Why Proletarian Democracy says no and no again to bourgie imitations of a working fireplace
Comrades, as the winter season is upon us we see signs that distinguish the honest toiler from his petit-bourgeois autonomist imitators.
Most insidious of all is that peculiar middle-class affliction of the fake fire.
The bourgeois affectation of fake fires displays an inherent mistrust of honest logs, hewn by a workers hand and fed to the furnace by proleterians. Indeed comrades, we see the fake fire as furtherance of the faux working class habits assumed by people demonstrably and demographically far above the station they wish to claim. For is it not that the white collared parasite feels ever insecure in his middling position, ever concerned with vaulting his children up the ladder of capitalist society while he is a mere missed payday away from the dread of creditors calling and consigning him to the life of a toiler? A life he enjoyes aping while secretly terrified of the reality?
Unmetered and unfettered he allows his pretend logs to glow, glow, glow with the gas stolen from our Scotch breddrin – a resource he can enjoy while rickets and frostbite ravage the Tennants of our much abused northern neighbour state.
Just as the vacillating petit-bourgeois will vacillate between the right and the left in a revolutionary situation, in the situation of winter he will vacillate between wanting to imitate the hand-hewn logs of the workers and wanting to put a brave face on it and be cold. It is fashionable you see.
“I am tougher than this, I do not need heat!” he cries, the very terms in which he puts a brave face on his discomfort displaying his enthusiasm for individualist, free-market politics which has been the downfall of many a supposedly Marxist organisation. Yet his pretend logs betray a more profound truth. Just as he pretends to have a real proletarian fire, the so-called fire in his belly for the revolutionary cause is also pretend.
How many times have we observed as the upper-middle classes affect a fake burning desire for the revolution, only to switch off the gas of struggle as the kindling of proletarian justice burns too hot for comfort?
Oft times the tool of the boss class will recall how he once enjoyed fray bentos tinned pies and super noodles – the food of his student years magnified to fit his gross revisionism and caricature of himself as once-prole. The fools would recoil in horror from a decent Rachel Khoo stew, even their roasts must be Blumenthaled to fuck.
For him the workers’ struggle is merely a decoration to be admired at during dinner parties. Just as his pretend logs could never burn his fingers, so he shall always maintain a safe distance from the wrath of capital, unlike the toilers he exploits. The splinters from real workers’ wood are far too close to the sharp end of struggle for him. Instead for the profligate wastrel, gas using at the expense of the lugubrious Pict is his solution.
“I do not need to put the heating on, I will conserve energy”, is his cry. But the only energy he will conserve is his own as during the coming revolutionary situation he will stand aside, warming his hands on the flame of his non-existent proletarian credentials declaring he was once a socialist but then grew up.
The fake wood on his fire will leave him freezing out in the cold winter of the crisis of capitalism as, like so many before him, he shuns the hot coals of the vanguard, in fact his mere dampening, smothering presence prevents the flame of revolt from being lit. But not for long!
Inevitably we all turn to the embers of true Marxist Leninism, ready to be stoked and brought to bright flame by the poker of Posadist iron. For the bourgeoisie and their fake fires there is no ember to stoke. They are left poking at a false log, a false consciousness, poking it with a car aerial.
And if that delivers unto them a shock, we say GOOD.
We didn’t start the fire, it was always burning since the world was turning – Billy Joel