you're eating the bloody stuff yourself right? . . . C'mon own up. Hey, stop that snivelling woman, pay up and get out. No, not through the plate-glass door, open it first. That's right, now step out and . . . Gotcha! Security man, grab that old bag, she's got a tin of sardines that she forgot . . . er . . . didn't pay for. Good! the arm up the back, now the quick frogmarch into the manager's office to wait for the police . . . hee . . . hee . . . heeeeeerrkkkk . . . 

And the next one please. Hmm, what have we here? cornflakes 55p . . . You know, a top nutrition expert called Michael Van Straten is on record as saying that there is almost as much nutrition in the box as there is in the cornflakes. Butter 50p . . . sausage 70p . . . have you ever seen how they make sausage? almost no limit to the fat content . . . wouldn't like to see your arteries . . . Frozen chicken £2.75 . . . wonder how much water's been injected into our ex-feathered friend to boost the weight, (and the price) . . . In fact, have you ever stopped to consider why it's necessary to have prices at all? Here we are living in a world which produces food, clothing, and shelter in such abundance that everyone could have the very best instead of all this third-rate rubbish. And the beauty of it is that the amount of time actually needed to produce this wealth could be reduced to a few hours a day with all the extra available people released from non-productive jobs such as there girls operating the tills, and the manager, rushing over to pull put . . . the plug!? . . . Don't touch the . . . . . . . "
Tone.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Plain Words (1980)

From the September 1980 issue of the Socialist Standard

The National Consumer Group recently brought out a pamphlet, Gobbledygook, which is an attack on the almost unintelligible jargon used in official documents. Now socialists are also interested in eradicating gobbledygook, and here are some examples. 

The National Interest
This should be interpreted as The Capitalist Interest, since the interest of capitalist and worker must always be opposed. The capitalist must always try to keep the cost of production (which includes wages) as low as possible, while the worker must strive to protect his wages and working conditions. The phrase is often used by politicians as a last resort when they can't think of a logical argument to use (which is very often the case) - "Of course the government is not opposed to strikes in principle, but this strike is against the national interest . . . "

We Will Have To Pull Our Belts In
Old chestnut usually employed when one government has just been elected in place of another. Generally along the lines that since the last bunch have made such a hash of things, the new bunch will have to apply some firm but unpopular measures to sort out the mess, which usually means another assault on the living-standards of the working-class. If this phrase had been copyrighted it would have accrued a fortune for whoever penned it since it has been used by practically every politician. Often used in conjunction with "The National Interest".

We Are Paying Ourselves Too Much
Delicate play on words here. It really means: We are paying you too much (you being the working class). Especially directed at those workers who have the audacity to ask for more wages as a buffer against rising prices. Does not include royal families, company directors, members of the Stock Exchange and so on, who are grossly underpaid.

Marxist Guerrilla
Much beloved by the media this one. If any serious attempt at accuracy was made then the phrase should read "Leninist Guerrilla". The people in question tend to be minority groups seeking political ends by violent means, a tactic advocated by Lenin and not by Marx. The media, deliberately or through political ignorance, apply the term to any political group who carry out a coup d'etat (usually described as a "Marxist Revolution").

You've Never Had It So Good
Historical curio quoted by Harold MacMillan at a time when workers drank five star brandy and smoked Corrona-Corronas, ran expensive cars and holidayed in the Bahamas. Not used nowadays since even gullible workers find it hard to swallow.

Viability
Trendy new word used by smart-alec politicos. Although having different literal meaning has tended to become synonymous with "profitability", for example: "Unfortunately, viability has not been achieved by this plant therefore we have no alternative . . . "

British Disease
No, not a dose of the clap. Not even the common cold. In fact this has nothing to do with disease at all. Refers to a popular prejudice that British workers are lazy and like nothing better than shirking work, and drinking tea all day. Personified in obnoxious and unfunny cartoon strips, also provides much material for would-be comedians who make a living feeding the prejudices of their audiences with stories about workers on strike. Strangely, the working class still manage to churn out enough surplus value to ensure that members of the capitalist class can scratch up the ready for jamborees like Ascot, Henley and Cowes. After the exhausting business of guzzling the Dom Perignon, and splashing hundreds of pounds on the horses of their choice, they can of they wish, sleep for as long as they like without fear of public condemnation.
Finally, we include one phrase which the politicians and the media do not use but which, although not gobbledygook, does warrant a mention because of its profound implications.
Abolish The Wages System
Penned by Karl Marx, this phrase neatly sums up Marx's concept of Scientific Socialism - a world-wide society without buying, selling or exchange in any form, where all wealth would be produced and democratically controlled by and in the interests of society as a whole. Nowadays this phrase is used exclusively by the SPGB and its companion parties abroad in an effort to combat the gobbledygook of the mass media and pseudo socialists.
Tone.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Cons'IS'tent Incons'IS'tency (1976)

From the December 1976 issue of the Socialist Standard

The Saturday afternoon meeting of the Socialist Party at Glasgow's Exchange Square was "honoured" by the attendance of some members of the International Socialists who, not having a meeting of their own to bore people with, decided to latch on to ours instead. Immediately, our speakers were taken to task for not doing anything about "the current urgent proble facing the working class".

"Which urgent problem?"

"Unemployment. You never protest against these problems!"

"Wrong", the speaker replied. "That's precisely what I am doing this afternoon: protesting not merely against unemployment, but all the problems the working class as a whole suffer directly under capitalism".

"But that's not positive enough. What you should be doing is getting out on the streets and marching. That gets definite results."

"Yes, sore feet. Don't you understand the basic ABC of capitalism? Employers employ workers to produce commodities. If they can't be sold on the world's markers to realize a profit for the owner, then he will have no alternative but to close down his factory."

"We would occupy that factory", the critic asserted.

"They tried that in an Italian car factory", said the SPGB speaker. "Then they made a brilliant discovery: you can't eat tyres or drink petrol. So they simply came back out".

"But they would be assisted by their fellow trade-unionists".

"All that would result in", said the speaker, "would be a factory full of unpaid night-watchmen". He added, on the question of the so-called "right to work": "Unemployment can't be solved by making slavish demands for an alleged 'right' which doesn't exist. Neither can any tangible difference be made by screeching at trade-union leaders or throwing sticks at Callaghan's car. How illogical can you be in the IS? First you urge the workers to vote the Labour Party into power - then, when they do get in, you attack them for doing what you voted them into power for: running British capitalism!"

"Tactics, comrade, tactics", the IS member explained. And, with a straight face, he said: "What you've got to do is show the workers the utter futility of voting for the Labour Party, by telling them to vote Labour. That way they experience how awful the anti-working class Labour Party is".

Trying to prevent himself reeling dizzily off the platform, the SPGB speaker said: "What will happen if you put up candidates at the next election? Will you urge workers to vote Labour in constituencies where you are contesting?" This brought the discussion round to the fact that, despite their avowed anti-parliamentarianism, IS were contesting the election at Walsall. This mental somersault was defended with the claim that workers, disgusted with the National Front, would turn instead to them!

The speaker told the audience that the SPGB had tried to debate with the National Front but the meeting was broken up by "freedom-lovers" who were against the free expression of opinions - including members of IS. Apparently as the only reply they could think of, one of the IS group said: "Do you mean that you actually debated with people like the National Front?"

"We debated with IS too", said the speaker. "The way to defeat organizations like the National Front is not to suppress them but to have them express their views and then expose them for the gibberish they are. Once armed with Socialist knowledge, no worker will allow himself to be led up every blind alley demanding the thousand-and-one 'urgent' reforms which only ensure that capitalism stumbles on a little longer".

Exeunt IS members shaking their muddled heads, perhaps trying to clear them.
Tone.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Diary of a worker (1980)

From the November 1980 issue of the Socialist Standard

Monday

Woke up. Went to work. Came home, had tea. Switched on box, sat down, fell asleep. Woke up, switched off box, went to bed. Couldn't sleep, finally dropped off at 1 o'clock.


Tuesday

Six o'clock alarm went off. Dragged myself out of bed. Missed bus, late for work. Came home, had tea, switched on box, load of rubbish on a Tuesday. Watched a programme called The Voyage of the Beagle which I thought was a Walt Disney adventure story. Turned out to be about someone called Darwin collecting bugs. Fell asleep in the armchair. Woke up, switched off telly and went to bed. Couldn't sleep, so read Penthouse instead.


Wednesday

Prayed for alarm not to go off. Alarm went off. Pulled myself out of bed. Quick cup of tea and some toast. Switched on tranny for time check. Disc jockey gibbering away. Switched off quickly. Dashed out to bus stop, missed bus, late for work. Bit of excitement in work today. The management was holding a presentation for old Dobbs, who was retiring after fifty years service with the firm; gave us a break from the usual boring routine. They presented him with a digital alarm clock, guaranteed for ten years, which means it will probably last longer than he will. Came home, had tea, switched on the television. Catastrophe! Telly wasn't working. Slumped in chair completely stunned. Too numb to gave a catnap, so I decided to read the Sun which I didn't have time to do in the tea break. Finally decided to have an early night. Couldn't sleep, so I decided to try counting sheep, only trouble was that they all seemed to have old Dobb's face.


Thursday

Hoped the alarm was broken. Alarm not broken. Crawled out of bed, had breakfast. Jones next door offered to give me a lift into work every morning in exchange for my giving him petrol money, which meant that I could have an extra half-hour in bed every morning. Sauntered out of house and climbed into car. Car wouldn't start. Climbed back out again. Missed bus, late for work. Got a red-hot tip from a man at work whose cousin drinks in the same pub as a man who works in a stable, so at dinner time I nipped out to the bookie's and stuck a pound each way on Dangling Carrot running in the three-fifteen at Doncaster. Horse got beaten by a nose. Came home, had tea. Television fixed. Switched on, sat down. Good night for television. Fred and Ginger tripping the light fantastic. Fell asleep. Woke up, switched off box, went to bed. Finally dropped off at two.


Friday

Hoped alarm would fail to go off. Alarm failed to go off. Panic. Jumped out of bed, threw on clothes and rushed out. Quick "Good morning" to Jones's bum sticking out of from under bonnet. Missed bus, late for work. Read in the paper today about a chap who had just won three quarters of a million pounds on the football pools. Too much money for one person. They should divide it up into lots of smaller prizes so that more people would have a better chance of winning. Besides, you couldn't be happy with all that money. Look at all those stories you read about how unhappy rich people are.

Got another sure-fire tip today, this time from the canteen lady whose granny plays the ouija board; Pie In the Sky running in the two-thirty at Lingfield. Since I got paid I could afford two pounds each way. Unfortunately, it didn't have a prayer. Came home, had tea. No telly tonight, instead went up the pub. Had a few pints, played darts, had another few points . . . staggered home, went to bed, no problem falling asleep.


Saturday

Fell out of bed before alarm went off. Too ill to have breakfast. Actually managed to catch the bus and was congratulating myself when I remembered that I don't work on a Saturday. Back up the pub tonight. Lively and interesting discussion about whether that last goal was offside at today's match, and then down to the serious business of playing our darts league match. Out of the pub and into the Chinese take-away, then home in time for the late-night double movie bill: Carry on Wage-Slave followed by: The Night of the Blood Sucking Parasite.


Sunday

Best day of the week. Walked round to the pub for a couple of pints before dinner. Afterwards it was such a nice day, I decided to stroll home through the park so that I could work up an appetite for my favourite meal, that traditional English dinner of roast soya beef, and instant Yorkshire pudding. I was crossing the square when I spotted this guy up on a soap-box, so I stopped for a laugh. He was talking about a world without money! What a load of rubbish. I was going to stay and shoot down all his commie arguments but then I realised that it was almost time for Match of the Day so I decided instead to leave with one really witty parting shot, I shouted: "Why don't you go back to Russia?!" Nobody laughed. They were probably all Commies too. Imagine, a world without money! No money to buy all the things you want. Doesn't bear thinking about. Arrive home to see Jones's feet sticking out from beneath his car. He asked me if I was going back round for a few pints later on. Mumbled an excuse about having to something in the house. Actually, I didn't want to admit that I'd spent the last of my pocket money, so I stayed in and watched the telly instead. Some good films showing on a Sunday night, only trouble is that they are on too late. Went to bed. Couldn't sleep. Very restless tonight, kept thinking about that guy and his world without money. Told me that I was a slave! Crazy. I'm free to do what I like. Eventually dropped off to sleep at three . . . at six the alarm went off . . .
Tone.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Xmas eve at the grotto (1986)

A Short Story from the December 1986 issue of the Socialist Standard

"Hello little boy, climb onto my knee and tell me what you would like for Xmas. A BMX bike? A computer? Or perhaps you'd like something more traditional like a train set?"

"Well actually Santa, what I'd really like is a system of society based on the common ownership and democratic control of the means and instruments for producing and distributing wealth".

"Hee hee, well, er, how about a nice Action Man instead hmmm?"

"But I don't like playing with dolls".

"Dolls? Dolls! Action Man isn't a doll. He's a real live, or rather real imitation live, bucho macho man. Why he's got muscles on his nostrils; he comes complete with all action SAS uniform, guns, grenades, knives, the lot. And for a little extra you can have a complete change of outfit. There's the riot-cops' gear with a super long club for clobbering pickets. Nothing namby-pamby about Action Man".

"Well, I still think that it's a doll, and anyway I don't fancy all that simulated violence".

"Hmm, okay then, how about something more sedate like the game of Monopoly?"

"But I want to abolish money".

"Okay, okay, look here's a good one. Hangman".

"What's that about then?"

"Eh, let me see. Oh yes, it's rather like one of those interminable game shows that are never off the telly. What happens is this: your opponent makes up a word which you have got to find out by guessing the letters one by one. Every time you guess wrong, that's another step up to the gallows. If you guess wrong too many times then your man is hanged, hee, hee hee".

"It's a bit reactionary isn't it?"

"Well, it is only a symbolic hanging you know. I mean they don't actually hang anyone . . . Wait a minute, these television producers are always looking for new ideas for telly shows, this could be the break I've been waiting for. Hey kid, how would you like to hold the throne for five minutes until I call my agent? . . . "

"Hey Santa, I'm not finished yet".

"What? Oh okay, another half an hour and I'll be on my break anyway. Right, where were we?"

"You were asking me what I wanted for Xmas and I've been trying to tell you that what I'd really like is to have socialism".

"Listen you little Commie runt, how would you like me to jam this plastic pixie right down your . . . Ulp! here comes my boss. Quick - give me a big smile. C'mon you can do better than that. Wider, that's it. Now wave to him and I'll let go of your nuts. Phew! there he goes into Santa's workshop. Boy are Santa's helpers in for a shock. Now look son, let's be reasonable, there's a big queue forming. After all, if they all thought like you, well, where would we be?"

"In a happy sane society".

"I knew you were a pervert. Look son give me a break. I'm not really Santa Claus you know. I'm actually an out of work actor between engagements and I can tell you it's not easy sitting here all day like a white haired ventriloquist".

"Couldn't you get some work in television then?"

"If only I could. I did once manage to get a walk-on part in a soap opera or to be more accurate it was a sit-down part".

"What part did you play?"

(Sigh) "Santa Claus".

"Listen, socialism won't have Santa Claus, nor for that matter will there be such a thing as Xmas".

"But that would mean that I'd be out of a job".

"Everyone would be out of a job, at least in the sense that there would no longer be employment which is what people really mean when they talk about work. Since there will no longer be employers and employed, people will be free to do the kind of work they really enjoy doing and that includes acting, because people will still want to be entertained".

"Good grief, it's as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, everything is so cleas now . . . "

"You're overacting".

"Sorry, was it so obvious? I studied the Method you know. Anyway, I'm going to do something positive for a change, and to begin with I'll remove this stupid wig. There, I've done it. What a great feeling. Now I think I'll burn the wig. Hee hee".

"You mean that you've grasped the concept that I've been explaining as easily as that?"

"Of course dear boy, it's so simple that even a seven year old could grasp it".

"Well I'm certainly relieved to hear you say that".

"Oh, why?"

"Because now you can explain it to that long line of howling kids. Merry Xmas".

Tone


On a witty festive note, I'd also like to point you in the direction of S. J Perelman's "Waiting for Sanity', which has been reproduced on the excellent Scottish blog, The Socialist Courier.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Xmas eve at the grotto

From the December 1986 issue of the Socialist Standard


"Hello little boy, climb onto my knee and tell me what you would like for Xmas. A BMX bike? A computer? Or perhaps you'd like something more traditional like a train set?"

"Well actually Santa, what I'd really like is a system of society based on the common ownership and democratic control of the means and instruments for producing and distributing wealth".

"Hee hee, well, er, how about a nice Action Man instead hmmm?"

"But I don't like playing with dolls".

"Dolls? Dolls! Action Man isn't a doll. He's a real live, or rather real imitation live, bucho macho man. Why he's got muscles on his nostrils; he comes complete with all action SAS uniform, guns, grenades, knives, the lot. And for a little extra you can have a complete change of outfit. There's the riot-cops' gear with a super long club for clobbering pickets. Nothing namby-pamby about Action Man".

"Well, I still think that it's a doll, and anyway I don't fancy all that simulated violence".

"Hmm, okay then, how about something more sedate like the game of Monopoly?"

"But I want to abolish money".

"Okay, okay, look here's a good one. Hangman".

"What's that about then?"

"Eh, let me see. Oh yes, it's rather like one of those interminable game shows that are never off the telly. What happens is this: your opponent makes up a word which you have got to find out by guessing the letters one by one. Every time you guess wrong, that's another step up to the gallows. If you guess wrong too many times then your man is hanged, hee, hee hee".

"It's a bit reactionary isn't it?"

"Well, it is only a symbolic hanging you know. I mean they don't actually hang anyone . . . Wait a minute, these television producers are always looking for new ideas for telly shows, this could be the break I've been waiting for. Hey kid, how would you like to hold the throne for five minutes until I call my agent? . . . "

"Hey Santa, I'm not finished yet".

"What? Oh okay, another half an hour and I'll be on my break anyway. Right, where were we?"

"You were asking me what I wanted for Xmas and I've been trying to tell you that what I'd really like is to have socialism".

"Listen you little Commie runt, how would you like me to jam this plastic pixie right down your . . . Ulp! here comes my boss. Quick - give me a big smile. C'mon you can do better than that. Wider, that's it. Now wave to him and I'll let go of your nuts. Phew! there he goes into Santa's workshop. Boy are Santa's helpers in for a shock. Now look son, let's be reasonable, there's a big queue forming. After all, if they all thought like you, well, where would we be?"

"In a happy sane society".

"I knew you were a pervert. Look son give me a break. I'm not really Santa Claus you know. I'm actually an out of work actor between engagements and I can tell you it's not easy sitting here all day like a white haired ventriloquist".

"Couldn't you get some work in television then?"

"If only I could. I did once manage to get a walk-on part in a soap opera or to be more accurate it was a sit-down part".

"What part did you play?"

(Sigh) "Santa Claus".

"Listen, socialism won't have Santa Claus, nor for that matter will there be such a thing as Xmas".

"But that would mean that I'd be out of a job".

"Everyone would be out of a job, at least in the sense that there would no longer be employment which is what people really mean when they talk about work. Since there will no longer be employers and employed, people will be free to do the kind of work they really enjoy doing and that includes acting, because people will still want to be entertained".

"Good grief, it's as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, everything is so cleas now . . . "

"You're overacting".

"Sorry, was it so obvious? I studied the Method you know. Anyway, I'm going to do something positive for a change, and to begin with I'll remove this stupid wig. There, I've done it. What a great feeling. Now I think I'll burn the wig. Hee hee".

"You mean that you've grasped the concept that I've been explaining as easily as that?"

"Of course dear boy, it's so simple that even a seven year old could grasp it".

"Well I'm certainly relieved to hear you say that".

"Oh, why?"

"Because now you can explain it to that long line of howling kids. Merry Xmas".

Tone


On a witty festive note, I'd also like to point you in the direction of S. J Perelman's "Waiting for Sanity', which has been reproduced on the excellent Scottish blog, The Socialist Courier.