It seems that my friend Nick was right after all. When I met him yesterday morning, staggering home after a long night on the beer, he told me that the world was going to end soon. Well, at least the world as we have known it for some time.
Today the financial 'markets' - which are in fact really large gambling dens for the super-rich - all over the world have seen another massive collapse of the capitalist system.
Iceland avoided to become a failed state only through a state of emergency and nationalisation of their banks, and many ore countries will go down the same route.
We are fucked. Smashed to pieces by the criminals in Washington and New York!
That they almost destroyed themselves in the process is only a minor compensation.
If you need proof that capitalism is dead, today is the day. The system ruled by money, greed and arrogance is no more.
This should be reason for joy. People should be out in the streets, celebrating. But of course they aren't. Because the corpse of capitalism, not even cold yet, is replaced by - guess what?
More capitalism.
Those we were foolish enough to put in charge of our nations have no imagination, no ideas and no flexibility. All they know is money, and so they think they can solve everything with money.
The state has billions of deficit, so what do we do? We borrow even more billions, to make the deficit larger.
We have learned absolutely nothing from history, behave reckless and irresponsible, and are probably the biggest fools that have ever lived on Earth.
Will we change anything now? Of course not. Capitalism is dead, so long live capitalism!
Welcome to the 21st century, the era of collective mass suicide!
Showing posts with label Nick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nick. Show all posts
Monday 6 October 2008
Sunday 5 October 2008
Nick's Preparation for the End of the World
Early this morning I went out for a walk and ran into an old friend of mine, who was on his way home from the pub.
No, the pubs here do not have special licenses. They close at the same time as elsewhere in Ireland. But Nick is a special character and often manages to get 'locked in' with a group of people who have decided to stay on and drink all through the night.
He likes his pints, and at times he just tries to forget his sorrows by taking a swim in a lake of stout.
There is a lot he likes to forget. A harsh childhood and wasted youth, a boring career with the ESB, which he gave up eventually, a failed business and a lot of years during which he had no choice but looking after his ageing and ailing mother. Those years almost killed him, as they deprived him of the one thing he really loves: Freedom.
So he started drinking. It also bothers him at times that he never found love in his life, though he would never admit that. Being in his late fifties now, he is still a bachelor, with no apparent interest in changing his situation.
He's not gay and actually likes women. And he's not bad looking either. Tall and slim, still with a full head of dark hair, he looks quite attractive. Perhaps a little austere and serious, but that is a trait you find in many artists.
Every time there is a new woman in my life he turns up for tea and makes great conversation. I have no idea how he finds out, but somehow he does. He sits there with us, often for hours, and flirts away across the room as if I were not present at all. But that's how far as it goes. He's never made a pass at any of my girls, and I've never seen him with a woman.
When he needs company, he goes for some pints and cigarettes. As they are no longer possible to enjoy together in public - thanks to the anti-smoking fascists in government - he buys his stout more and more often in the supermarket and drinks at home, where no-one bothers him and where it is still legal to smoke.
But last night he was out, for a long session, as he told me. Was there any special reason, I asked, and he said yes, there was. He was preparing for the end of the world.
How come, I wondered. Well, he explained, all is falling to pieces in this country: the economy is dead, the banks are basically bust, and everything gets more and more expensive. He is certain that Brian Lenihan will raise the already high prices for drink and cigarettes even more in his budget next week. So he went to the credit union, took out a loan and went for a long night into his favourite pub.
"I'm going to enjoy life as long as I can afford it," he said with a sarcastic smile. "And when the big crush comes, I will sit here and smile. I've seen this coming for a long time, but no-on cares or is listening to reason."
He shook my hand, smiled, and then staggered slowly towards his cottage. I kept walking for an hour and had a lovely morning, but somehow Nick's dark words stayed with me. Perhaps he knows something I don't...
No, the pubs here do not have special licenses. They close at the same time as elsewhere in Ireland. But Nick is a special character and often manages to get 'locked in' with a group of people who have decided to stay on and drink all through the night.
He likes his pints, and at times he just tries to forget his sorrows by taking a swim in a lake of stout.
There is a lot he likes to forget. A harsh childhood and wasted youth, a boring career with the ESB, which he gave up eventually, a failed business and a lot of years during which he had no choice but looking after his ageing and ailing mother. Those years almost killed him, as they deprived him of the one thing he really loves: Freedom.
So he started drinking. It also bothers him at times that he never found love in his life, though he would never admit that. Being in his late fifties now, he is still a bachelor, with no apparent interest in changing his situation.
He's not gay and actually likes women. And he's not bad looking either. Tall and slim, still with a full head of dark hair, he looks quite attractive. Perhaps a little austere and serious, but that is a trait you find in many artists.
Every time there is a new woman in my life he turns up for tea and makes great conversation. I have no idea how he finds out, but somehow he does. He sits there with us, often for hours, and flirts away across the room as if I were not present at all. But that's how far as it goes. He's never made a pass at any of my girls, and I've never seen him with a woman.
When he needs company, he goes for some pints and cigarettes. As they are no longer possible to enjoy together in public - thanks to the anti-smoking fascists in government - he buys his stout more and more often in the supermarket and drinks at home, where no-one bothers him and where it is still legal to smoke.
But last night he was out, for a long session, as he told me. Was there any special reason, I asked, and he said yes, there was. He was preparing for the end of the world.
How come, I wondered. Well, he explained, all is falling to pieces in this country: the economy is dead, the banks are basically bust, and everything gets more and more expensive. He is certain that Brian Lenihan will raise the already high prices for drink and cigarettes even more in his budget next week. So he went to the credit union, took out a loan and went for a long night into his favourite pub.
"I'm going to enjoy life as long as I can afford it," he said with a sarcastic smile. "And when the big crush comes, I will sit here and smile. I've seen this coming for a long time, but no-on cares or is listening to reason."
He shook my hand, smiled, and then staggered slowly towards his cottage. I kept walking for an hour and had a lovely morning, but somehow Nick's dark words stayed with me. Perhaps he knows something I don't...
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