anonymous
04-04-2008, 11:01 PM
Fear and Loathing in Westminster
A savage journey to the heart of the British establishment
I’m getting close to the vortex now. I can feel it. There are men with guns, dressed in uniforms embellished with illuminati symbology and black men in suits, looking like they’re here to swap their people’s dignity for a place at the feeding trough of the unspeakable.
Fat tattooed men with blue plastic gloves administer a cursory pat-down to what looks like next generation reptiles, no older than 18 or 19.
A terrifying assault on the consciousness, surely engineered to deter people like me. I feel the constant urge to flee but I am determined to overcome it. To stick it out.
The rest of my party arrives. I have no interest in their inane chatter. I’m here to see these things in action and I don’t feel like trying to open any eyes today. No eyes but my own of course.
One of them appears before us. None of my poor party seems to see it apart from me. This thing is no more a human than the beasts that had given their skins to be used as covers for the sacrificial tables that lay just inside the entrance, today only used to seat visitors.
Two of the young ones I had seen being frisked are standing next to the beast. They are obviously with him.
Before I know it, I’m being lead up some stairs and through a baffling system of corridors until we end up in some sort of meeting room.
We are offered coffee and biscuits and told to sit down while this thing spews out an avalanche of bullshit. We get the chance to ask questions and I interrupt the silence with a seemingly harmless accusation that he works for an organisation that is effectively a dictatorship.
This does not go down well with our party but he answers me with another torrent of bullshit.
I have to sit through another half an hour of irrelevant drivel before he tells us his time is up. I manage to slip in another quick question about the war with Iraq/Iran and he dodges it with breathtaking ease. Clearly a high powered mutant indeed.
Once again we are led through a maze of corridors and I note that we are now the other side of a busy road. This might be enough to confuse someone who had not expected subterranean passageways to be part of the fabric of this place. Thankfully I have come mentally prepared, at least for this aspect of the ordeal.
Terrible photographs and tourist-like behaviour follow. All the time the chance to get at least a peak inside the vortex slipping away.
After some minutes of terrible confusion and unsuccessful interrogation of the two younglings, it is decided that we won’t be getting the chance to go in.
This is not going to stop me.
At this point I find out that anyone can gain access, provided they are willing to wait. So I have sat through this weird shit for no reason at all. I could have just come here on my own.
Before I get the chance to let my anger get the better of me, my party tells me that there will be a free lunch. My main mission will have to wait for now.
Of all the places they could have taken me, it could have hardly been worse than this.
http://i28.tinypic.com/11jby49.jpg
Not “Please don’t smoke because it is fucking disgusting”. Not even “Please don’t smoke because it’s against the law”.
I have to sit through what seems like another hour of pleasantries before I can finally cut this dead wood loose and get on with the main order of the day.
The anti-climax
“40 minutes wait, Sir”
I nearly let this deter me but I soon snap out of this apathetic stupor. I’ll wait and I’ll get in there. These fuckers won’t stop me.
The time passes quickly while they shuffle us from bench to bench in the main entrance hall. I have to admit that I’m awed by this hall. Even at 6’5” and 18 stone, I feel dwarfed by it. If it’s anything like this, what lies ahead is going to be quite something.
The word disappointment cannot even begin to describe my feelings as I finally enter the vortex, having been forcefully stripped of all my electronic devices (including my phone/camera). Presumably they don’t want anyone gathering any evidence of what goes on in there.
Not only is this place tiny, they make us sit behind some sort of perception filter, cleverly disguised as a fifty foot glass screen. Evidently this device masks the true form of these beasts as all I can see in the otherwise empty chamber is an old man in a curious looking long white hat and a handful of suited fat and/or bald men, accompanied by one or two venomous harridans.
One of the fat men keeps talking and talking while not actually saying anything. Occasionally his face distorts to a kind of smirk and the other beasts let out a dull roar of approval. If this is supposed to be humour, it is clearly lost on me.
He doesn’t seem finished when one of the harridans interrupts him and then a bald man starts talking in the same passively aggressive fashion.
I can take no more of this madness. I have to leave.
Trolls trolling trolls getting trolled
I’d seen these people when I had first arrived and then again on the way to my terrifying free lunch. I decided to make the time to cross the busy road that had separated us up until now to find out what would make people camp in these ghastly tents for so long outside the very heart of the British establishment. Being a man of taste of course, I require four stars worth of luxury at a bare minimum. The very idea of such an ordeal is absolutely unthinkable.
I had been trying to just hang around and get a feel for the place; to get a sense of this tiny community when I noticed Haw being interviewed by a dark skinned man with a camera and an unmemorable accomplice.
I’m standing near Haw now and I ask him if he is ok to have a short chat. He makes it clear that he has no time for me. I can’t help but notice his hideous gaunt face. He puts me in mind of the beasts I had just seen inside the vortex itself.
Is he one of them? Surely not.
With my attempts to engage him failing, our attention is distracted by a police car and its occupants questioning the two men with the camera that I saw only moments ago interviewing Haw.
One of Haw’s cronies suggests that we approach the pigs to antagonise them enough to stir up some sort of confrontation.
Why not?
Bad noise.
People filming people filming people.
An ambulance for the unmemorable man whose diabetes has not equipped him for such encounters.
More bad noise.
“This is called harassment!”
“This is called harassment!”
The commotion dies down enough for a lengthy interview with four of the pigs while they stand there; seemingly indifferent as to whether our unmemorable friend is alive or dead.
Much is said. Little is learned.
Just time for another attempt to extract some sense from Haw. All I get is a tirade of abuse at the benign nature of my line of questioning.
Was this man mentally ill like this seven years ago, before he started this? Or have seven years living so close to that madhouse turned him into this beast?
I try some Dawkins logic on a poor woman whose mind has been poisoned by faith on my way to the tube but she’s beyond repair. I let her take comfort in her delusional belief that I am going to hell and she is not.
If she wants to see hell, she should just walk up the street to the houses of parliament. It might even shock some sense into her. Perhaps.
Some pictures:
Phallic symbol of doom:
http://i28.tinypic.com/2cqfolh.jpg
Inside the main entrance hall:
http://i29.tinypic.com/2ngvtxx.jpg
http://i31.tinypic.com/153p2ma.jpg
Quality protected coffee:
http://i27.tinypic.com/12228ma.jpg
Guardian of the vortex:
http://i25.tinypic.com/anejiv.jpg
Crazy people with good intentions:
http://i32.tinypic.com/20sjc51.jpg
Our unmemorable friend:
http://i32.tinypic.com/2csdrhz.jpg
Bad noise and people filming people filming people:
http://i32.tinypic.com/33xx5e9.jpg
http://i31.tinypic.com/vuryw.jpg
A savage journey to the heart of the British establishment
I’m getting close to the vortex now. I can feel it. There are men with guns, dressed in uniforms embellished with illuminati symbology and black men in suits, looking like they’re here to swap their people’s dignity for a place at the feeding trough of the unspeakable.
Fat tattooed men with blue plastic gloves administer a cursory pat-down to what looks like next generation reptiles, no older than 18 or 19.
A terrifying assault on the consciousness, surely engineered to deter people like me. I feel the constant urge to flee but I am determined to overcome it. To stick it out.
The rest of my party arrives. I have no interest in their inane chatter. I’m here to see these things in action and I don’t feel like trying to open any eyes today. No eyes but my own of course.
One of them appears before us. None of my poor party seems to see it apart from me. This thing is no more a human than the beasts that had given their skins to be used as covers for the sacrificial tables that lay just inside the entrance, today only used to seat visitors.
Two of the young ones I had seen being frisked are standing next to the beast. They are obviously with him.
Before I know it, I’m being lead up some stairs and through a baffling system of corridors until we end up in some sort of meeting room.
We are offered coffee and biscuits and told to sit down while this thing spews out an avalanche of bullshit. We get the chance to ask questions and I interrupt the silence with a seemingly harmless accusation that he works for an organisation that is effectively a dictatorship.
This does not go down well with our party but he answers me with another torrent of bullshit.
I have to sit through another half an hour of irrelevant drivel before he tells us his time is up. I manage to slip in another quick question about the war with Iraq/Iran and he dodges it with breathtaking ease. Clearly a high powered mutant indeed.
Once again we are led through a maze of corridors and I note that we are now the other side of a busy road. This might be enough to confuse someone who had not expected subterranean passageways to be part of the fabric of this place. Thankfully I have come mentally prepared, at least for this aspect of the ordeal.
Terrible photographs and tourist-like behaviour follow. All the time the chance to get at least a peak inside the vortex slipping away.
After some minutes of terrible confusion and unsuccessful interrogation of the two younglings, it is decided that we won’t be getting the chance to go in.
This is not going to stop me.
At this point I find out that anyone can gain access, provided they are willing to wait. So I have sat through this weird shit for no reason at all. I could have just come here on my own.
Before I get the chance to let my anger get the better of me, my party tells me that there will be a free lunch. My main mission will have to wait for now.
Of all the places they could have taken me, it could have hardly been worse than this.
http://i28.tinypic.com/11jby49.jpg
Not “Please don’t smoke because it is fucking disgusting”. Not even “Please don’t smoke because it’s against the law”.
I have to sit through what seems like another hour of pleasantries before I can finally cut this dead wood loose and get on with the main order of the day.
The anti-climax
“40 minutes wait, Sir”
I nearly let this deter me but I soon snap out of this apathetic stupor. I’ll wait and I’ll get in there. These fuckers won’t stop me.
The time passes quickly while they shuffle us from bench to bench in the main entrance hall. I have to admit that I’m awed by this hall. Even at 6’5” and 18 stone, I feel dwarfed by it. If it’s anything like this, what lies ahead is going to be quite something.
The word disappointment cannot even begin to describe my feelings as I finally enter the vortex, having been forcefully stripped of all my electronic devices (including my phone/camera). Presumably they don’t want anyone gathering any evidence of what goes on in there.
Not only is this place tiny, they make us sit behind some sort of perception filter, cleverly disguised as a fifty foot glass screen. Evidently this device masks the true form of these beasts as all I can see in the otherwise empty chamber is an old man in a curious looking long white hat and a handful of suited fat and/or bald men, accompanied by one or two venomous harridans.
One of the fat men keeps talking and talking while not actually saying anything. Occasionally his face distorts to a kind of smirk and the other beasts let out a dull roar of approval. If this is supposed to be humour, it is clearly lost on me.
He doesn’t seem finished when one of the harridans interrupts him and then a bald man starts talking in the same passively aggressive fashion.
I can take no more of this madness. I have to leave.
Trolls trolling trolls getting trolled
I’d seen these people when I had first arrived and then again on the way to my terrifying free lunch. I decided to make the time to cross the busy road that had separated us up until now to find out what would make people camp in these ghastly tents for so long outside the very heart of the British establishment. Being a man of taste of course, I require four stars worth of luxury at a bare minimum. The very idea of such an ordeal is absolutely unthinkable.
I had been trying to just hang around and get a feel for the place; to get a sense of this tiny community when I noticed Haw being interviewed by a dark skinned man with a camera and an unmemorable accomplice.
I’m standing near Haw now and I ask him if he is ok to have a short chat. He makes it clear that he has no time for me. I can’t help but notice his hideous gaunt face. He puts me in mind of the beasts I had just seen inside the vortex itself.
Is he one of them? Surely not.
With my attempts to engage him failing, our attention is distracted by a police car and its occupants questioning the two men with the camera that I saw only moments ago interviewing Haw.
One of Haw’s cronies suggests that we approach the pigs to antagonise them enough to stir up some sort of confrontation.
Why not?
Bad noise.
People filming people filming people.
An ambulance for the unmemorable man whose diabetes has not equipped him for such encounters.
More bad noise.
“This is called harassment!”
“This is called harassment!”
The commotion dies down enough for a lengthy interview with four of the pigs while they stand there; seemingly indifferent as to whether our unmemorable friend is alive or dead.
Much is said. Little is learned.
Just time for another attempt to extract some sense from Haw. All I get is a tirade of abuse at the benign nature of my line of questioning.
Was this man mentally ill like this seven years ago, before he started this? Or have seven years living so close to that madhouse turned him into this beast?
I try some Dawkins logic on a poor woman whose mind has been poisoned by faith on my way to the tube but she’s beyond repair. I let her take comfort in her delusional belief that I am going to hell and she is not.
If she wants to see hell, she should just walk up the street to the houses of parliament. It might even shock some sense into her. Perhaps.
Some pictures:
Phallic symbol of doom:
http://i28.tinypic.com/2cqfolh.jpg
Inside the main entrance hall:
http://i29.tinypic.com/2ngvtxx.jpg
http://i31.tinypic.com/153p2ma.jpg
Quality protected coffee:
http://i27.tinypic.com/12228ma.jpg
Guardian of the vortex:
http://i25.tinypic.com/anejiv.jpg
Crazy people with good intentions:
http://i32.tinypic.com/20sjc51.jpg
Our unmemorable friend:
http://i32.tinypic.com/2csdrhz.jpg
Bad noise and people filming people filming people:
http://i32.tinypic.com/33xx5e9.jpg
http://i31.tinypic.com/vuryw.jpg