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lockscreens no. 322 In the eye of a hurricane There is quiet For just a moment A yellow sky / Hamilton

photography + design: © kaespo do not repost or redesign.

Niki Lauda 

❤️

abhorrent-roy:

becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys:

So just to recap really quickly to be sure I’ve got this right:

UKvia’s Prime Minister, David Cameron, wants to win a general election, but UKIP are pinching all his voters because they want UKvia to leave the EU, a process hereafter known as Brexit. 

He therefore promises to hold a referendum about the EU that won’t actually be legally binding, but says he’ll stand by the result anyway, so it’s like, practically legally binding.

He wins his general election. The referendum on Brexit is set for June.

The campaigning is split into Remain and Leave camps. Political parties are immediately all over the damn place, except UKIP, who literally only exist over this one issue. David Cameron wants to Remain. The Leave camp is headed by Evil Clown Freak Boris Johnson, the former Mayor of London with an impressive cult of personality who wants to be Prime Minister so he can kick out all the Muslims and have his detractors beaten and/or killed, and Nigel Farage, a sort of Haunted Walnut Mask possessed by the soul of an angry Nazi who wants UKvia to be an autocracy or at least to just stop interacting with anyone who is The Wrong Sort, i.e. not white.

The Leave camp also contains some people we call Lexiters, who want Brexit for left-wing reasons. Unfortunately, they utterly fail to spot that they are being given an overly-simplified binary option and not a nuanced opinion-giving vote, and that they will therefore be siding with and empowering racists.

The campaigning begins. The Remain camp mostly uses an economic argument. If Brexit happens, they argue, the pound will plummet, causing another recession and also all that European funding our poorest areas receive will vanish. The Leave camp mostly uses an immigration argument. We’re swamped by swarms of immigrants stealing all the jobs, houses and opportunities, they argue, and if we kick them all out you’ll get your jobs and that back.

These arguments are both targeted at incredibly impoverished people. They hear the first argument - that they’ll be economically worse-off after Brexit - and think, “Things can’t actually get any worse??? So???” They hear the second argument - that there’s a really simple reason that they’re poor and it’ll be fixed by Brexit - and think, “So things can actually get better??? SIGN ME THE FUCK UP.”

Also, the Leave campaign is much richer, and can afford to do far more leafletting through people’s letterboxes. Older people who don’t/can’t use the internet to fact-check are incredibly vulnerable to factual-looking leaflets through the door about the EU, with titles like “The EU - the facts”.

The main points that the Leavers ultimately push, though, are as follows:

Let’s close the borders and stop immigration!

We spend £350 million EVERY WEEK on the EU. Let’s spend that on the NHS instead!

The EU is completely undemocratic, unlike the UKvian Parliament! LET’S TAKE BACK SOVEREIGNTY.

These are all literally lies.

All of them.

Nonetheless, the second one in particular gains traction - it gets emblazoned across the Leave campaign bus, and put on all of their posters when they give speeches.

The Murdoch-owned newspapers of UKvia, most notably the Daily Mail (the paper that supported Hitler), all peddle these lies ceaselessly, and paint anyone who disagrees as ‘unpatriotic’.

Meanwhile, Nigel Farage announces that unless the gap between the decisions is 10% or more, he’ll demand another referendum.

Just before the referendum happens, an MP in the north of England called Jo Cox is gunned down and murdered by a Leaver who shouted “Britain First” as he killed her and owned Nazi memorabilia.

Anyway, the referendum rolls around, and the following happens:

Older people overwhelmingly vote to Leave, having been taken in by the Lie Leaflets. 

Poignantly, some of the poorest areas were incredibly susceptible to being given easy scapegoats for their poverty, and so also vote to Leave.

A shit-ton of people who don’t actually want to Leave vote to do so because they too have failed to grasp what a binary election is or means, and think that by voting Leave they’ll simply show the government that they’re unhappy with UKvia’s position in the EU.

Lexiters seeking ideological purity vote to Leave.

Racists vote to Leave in their droves.

Young people overwhelmingly vote to Remain.

The final result is a win for Leave, with 51.9% of the vote to 48.1%.

Immediately, the pound starts to not so much fall as plummet, taking several other currencies with it.

Within four hours of the polls closing, the Leavers admit that even though they’ve won, they won’t be able to close the borders.

THE FIRST LIE IS REVEALED

The following day, as the result is announced, Nigel Farage appears on national television. Not only does he admit that we won’t actually be spending £350 million a week on the NHS, but he denies ever having said it, and claims he thought it was a mistake that others said it. Photographs immediately circulate of his election bus which had it written on the side, and of speeches he gave in front of posters that said it.

THE SECOND LIE IS REVEALED

David Cameron cries, because this was never meant to happen.

Towards the end of the day - less than 24 hours after the result is called - the Leavers one and all admit that they don’t actually have a plan for this happening. In a bizarre twist, they blame this on David Cameron, a man who, for all his evils, wasn’t actually in their campaign, nor was he the head of a political party that literally only exists for this exact scenario. 

The already-falling pound now enters freefall, breaking records for how quickly it can sink.

The Daily Mail publishes a story smugly telling Britain to “take a bow”, and then explains all of the shit that’s now going to hit the fan. Its readers are furious that they weren’t told this before the referendum, and are horrified that they now won’t be able to own and use their French holiday/retirement homes.

The racists take to the streets in unbridled delight, harrassing and assaulting everyone they think might be foreign, buoyed by the belief that everyone agrees with them. When Remainers try to talk about this, Lexiters suddenly crawl out of the woodwork to try to silence them, squawking about how it’s totes unfair that people think they’re racist for voting Leave. They do not see the irony.

Meanwhile, millions of people start calling for a second referendum, now that the blatant lies have been revealed. Also, all those ones who voted as a protest are feeling really fucking stupid. And hey, Nigel Farage did say he’d call for a second referendum if the margin between was less than 10%, right?

Right?

Riiiiggghhhht?

WRONG, MOTHER FUCKERS. Leavers who are either racist or tribal about the whole thing start posting memes about how everyone should ‘accept democracy’, and telling Remainers - or Remoaners, as they get rebranded - that ‘you lost, get over it.’ 

David Cameron meanwhile, having now schismed his country, induced the rise of street-side fascism, exploded his own economy and that of others and plunged the nation into a quagmire of uncertainty and No Plan, falls on his sword and resigns. At least now he might be remembered as the man who destroyed his country rather than the time he face-fucked a dead pig while gazing into the eyes of another Tory.

Nigel Farage then stands down as head of UKIP.

No, that needs repeating.

NIGEL FARAGE STANDS DOWN AS HEAD OF UKIP.

This is literally the only thing he’s for, but he’s so dramatically incompetent and out of his depth that he has to flee the scene and get someone else to do it.

Maybe Boris Johnson? No more Cameron, Johnson was a Leaver, now is the time…

NOPE

Because he can’t do it either.

But why?

Because there is literally no good way of leaving the EU without tanking the economy so hard we all go back to using horses for horse power and return to the barter system. He knew this all along, of course, but like David Cameron and, let’s be fair, everyone else, he didn’t think we would actually leave. So he could back the safely-losing-but-popular-horse and ride into Downing Street as Man of the People. But then it all went wrong and so now he’s on the run.

Theresa May ascends the throne instead after a two-horse race in which one of the horses had only three legs and got shot before it was halfway in. Theresa May is a Remainer, but she really, really hates human rights and wants to repeal them.

That’s not hyperbole. She literally wants to remove our human rights.

In the first sensible political move we’ve seen in months, though, she makes Boris Johnson the Foreign Secretary. This cuts him off from his cult of personality power base, while making him responsible for negotiating our new trade deal with the EU, which as mentioned, is never going to be good. It remains to be seen how effectively she has kneecapped his chances of becoming PM at the next election, but it’s a damn good blow she’s struck, credit where credit’s due.

Then she sets about trying to repeal the human rights act.

People - Leavers - start braying about Article 50. Article 50 is what we need to enact to leave the EU formally, but is an odd thing:

We can trigger it, but withdraw from having done so at any time?

The referendum was not, as mentioned, legally binding, so May doesn’t actually have to do it. 

The big question: Should Parliament get to vote on it first? The referendum was not, after all, legally binding. Should Parliament have a say in it?

Given that the Third Big Lie was that Brexit was about reclaiming UK Sovereignty, you’d think the answer here would be a straightforward ‘yes’.

The other big question: what the fuck is the plan for leaving? What will our trade deal be? Terms like ‘Hard Brexit’ and ‘Soft brexit’ get thrown around. Everyone is bewildered.

Then the pound dips lower than the Euro, which is a fucking disaster. UKvia’s newly-instigated minimum wage, designed to be a living wage, comes into play just in time for the costs of living to soar. Big companies start leaving Britain. Jobs become uncertain or are lost.

Polls show that the number of people who voted Leave but would now vote Remain is now greater than the margin of difference in the actual result. We haven’t even left the EU yet and already everything is going to shit.

Unilever announce that, owing to how the pound seems to be on a one-way journey to the centre of the fucking Earth, their products will be more expensive. This includes Marmite.

Marmite, for those who don’t know, is a black tar-like edible paste made of yeast extract that prides itself on splitting people more completely than an ill-planned EU referendum, in that you either love it or hate it.

It’s vegetarian and it makes things taste like meat, and you can flavour gravy with it.

I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong, it’s delicious. Marmite on buttered toast is lush.

Anyway this makes people go F U C K I N G   M E N T A L. Marmite is a British institution HOW VERY DARE THEY

People who previously didn’t give two mouldy shits about capitalist production as long as the product was cheap start screaming about how it’s only a problem because Marmite is bottled outside of Britain, meaning import costs. This is easier for them than accepting that their vote caused a Marmite Crisis.

And then the case of Should Parliament Vote On Article 50? goes to the High Court. 

The High Court judges rule that yes, the British Parliament should vote on this as well.

Leavers. Lose. Their. Fucking. Shit.

People who moaned and wailed about British Sovereignty now moan and wail about the Sovereignty of Britain being protected. Remainers gleefully tell them that ‘you lost. Deal with it.’ They do not see the irony.

THE THIRD LIE IS REVEALED

Immediately following the ruling, as if by fucking magic, the pound does a U-turn in its bid to burrow through the planet to Australia, and for the first time since the whole mess began surges up against the dollar.

The Daily Mail publishes an article stating that it’s an outrage that the High Court ruled this way because one of the judges is “openly gay.”

Is that everything?

You are a beautiful human being for putting this together 👌🏼

I repeated the experiment later, wearing the boots but otherwise my usual clothing and mimicking the expression I thought I’d had at that moment. People parted like I was Charlton Heston.

I now wear that style of boots whenever possible. I recently had a man do a double-take as I walked by and ask me, politely, where I had served because I “looked like a soldier.” I’m not current or former military. I was wearing a flowy purple peasant top and looked as un-soldierlike as possible.

Valhalla does not discriminate against the kind of fight you lost. Did you lose the battle with cancer? Maybe you died in a fist fight. Even facing addiction. After taking a deep drink from his flagon, Odin slams his cup down and asks for the glorious tale of your demise!

Oh my god, this is beautiful.

A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.

He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”

The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”

————

A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?

Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”

———-

A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.

Odin asks.

And asks again.

And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?

Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“

In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.

The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.

“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”

He waves them off with a hand.

“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”

And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.

Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.