And when he gets out of order...

A lawless brat from a council flat, oh, oh

A bit of context:

I don’t think too deeply about 99% of the rubbish I blurt out.

I’ve thought deeply about thinking deeply, and on reflection, decided that blurting is the best option. Through blurting comes catharsis. Blurting is like that “best don’t bottle it up love…” from the carey-sharies, just without their recoil and “you can’t say THAT!” directly upon de-bottling (de-bottlement? corkage? outpouring? let's settle on outpouring).

Outpouring allows that mix of what you really think, what you really think right at that moment, and what you’re feeling to surface, and that’s as valid and relevant as anything else you ever communicate, I guess.

I’m not well-educated. That’s my own fault, I was given every opportunity to be well-educated, but there were a number of stumbling blocks. I’m a classroom nightmare. A teacher’s pet, but only if that pets is an unwanted, noisy, disruptive adolescent that chews the furniture, bites the postie and eats the homework. Too often my attention depends on the personality and enthusiasm of whoever’s trying to put things across, rather than the subject matter. On the subject of subject-matter, my first questions are always: “why do I need to know this / what’s this for / what’s the point of this? / why are you telling me this?” rendering the teaching of religious education, history, Latin, and the like absolute non-starters in the first place. Then there’s the assumed authority. You may have the suit and tie (in my day it was the cord jacket with elbow patches) and the tie, and I may be the naughty boy on the back of the bus, but, with all due respect (and to misquote Rod Stewart) naughty boys on the back of the bus have more fun.

The back of the bus is the natural habitat of the genuinely anti-establishment personality.

There’s a price to pay for being anti-establishment. It starts with detentions, lines, canings, all of which generally only strengthen the feelings that lead to authority-issues, which in turn lead to more punishment. How are you supposed to feel about ‘authority’ when your mother comes out with tripe like “this hurts me more than it hurts you”? Even as a very young kid, I was thinking “in that case, how about we swap places and I administer the sound thrashing?” It goes on. It can cost you jobs, money, opportunities (particularly through refusing to play along with hierarchical organisations, and refusing to spend time networking (“She never bothers with people she hates, That's why the lady is a tramp”). Having paid those dues, that’s why I rail against pro-establishment and non-rebels who try to play the anti-establishment card. To a lesser degree, the Chris Moyles, James Cordons of the world, pulling the wool over housewives’ eyes. To a greater extent people like Nigel Farage. How genuine an establishment alternative would UKIP appear, were it better publicised that Farage is an ex-banker, one of the £millions bonus brigade? That whenever they are under threat they resort to calling the police or looking to silence their critics in exactly the establishment ways that they’re supposedly against? That a UKIP councillor had the local cops visit and threaten someone blogging embarrassing facts that discredited him?

Anyway, I’ve found my political philosophy at last, and I’m an anarchist. I truly believe that any state interference, any bunch of monkeys telling me what I should and shouldn’t do and what I should and shouldn’t think, and how to go about living the one life I have, just has to be a bad, inhibiting, repressing thing, whether those monkeys be ‘elected’ politicians or blokes in frocks with silly hats, or clerics or whatever.

On the false anti-establishment theme, apparently Farage backed some wanky UKIP mate of his who came out with some racist shite, saying “he’s just a plain-speaking Essex lad”. I wonder if he’d think me “just a plain speaking Kent boy” on hearing me say:

“Farage is a snivelling little toad, and a euro-MP making him a blood- and money-sucking parasite resembling the ticks my dogs get, and I would love to see him suffer the same fate: painless removal, followed by crushing to death and unceremonious disposal”.