In exposing the purple cyclops of royalism, Kelvin MacKenzie of The Sun has unwittingly performed the working class a huge service. The flame-haired flaneur flashing his rusty sheriff’s badge should leave us in no doubt as to the depth of carnal depravity that characterises this alarmingly inbred line.
Of course we should not be blinded by the majesty of a flaccid prince’s penis and forget that the vile organ pumping these frankly shitty images into our brains is that enemy of the working class ab aeterno – The Sun. While the Murdoch empire reels from the body blows of dark-arts scandals, we should not allow the prince’s pronounced tan-lines to distract us from the prick-shaming and persecution of the mischievous gaggle of cardsmarked drunken divorcees who hold the deeds to the grounds of the Fourth Estate merely in order to hang unsavoury images of Harry Hewitt’s pasty white arse from the balcony.
The phone, once a harmless tool of communication, has come to be exploited for increasingly sinister ends – namely to snoop on the details of people’s private lives. While the further exposure of monarchical decadence is to be welcomed and greeted with joyful, righteous vicarious disgust, was it not Leon Trotsky himself whose private correspondence was examined by Stalin in order to discredit him?
This week marks the anniversary of the assassination of Trotsky with an icepick in 1940, a job which would have been made this much easier if Stalin had simply speed-dialed Ramon Mercader on his mobile, or called 118118 to ask “Can I have the number of an icepick shop in Mexico”. A modern-day Stalin would not only be able to examine Trotsky’s letters, but listen to his voicemails and recoil from the voice of trueish Leninism. To read his texts – “Militarisation of Labour – LOL.” How much easier would the task of the traitors of Kronstadt have been if they had been able to text each other warnings of impending proletarian vengeance(!)?
The inbox of Bukharin, however, would surely only have been of interest to those who wondered what form Bolshevik love poetry might take.
Not only must we guard against invidious Fleet Street hacks, but also the perversions of democratic centralism personified by Stalin. So instead of merely hacking phones, as the Murdochs have done, let us smash the obsolete Nokia 3210 of capitalism against the wall of proletarian wrath, brick on brick, and cast the iPhone of imperialist tyranny into the murky depths. The bread and circuses of Snake have for too long kept the working classes from the promised lands of Angry Birds.
A worker needs but one phone – the Xperia running Linux. Only open source software, inaccessible to those who have yet to transcend jejune trade union consciousness, is acceptable in the face of two competing capitalist behemoths. The expressions of righteous but nevertheless uncoordinated, ill-disciplined and misdirected anger organised by lumpen elements using the so-called “crackberry”, must be avoided, as the revolution needs a leadership who can not only master Marxist theory but also master a confusing user interface.
Only this strategic direction can ensure that true democratic centralism will be maintained while preventing the emotive spontaneity and lack of leadership, accountable or otherwise, which has unfortunately been a feature of so many recent “autonomous” uprisings. Indeed comrades, as one thinks of Harry’s ginger sack sweatily defiling the baize produced by the proletariat for its leisurely needs, one can only wonder how many honest toilers must forever fail to pot that crucial 8 ball because of the stains of royalist excretions throwing the arrow-straight cueing action off beam? And in a wider sense, are we not all cast off beam by royalist ballbaggery?
Reflect on that for half a mo…
We may be amused as the dog of Murdochism savages the dignity (hah) of the royals. But make no mistake – this is the sixth form laughing at Sir.
Forwards, comrades, to a new game of pool! The working classes will one day never want for 50Ps and the royalist cuntclaque will be forced to rack up.
And yes, they will break first.
I’ve got one more bullet in my gun’ – Jimmy Cliff