Fear and Safety

BREXIT HAS CREATED SHORTAGE OF 330,000 WORKERS IN UK SAY ECONOMISTS

MICHELLE MONE ADMITS SHE LIED AND LIED AGAIN AND STANDS TO BENEFIT FROM £60M PPE CONTRACT PROFIT. BUT DEFIANT PEER INSISTS 'I CAN'T SEE WHAT WE HAVE DONE WRONG' 

“When small minds were uncertain, they fell back on systems already proven unworkable, applying the theories with greater and greater force in spite of their obvious failure: Leninism, Stalinism, Thatcherism, Reaganism. All corrupted, simplistic, and marked by their uselessness as programmes.” Michael Moorcock: The Wokingham Agreement (New Worlds 2022) #MichaelMoorcock #NewWorlds

"Only idiots are certain of anything." Una Persson, The Murderer's Song

The future had never seemed so unpredictable, the present so filled with fear and uncertainty. It was easier than ever to romanticize the past. And still too many of us were clinging to an untrustworthy master: The old unreliable, unloving, sadistic Law and Order. In the smog and shadows of the docklands Jerry Cornelius cursed his leaking boots and the inadequate lining of his cheap all-weather jacket. He daydreamed of a warm bed, the promise of a mirror, a phone switched to a silent mode.

"Anyway I reckon it's about time we started making this country look less attractive to outsiders!" Beneath a vast, numinous autumn sky Jerry's brother Frank nodded his approval of his own sentiments despite being well within earshot of more than a thousand Turnaround passengers as they disembarked from The SS Oswald on her maiden voyage from New York to the Caribbean and British Islands via The New Thames Cruise Terminal, where Frank, under The National Dock Labour Scheme had scored a supervisory roll as Head of Security. East London was an odd mix of seedy condescending Trustafarianism and shabby heroin chique that made Frank feel perfectly at home.

A dozen grumbling Leyland Tiger coaches belched smoke along the dock road, ready for excursions to The Child Poverty Museum, The Millenium Blimp and The House of Our Lord. Tourists were of no corncern to Frank, despite the fact that their safety was his direct responsibility. Bagging a supervisor position had provided him with a much-needed confidence boost. It had also allowed him to hand-pick his team, eighteen of his toughest lads, plus two of his least favourite people on the planet but they were now exactly where he wanted them: Beneath him.

"Small Boats Jerry... Small Boats Good Morning Madam and welcome to London Town Yes! Yes indeed Sir welcome good morning lovely morning... The thing is Jerry, we've no room for 'em not anymore... stealing our houses, taking our jobs, on all the benefits, flailing to integrate - Taxi Rank's just at the top of the ramp there Sir, tell 'em Frank said you'd look after 'em (so there's a tenner in it for me at the end of the shift... more money than sense these Yanks...) No Jerry, they terrorize, vadandalise, abuse and misuse this fair land of ours."

"I think you're confusing immigrants with the anti-immigrants? The Nationalists? The bloody National British White Mens Conservative Socialism Party? The Brexit Freedom or Else Party? The Bowls Club? Funny how their pub-crawls always seem to take place where they're least welcome, where they can do the most damage. Defending England through vandalism and hate crime? Neo-Nationalist Knuckle-draggers?" Jerry Cornelius was in finer form, despite his aversion to all things Eastend and much to the annoyance of his brother. 

Frank found the five a.m. start times and twelve-to-thirteen hour shifts unbearable. Jerry was high on the novelty of getting up when typically he would be getting down. "And you know there's more job vacancies than people registered as unemployed in Britain? More empty houses than homeless people? Is that how I ended up working here?" 

"Don't you try making me feel guilty for being white and proud of my country Jerry you ponce." Frank's eyes glazed.
"I'm just saying it's your mates in the Neo-Nasty Party who are failing to integrate?" Something crunched under Jerry's boot, he gazed down at the crushed carapace of some poor unfortunate arthropod. The seagulls here were vicious, fearless and always hungry.

"You're wrong Jerry, you're just plain wrong - I know, I've done my research I read all the papers - The Mail AND The Telegraph - I've got The Full Sky Package at my place... my apartment... These illegals are ruining this country and you can't prove me otherwise."

"People aren't illegal. Asylum seekers just fill out forms... they aren't the ones dropping bombs and they're not the ones who screwed up the process... The economy - this country you're so proud of - can't function without foreign labour anyway. And you live in Bedsit."
"And whose fault is that then?!" Frank attempted to rearranged his ill-fitting uniform. He could never decide where to put his radio.

"Whose fault is the state of the nation? I dunno, maybe The People in Charge? The British Education System? The Class Divide? The gutter press? Certainly not people with even less clout than us."
"Rubbish - The Bloody EU done that. Bloody Heatlh and Safety... Crappy Security Standards... Equal bloody Port Tunities?! Lazy foreign workers coming over here stealing English jobs. What a bloody joke. It's called Survival of The Fittest for a reason!" Frank was in his element, another minute or two and he would catch his brother off guard, turning the topic of conversation to his latest obsession: Hollow Earth Theory. He was contemplating a fundraiser for an expedition in the summer. He deserved a holiday.

"Our Security standards were always our own Frank, not the EU's. Besides we're not even in The EU no more." Jerry knew there was no win to be had, no way to reach what little sanity his brother had left: Objectivity was a dirty word to someone so used to being drunk on fear, lies and belief.
   "That's probably why they screwed us over! And sent all these illegals all hover 'ere for us to bloody deal with!" Frank's head bowed in greeting to an elderly couple clad in the tweed, leather, pearls and mismatched pastels: The default uniform of the afluent upper-class traveler.
   "Besides this is a Classless Society Jerry, anyone can be rich if they've worked hard enough. You really need to get over your politics my son, pull your socks up get to work, open your eyes. Do you think the centre of the Earth is hollow?" Frank became suddenly breathless. Parts of his ashen complexion flushed purple. He would have liked to have sat down but he knew he could not show weakness.

"Wear something warm round your neck..." Beneath a menacingly cocked Pork Pie hat Mo Collier's eyes remained fixed on the foggy steel grey horizon as he approached his colleagues. "Hard work and rich rewards are two separate worlds in Mo's experience. Nothing in common. It's nothing but superstition to believe hard work equals fair rewards. Mo worked sixty some-odd hours last week and what's I got to show for it? Wet feet, a bad hip and I've aleady blown half of this months wages already. No immigrant done that to me. Foreign labour can have my job anytime."
   "You ungrateful sod Collier - I'll cut your hours if that's your attitude."Taken aback by Mo's quiet confidence Frank prodded around beneath his shell in search of a liver he was fairly certain should not be pulsating so early in the day.
   "I wish you would cut me hours but you won't cause you know Mo's irreplaceable."

Frank refused to accept the fact that Jerry and his stoney-faced pal were the only people on his books who could be relied upon to turn up vaguely on time, not reeking of booze, not too obviously under the influence of Class As or the toxic imaginings of overtly right-leaning noise media. He flatly refused to employ any kind of minority, anyone more qualified than him or anyone that did not speak with his own Proper Southern English accent. 

He believed that Equal Opportunities was flooding his industry with people who looked like they would not have his back in a fight or would not always agree with his opinions in an argument. Woke Snowflakes filled him with a boiling rage that he could not contain. He almost enjoyed their company for the ugly rush of hatred. Frank was strictly Old School and would have none if it. He took a breath. He stood his ground, clutching a rail with one hand while the other held his internal organs in place.

"Mo's coffee tastes weird." Mo Collier stared into his SOUNDS GAY - I'M IN mug.
"Yeah, it's got chlorine in it," Jerry remained optimistic. "|t's American. It's brilliant." He watched as Mo continued to sip the oily brew regardless.

Frank contemplated sending them both home without pay but he needed the numbers, plus he was not entirely sure he had the authority to suspend anyone. At least there was the promise of a good old punch up in the form of a peaceful protest march this morning. The rest of Frank's team needed an opportunity to let of steam. 

Frank had come to accept that his lads were handy in a fight but that was about all they were good for. Like an ugly pack of grey XL Bullies they required constsant supervision to prevent them from pissing everywhere, chewing up the furniture, attacking the people they were supposed to be protecting for no good reason, or turning on one another if bored enough.

"You pair of snowflakes wouldn't last five minutes in the Army." Frank made a mental note to have the pair of them arrested first once he came to power.
"I would certainly hope not. Green just isn't my colour." Jerry brushed rain from his sleeves.

Frank's power over his crew was tenuous but their needs were simple: Give them an easy target. Punch down. Promise them some entirely unrealistic reward was always just around the corner: Triple-Time, Big Pay Rise, a massive amount of siezed Class A Drugs coming our way lads, the more unlikely the better. They loved lies as much as they loved wearing a uniform that made them appear more powerful than they were. Frank lowerd his head, adopted his best hushed radio DJ voice:

"Hawl rayjoes, hall raydios: Please be hadvised, we might see ah liddle bid of Peaceful Action this mornin'... just don't do nothin' on camera. I repeat: Please do not get caught." There was a ripple of laughter and an occasional cheer throughout the ugly confines of the chipped concrete pontoons and rusty walkways of the quayside. 

Other than the signage, nothing about the place said Luxury Cruise Holidays. Even the cruise ships themselves, antiquated barges scarred with rust and blast damage were barely disguised beneath their ugly Brexit livery. "Never you mind the smell Madam, this is what we call a Real Working Quayside complete with all of the sights, sounds and smells of The Good Old British Empire... fish, shit, spices, sweat and diesel you have a lovely day!"

Hospitality was Soft Services, not real security work according to Frank and his Old School guards. But checking tickets and offering advice on the best place to go for Bare Knuckle Boxing and a Decent Pint or The Best Full English Breakfast in Town No Vegans was the only work they could be trusted with. They would have been happier working in a prison. They behaved as if they did.

"The problem with you pair is you're too bloody work-shy." Frank put on his rose gold mirrorshades. They were much too small for his sunken aquiline face.
   "Yes we are work-shy but I don't see that as a problem?" Jerry had come to love honesty. Increasingly he found it almost impossible to tell a lie, unless it was a really ridiculous one. He took after his father for that.
   "Mmm, agreed. Mo's only here for the exercise. That and the money." Mo Collier peered down his nose as Frank. He was everything they stood up against. They lived to make the man uncomfortable.

A sudden sense of hopelessness swept over Frank like a backwash of seafoam and sewage. Ten hours to go and he was already done in. It was almost as if the Neo-Nationalist / Alt-Racialist outlook was not particularly helpful in everyday life. Frank was just so tired of it all. He decided he was well and truly sick of his brother who somehow managed to make their cheap uniform look good, and his seedy friend who resembled a sort of weaponized early-period Alexi Sayle. He would feed them to the dogs as soon as things kicked off. And he would make sure things kicked off. That was something well within his skill-set.

"Beliefs Hazardous to Health." Jerry could read his brother like a magazine.
"Fear sells." Mo mumbled into his Americhlorino.
"I fear nothing!" Frank's eyes were as wide as his mind was narrow. He was too easily riled up. They knew how to play him.
  "You fear nothing?" Jerry was warming up, "Good God man you work in Health and Safety! You're a Security Guard! What about your Ongoing Risk Assesment? Visual Deteternts? You'd be out of job without it." He escalated the situation with a professional touch.
  

"I'm an Alpha Male." Frank winced, speaking before he'd taken a breath. His heat reash felt like needles penetrating his bones. "I fear no man." The cold was getting to him.

"You seriously reckon a few dozen unarmed people who aren't even registered on the National Health Service are somehow a credible threat to your personal freedoms?" Jerry moved beyond his brother's defences.
   "Exactly. Finally you're speaking my language." Frank knew he'd win them over eventually. Then he'd sit back and watch them suffer.

"I thought it was your Actual Government what wrecked the country? Tanked the economy to double their money wasn't it? Eh?" Mo enjoyed a smirk.
   "That was just good financial 'cumin. You wouldn't understand, it's like 'Trickledowner Feck?' I've dealt with the financial world, just a bunch of ordinary blokes, salt of the earth them boys. Proper gentlemen." Frank needed a trip to the Accessibles. A long white line would get him back on track. His fingers reached for the secret inner-pocket of his jacket where he kept his medicinals.

"So these dudes are both 'Ordinary Blokes' AND they're 'Proper Gentlemen' is it Frank?" Jerry got out his kazoo. "La-Di-Da isn't it what-what geezer?"
   "Trickledown isn't real man." Mo was firm. He nodded to his old comrade. "It's just like NLP or Darwinism: It's not credible science it's incredible rubbish. Nobody in charge is coming to save you Frank. No bigwig billionaire is ever going to swoop down and even notice you exist." 

"What you don't realise is these immigrants... they're not like us lads." Frank's mouth became dry.
"Well yeah, they are different: Most of them are middle class, University educated, speak better English than we do. Whizzz whizzzz!" Jerry secreted his instrumet as if it were a vape, or a weapon. He narrowed his eyes, became aware of a familiar sound drifting on the acrid morning air: rhythmic, hypnotic, energized.

"That's how they get in see!? Stealing our jobs, stealing our women..." He squeezed a baggie between grey fingers. He could not visit the facilities until he'd silenced Jerry and his tedious companion. 

"Listen chief," Mo's inner clam, his Chi, was unwavering. "If you lose a job opportunity to someone else then that ain't theft, because it wasn't yours to lose: It's because they're better qualified than you. Or maybe they don't quite have the colourful employment history or criminal record that you do... And you're single! You don't have daughters and slavery isn't even legal man! Check your breaks. You don't have no women."

"Talk to me like that again and I'll see you down to just one shift a month Collier you shifty little snowflake." Frank sneered, felt a baggie pop between his fingers. He exchaled, his eyes glazed, his face flushed with hubris.
  "Talk to me like that again and I'll see you in the River you useless glue-bag-faced bigot. Mo don't give a monkey's about hours. You can keep 'em." The rhythmic sound grew louder, more familiar: Boots marching on concrete.

Frank's brow crumpled. He licked his fingers. Then his mouth remained agape as he realised his moment had come: The protest had veered from the planned route. It would pass within his team's area of responsibility. It was everything he'd wished for. His crew of blood-thirsty boys were liable to turn on him if they failed to see action soon. He would put Jerry and Mo on the front line where they were most likely to get a good kicking from either or both sides of the argument. He knew his luck had to change.

But as the protesters approached the chain-link fencing and razor-wire bunting of the Terminal Frank's heart began to beat double-time. To-a-man the crowd were all dressed in the black tactical uniform of security guards. They were indistinguishable from his own team. In fact, as they marched closer Frank observed that their gear was of a much higher quality than his own: 

Their thick-soled boots were not the cheap covered-market knock-offs Frank kitted out his team with; their black bombers were fitted rather than oversized; their black combat pants, high-vis and stab-vests appeared to have been tailored. They chatted via expensive looking dual frenquency radios with Beyerdynamic earpieces and Sennhieser throat mics lacking in the fragile Kwik Save look of his team's.

"You lot can't swan about dressed like that!" He eyeballed a young woman at the head of the crowd. He fingered his radio's panic button. His lads knew all the code phrases he had personally come up with, most of which simply meant "Don't get caught on camera."

"Mr Cornelius. Is there a problem?" Her voice was just calm enough to annoy him.
"You're in charge of this lot?" Frank recognised the grey-eyed woman with the dark, asymetrical bob as Una Persson - the infamous performer and activist.
"Oh no, there's no one in charge here. We're just passing by. We are all on our way to celebrate the completion of our training courses."
"Training? In what?"
"Security." She said calmly. Knowing that she would not be able to de-escalate the grey dessicated guard, she felt no pressure to try.
"You're not Security. I could arrest you for -"
"We are, and no you cannot. We all passed our exams this morning: Safe Guarding, Close Protection, CCTV, Mental Health Awareness... all just for a bit of fun though really. And you don't have the right to detain any of us, certainly not based on what we're wearing. This is a free country after all?"

Frank's team had barely managed to pass a COSHH program without adding to or creating their own criminal records. They had all flunked basic Customer Relations, Fire Safety... half of them had proved incapable of initialing an Equal Opportunities form without kicking off. 

And now some new form of Political Health and Safety Correctness Regulation meant that he could not legally detain anyone unless he gave them the ability to simply walk out the room and leave the premises. This was utter madness as far as he was concerned. He could not even legally carry a gun in public. Or a baton. Or knuckle-dusters. Utter madness.

Frank noticed Miss Persson's I.D. and license: She outranked him. Regional Manager meant that she was a salaried employee. Probably got to choose her own hours. He sank into himself: She had a rainbow lanyard. Her earpiece was the expensive sort that you got personally moulded to your ear at the company's flagship facilities. He felt hungry, his feet ached: She was radiant, clearly her working week didn't consist of inexorable twelve hour shifts. She even smelled nice.

"We're just heading off for an early lunch at The Dancing Man." She gave Jerry and Mo a nod.
"Bastards." A tear rolled down Frank's grey, sunken cheak. His jaw locked with bitter, ugly rage. Silently he watched as the protestors all quietly filed into the Samuel Smith's across the strand. They were having a pub lunch. Frank never had time or money for that, certainly not with the people he had to work with. Frank and Mo were standing at the traffic lights. 

"Where the hell do you two think you're going?"
"We're done mate, cheers. Going for a pint. Gonna see if that lot have any vacancies."
"You can't quit! You're in breach of contract!"
"What contract? We're Zero Hours mate - we can quit anytime we like."