Drowning in the unreality of the marketer's conversation. All the hallmarks and barbs of late-stage capitalist jargon. The on-your-bike-sonny boy rhetoric of Norman Tebbit, tempered with the opportunist cycloptic eye of the Saatchi money-go-round art machine. I've had enough. I've seen and heard too much. The madness of the market foisted on us in a drip-feed televised, email virus-ed, junkmailed and injected into our unsleeping orbs from 50 foot hyper-kinetic billboards. Is this the "land fit for heroes" that has WW2 veterans out with the begging bowl every November and cheap jack "comedians" like Jim Davidson entertaining the troops engaged in unwinnable foreign wars? Drowning in the unreality of it all, I'm drowning. The midwinter bites pensioners, who either eat or feed themselves as minus 14 temperatures bite Northern Scotland as "welfare experts" of the landed gentry decide to play benefit roulette with the populace.
The so-called paradigm shift so beloved of Post-Modernist thinkers is nothing more than good marketing by photogenic quasi-Marxists casually sipping cocktails in the Garrick Club, whilst manning the barricades for the clenched fist photo-op every Mayday march. Cynical? This is the present, partners...
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