Wednesday, 13 November 2019

Bad advice is freely given

Tibestian Book of the Undead - part 4

(brainwashing, corporate/banking matrix, education, freedom, vampires ...)

the diary (2nd edition) of a 360 year old vampire

Oh for the days when I used to wander through the lanes on my annual migration from Turkey  to France, and back ...
banks as vampires

Peace and quiescence, familiar creaks from the caravan as my horse plods along, pausing at particularly lush outposts of clover; the almond blossom in spring; ripe figs growing wild through most of the summer; casual work in the fields all year round; never the same job for more than a week or two. It was a good time to be a gypsy, even an undead one, but not so bright for those bound to a 'landlord' - irrespective of the fancy titles they chose.

Life was supposed to get better following the invention of paper money. Better for whom?

image from Jane Air blog thank you

Fast forward to the late 20th century, my mortgage is paid off, and I wonder what to do. Without debts, I'm finally free to choose.

"Will you be buying a new car?" asked Mr Creepy, the village idiot. "If I hadn't spent all my money on a new car, I'd have to pay rent!"

"You don't pay rent?!" I gurgled.

"Not likely. Rent rebate see!"

Despite being terminally naive in the ways of the world, I had noticed that everyone I knew who'd bought a new car was thrilled for a few months; they took it for granted ... then fondly remembered the old banger that had fit like a glove and communicated in familiar creaks and groans whenever an oil change was desirable or the wheels were about to fall off. "60,000 miles or 10 years for the seat to fit like a glove," whispered the ethereal adverts for non-consumerist / built-out absolescence party, prior to their abolition by congress for being 'non-American'.

You think congress has no influence in Europe? Wake up ...

"No thank you, Mr Creepy," quoth I.


A local farmer, Bill, owner of a 3rd generation family farm built up from nothing, was being badgered by his bank manager to buy a brand new tractor.
"Buy this or pay income tax. You've earned too much! Do you want to give money to the government?"

In hindsight, I was becoming aware of the way the very, very rich orchestrate a monopoly of wealth. But I was naive about their manipulation of the media.

"This is a good year, Bill. What about the bad years?" said I.

Farmer Bill looked thoughtful, but the glossy pamphlets from the bank and TractorLand © made his eyes glaze over.


So, how to invent my own unpaid job? I'll research the truth about money (sounds like an oxymoron, ennit?) and try to save Farmer Bill from losing his shirt ... and his farm. Here goes ...

The upside of a slow bike ride is having time to see how the half a mile farm track was made. Bill had related the tale with obvious relish and pride, more than once, but it more impressive witnessing the sheer quantity of minerals involved in a yard of farm track, let alone half a mile.

There was stone that Bill had dug from his own mini quarry on the farm using his old tractor; gravel that his grandfather had collected from the bend in the river after floods, using his horse and cart; stones that they'd picked off the best fields before they sowed vegetables (usually after the barley crop); bricks and stones from old buildings that had been demolished.

The downside of a slow bike ride over a lumpy farm track is a sore bum. Never mind. I wouldn't be coming home on the bike, but I didn't know that at the time.


It's only five years since Bill bought his brand new tractor, EU regulations have forced many small dairy farmers to quit and convert to beef and sheep farming, the price of meat has duly fallen and the price of calves doubled. The bank is advising Bill to sell his farm. Farmer Bill. Bill that farms. Bill whose self image, self respect and self only-fucking-reason-for-getting-out-of-fucking-bed-in-the-morning is his farm. HIS farm. his FARM.


My plan is to help Bill to sell most of his stock and pay off the overdraft. Let the grazing for a year, then buy a few calves. People are queueing up to give him a part time job. The plan is to do this quickly because the overdraft gets bigger every day.


"Hello Bill," says I.

He opens the door, bleary-eyed, and clearly stressed. The TV is blaring super, super heacyweight American wrestling, though the master of ceremonies, steroid-enhanced posing and meticulously choreographed misbehaviour predominates.

"What?" says Bill.
"I have a plan to save your farm from the poxacious bankers!" says I.
"Why ain't you at work?" Bill demands, waving the headlines of the alleged newspaper The Daily Mule in my face.
"Workshy Britain" by Lord Mook, screams the headline.

"I bain't broke ..." I began, adopting the local accent to reassure him. (After you've spent 360 years between Algeria and Britain, with ten languages, several of which have been reinvented, and 4 different alphabets, sticking to any sort of accent is quite a struggle. I sometimes wake up thinking in a language I haven't used for decades; and I have to confess, of the ten I've used, I'm hopeless at ... let me see if I can remember .. ten of them).

" ... so I've decided to do something useful instead!"

"No job!?" gurgled Bill, fragments of his breakfast becoming detached from his teeth and semi-detached from his mouth. He threw the Daily Mule at me and reached for his double barrel shotgun. The TV blared its encouragement.


It's as well I drank some squirrel blood last night, I mused, as I leapt the fence out of the farm yard. I made it into the copse before I heard the bang of the gun and the pellets defoliating the trees overhead. The only casualties were a couple of pigeons that I took home for tea.


Happily, community spirit is alive and kicking, despite the orchestrated mischief of the very, very rich. Farmer Bill threw my bike in his domestic waste bin, but our local bin man recognised at  as mine and deposited it by my front door on his next visit. I gave him some pigeon vindaloo.


Farmer Bill went bankrupt. the local bank took possession of the farm and an instruction from the upper echelons of the corporate ladder arranged a sale to a farming corporation.

The main shareholders of the bank staged a default, in partnership with their alleged competitors, and were bailed out by the government. The government borrowed the money from the World Bank, who are mostly owned by the same few families. 

I bet the profiteers were laughing all the way to the bank. Silly me, how could they? They're already there ...

The Daily Mule are owned by a corporation which is a subsidiary of a mega corporation - and guess who owns that ...

If you can't follow the chain of who owns what - they've achieved their objective ...

They give 1% of their (declared) profits to an educational charity ... which promotes mindless, boring compliance in the classroom, preparing the students for their rosy future as debt-slaves ...


Twenty years on, and Bill has calmed down a bit, but we can't find any way to constructively involve him in future solutions without risking his little remaining health


I picture a child that
is aware
doesn't borrow
doubts what 'suits' tell them
doubts mass 'entertainment'
and has better things to do ....

tags: brainwashing, community, corporations, debt, education, fiction, freedom, love, matrix, political satire, popular, satire, short satire stories, spirit, TibestianUndead,  vampires

No comments:

Post a Comment

comments welcome; spam is deleted :)