The following series of writings are the recovered documents belonging to the self-styled anarchist revolutionary Mikhail B. Whilst the content is largely coherent, the extent to which the actual documented events can be verified as fact remains unclear to this day. What the documents do provide, however, is a unique insight into the warped mind of the man who conspired to bring guerrilla warfare to the economic heartland of the United Kingdom.
Day 1:
So today I begin this journal, blog, diary, diatribe, whatever you might wish to call it. I do so on the pretext that the direction of my life has taken a recent marked deviation into altogether obdurate perceptive planes.
It is now that I must begin the crusade to which my short and inconsequential life has hitherto lead; here I depart from the cloistered schools and academies that represent the moribund and routine life, and take tentative steps forwards onto the virgin snow of sheer conviction.
I have long believed in the following mantra which reads as such a banal truism that I suspect I must have gleaned it from some arch student poster, and yet secretly I wonder whether I may simply have coined it myself – The greatest strength one can possess is the intimate knowledge of one’s own weaknesses. The greatest weakness is in allowing them to dominate one’s strengths.
I intimately consort with my own weaknesses on a hyper-regular basis, checking off every flaw, fallibility and indiscretion as though I were a teacher doing the morning class register.
There’s the reluctance to adequately compromise even when the potential gains from my obstinacy are at best negligible; there’s the inability to at any point raise the visor of intensity when associating with others which, when attempting to be amiable gives the impression of awkwardness, and when trying to be carefree or humorous comes across as a close shade of arrogance.
I am unable to let anyone in. I am unable to confide in anyone nor inspire confidence in anyone that they might confide in me. I am, since we’re looking through the microscope, an egregious friend, a selfish lover, a scathing critic of those embodying virtue and honour in ethical arena removed from those conforming to my own ideals, a semi-coherent rambler of views and ideals worn like the last garments on the sale rack at the end of January, and a belligerent host to a soiree of dubious moral leanings that a good many people would likely deem perversely minatory.
My primary strength on the other hand is that I happen to be a revolutionary anarchist. As such, I am capable of channelling my righteous anger of all that is corrupt and contemptible in society into a direct call for active resistance.
This anger chiefly being levelled at the following: the financial institutions and cronyism that exists merely to create and horde vast sums of capital, providing privilege to the meritless minority who make it their business to with one hand, ensnare and contain as much wealth as possible whilst keeping the door firmly held tight against the majority with the other.
My anger is also levelled at the ineffectual politicians, mere effigies of power; their role being to maintain a veneer of statesman-like control over the masses, dividing and ruling as par for the course, whilst ceremonially lubricating the channels of operation for the business elite. (Ceremonial only insofar as they would proceed regardless of any obstructive flab from the corpulent political body.)
Today in fact marks a defining turning point, a point from which the ramifications on my life will ripple out centrifugally until they dissipate or bounce back from some unforeseen barrier. Standing in the office of the store manager Mr Gibbs, his face a deflated ballast balloon, dehydrated of the helium of alcohol, I felt more assertive than ever regarding two unique propositions.
Firstly, that Mr Gibbs was, in fact, a cunt. Secondly, that whether or not this first surety was broached, I would not be leaving his office still an employee of the PoundWorld on the Walworth Road. Slovenliness, tardiness, a general decrepitude of application or effort, an adversarial attitude completely out of kilter with the requirements for an efficiently operational team of colleagues; just some examples from the litany of offences assigned to my character.
In the current climate, with high unemployment, employees’ rights being hived off by the unscrupulous employers’ market, and the sandstorm of bilious xenophobia whipped up by the right wing media regarding immigrants stealing any available job, you’d think I might be a little more perturbed at finding myself newly jobless.
Truth be told, I could hardly give a fuck. The manacles of wage slavery have been shaken off, the anxious trepidation from one week to the next of whether enough hours will be gifted to me by my generous Master has been palliated. Walking along, with the priapic Shard thrust at the blackening sky, my burgeoning resolve and determinism begins to take flight, no longer shackled to the drudgery and tedium of routine.
My plans and ambitions can now begin to gestate, from mere fantasy into realised action. The situation in which I now find myself is uniquely primed for me to affect these steps, I can rise above the toiling masses ground down into daily submission by unseen and often benign hands, and make my stand.
Like some latter-day Guevara, I will take the fight to the City of London, which by its feculent greed and unstinting perfidy has incited me to it. I pledge to wage revolutionary war against the corporate hinterland, the business leaders and their many acolytes who conspire to perpetuate their plutocracy.
These steps may be tentative and unsteady, but I feel that, just as they have done in years gone by, for a myriad of lost causes and incentives, the people will rise again. In 2014, of all years, with a century’s worth of hindsight since Princip’s gun went off, it is still conceivable that one single decisive action might change the world irreparably. I may need no weapon – at least not yet – but if the pyre of discontent can be built to the requisite measure then just one spark could set the whole thing ablaze in no time at all, leaving the old order as little more than the smouldering embers of history.
To be continued...
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