The Abyss of Radical Stupidity - R.K. Galvez (read me like a book .TXT) 📗

in hope of a fully paid up future role) as mere volunteers to prove that it looks like you really care and are inclusive; get as much funding as you can; if you succeed, simply keep the cycle going for as long as possible for the sake of funding...A perfectly formed, very legal, regular con...

 

...But, paradoxically, only those who have the funds behind them get access to the funding Golden Goose: the cycle plods on, the pedestrian class-based capitalistic art must continue; something that this hypocritical little country has consistently forced upon its largely downtrodden public; and for all the Shakespeare Industry propaganda, there are so few truly ground-breaking creative risks for a country whose population rapidly edges over the sixty million mark...The Yanks really do love our sanitized period bollocks...

 

...It might even be considered embarrassing when they keep going on how much the arts raises (mainly for the vested interests, of course, and their corporate tax-breaks to make them look socially benevolent...); but when they keep repeating the usual protectionist mantra that there will always be room for everyone, just imagine how much more money they could generate with a less token-tick box approach to this quaint theatrical process...Even Sheila Atim – the statuesque actor/singer of Ugandan heritage – speaking in an online arts puff-piece plug-segment (sourced on a certain ad-backed website about a play detailing the L.A. Underworld written by a former EastEnders cast member from North London who moved to L.A...Yes, I agree with you: integrity died a long time ago in these arts...) was dismayed by this approach; those pesky insinuations of tick-box tokenism superseding talent, though you could argue Atim remains right to be dismayed, particularly when those in power to commission are robbing themselves of future talent without realising it...The fear of the backlash remains a scary one for these middle-class elitists...

 

...I do not say all this for a point of merit, qualification, or selfish careerism (Notabitofit: I always thought theatre was ghastly; I am firmly in the Clive James camp and prefer the Crystal Bucket anytime; I still get the same rush when the curtain goes down - if an usher doesn't wake me up first - which might explain why a lot of these dull theatres are struggling and suddenly folding...It must be why they need the aforementioned funding con...)...

 

...Alas, I was driven to compose this somewhat polemical diatribe after a close friend of mine became very suicidal trying to cater to the impossible subjective demands for a smug bunch of dull posh people who held influence at an exclusive (although actively marketed for funding purposes as "inclusive", of course) London theatre...He was never going to make the cut; that was the stereotypical cut of this particular theatre's publicly perceived image, no matter how many workshops, courses, or networking schmooze-fests my poor friend attended; there was always another important anus to lick clean and to longingly kiss...I always told him to stick with the prose in the long-term – both Joyce and Camus had the right idea, despite their love of theatre; the theatrical enterprise was always ridiculously elitist, even when I was growing up...

 

...Apparently, theatre was once considered immediately relevant and cutting edge; but it always lacked that in my mind: theatre was always destined to be a keep out club, despite the bluster of inclusivity, the majority of these middle-class bores who produce all this contemporary hippo-tripe are entirely over-rated; it only had a past that was once deemed “cutting edge” - despite censorship still being in place till 1968 in good old Britain; it may have been because not everyone had a television set (although radio, cinema and the evolution of early TV effectively killed of the golden age of pulp magazines by the early- mid-1950s); and it always remained a barrier indicative of social class...It was about as relevant as a chocolate teapot in the real world but, sadly, my friend was driven to such desperately depressed despair that they have simply vanished, in a haze of psychedelic fog, never to complete their final play (which isn't really what I'm into in all honesty...Thankfully for me, there were no hormonal teenage werewolves or vampires in it either...Of course, there probably remains a longer pop-cultural legacy with those other fantasy Hippopotami...)...

 

...Indeed, I proudly confirm that I have never formally submitted a play - nor would I ever want to in this fickle day and age - but the process does not appear too hard to actually complete these days; the usual emailing and formatting concerns have replaced the fearful postage fretting...And I have received the silent treatment before so that I am no stranger to (most people who care about these trifles do have a bizarre capacity for rejection that remains quite amazing) - but having been made to snore through a few of these plays, the sudden realization at how over-rated and over-priced they all are, it makes me conclude that this whole industry remains blatantly based within the instant internet age; upon seeing some current celebrity of the moment using their fame from a particular film or TV series, to appear in the usual re-packaged stodge...The clue being they call theatre seasons a “cycle”... Think of an old film; it will get adapted into a play with another star-studded cast...Hippo-fodder always springs to mind but they view the masses as hypnotized chickens; they only think they see people coming these days; not a bad tax-backed con though...Surely I am not alone in thinking that this elitist art-form needs seriously radical diversification?... It technically becomes just like an extension of the middle-class modern art machine, if not a poorer branch of it as it does not make half the money of modern art. I only state this if we were to be objective high-grade frothing capitalists about all this...The bourgeois playwright usually only wants to be a devil's advocate; yet another re-hash of the known, but without the preachy feel...Though they could think outside the box, but they fear that will risk them losing the funding...

 

…Art and money remains another creative argument; Manny Farber remains a great reference of that particular debate, as Farber, in my mind, eloquently discusses such “Showbusiness” matters with a gravitas many post-everything trendies fail to understand; but it leaves me with wondering about the future of why people waste so much time over it all...Might as well give it all away these days, particularly if you have no film/book tie-in or film/West End celebrity-fest tie-in…What’s the point, eh?…And if I would compose some play it would be available for free and could be easily read aloud, like Chaucer, our one true bard…This whole chapter cements my hatred of the trust-fund generation, those dull, very sheltered, middle-class people who feel to get on in life they should have their own house in Mile End and another one in the South of France...God, all these pesky snobbish poshos  – and their wannabe bourgeois bum-licking acolytes -- don't they just make you want to hurl all over them?...Hopefully, they'll politely revolt and all re-locate to Saturn...Rebellion expunged...

 

...The alien screwed up the old academic monograph and changed sex again; boredom can be irksome, thought Erozian Zinny...It was getting windy again; Erozian loved to feel the breeze on their alien thighs...

 

...There was no point reading this disgruntled opinion piece, despite the amusing fact that he had been following Howard Wendle for sometime...The alien knew everything about Howard Wendle and his mutated sperm; they were able to manipulate time to recall every event: from Howard's first wet-dream to the first time he defecated in his pants on public transport while he was completely off his face on British champagne and crack cocaine...Oh what larks, thought Erozian Zinny...

 

Curiously Brainwashing [Volume Four: Paradise Street Club]

 ...Callum Cheevers entered the abandoned building...It was surprising to see abandoned properties in Tufnell Park. London was constantly in the grip of some moribund process of gentrification. Everything was ridiculous over-priced and completely soul-destroying...The real people were about somewhere; did you want to know what the weather was like too?...It was always miserable, even when the sun shined, and it had been tough to find a good plumber or a good cleaner willing to work for less than the minimum wage if you included food allowances into the pay package...I didn't mind the old Luncheon Vouchers, they even used to be accepted at the old BBC canteen [maybe they still are; it remains a mystery...Of course, for legal reasons, I am talking about the Barabbas Bonk Camp and not the other BBC - just in case those middle-class pencil-dicks get a bit touchy over there; in their ivory towers...]...To what end this process upon London might have had was left unknown; further research was required but it will be reviewed in the future...Currently, the effects appeared to be purely destructive, but nobody could really tell who it might benefit in the long-term, even if the system was designed to make sure the rich kept getting richer[umm, so the system's rigged, right?...]....Why go to a food bank when you can get a loan[shark]?...Well, the super-rich cronies are too rich to really care, aren't they?...

 

...[Insert some Backstory for Yank audience here] Callum Cheevers had grown up in London...His mother made him wear M&S briefs...He ate Ricicles, not Rice Krispies! After a period of time passed, he grew up and liked S&M [if I recall, "Parsnips" was his first safeword...]...He was a strange fellow: a young man with white hair. He had changed his hair colour to white as he wanted to be different.... He also had a repressed homosexual crush on his semi-retired Life-Coach-Guru, Tommy Tellman...Tellman had a long, flowing, mane of white hair...When Cheevers was a child he used to call Tellman 'Merlin'...Of course, Tellman wasn't really Merlin, but he was a constant spiritual projection...Tellman's actual body would never leave the Bermuda Triangle after crashing his Nayair Stealth prototype there back in 1947...

 

...Tommy Tellman – Cheevers' current Life-Coach Guru - was completely unaware of this repressed crush, of course, but had recommended Cheevers for an administrative position at the C.O.G. (Continuity of Government)...Cheevers had never thought about his career much...Being an amateur pop-pornographer was quite time consuming, but he had realized he needed a stable, regular, form of income that didn't involve regularly contracting herpes...Pop-pornography was a somewhat esoteric career niche; just like being a ceramicist...He also had to stop fucking strangers in his spare time, he was worried about his addictively risky sexual behaviours; he already gained a bit of reputation on Grindr...Cheevers had also been abducted by aliens - or time-travellers posing as aliens - more times than he cared to remember; those pesky reptilian dimensional beings from wherever, always giving him a good probing...He always wondered why he wanted to fuck a Critter or a Boglin when he was younger...Why would a kid do that?...Oh God, not again, he found a clue: it was a pzi-letter from Les Barloy...In Callum's addled mind, he heard and read [Les always spoke in these queer dandyish tones]: Indeed, greetings and salutations [enternamehere];...

 

...Many thanks for this sudden electrified friendship; it is very kind of you to send me this somewhat sudden, special, request, but I am slightly curious as to why you have