Spied me darting about over the last few weeks, scurrying here and there? Startled by my strange, shabby clothes? I’ve been undercover, in the outlandish world of the anarchists. To boldly go where clergymen sometimes go, into a community of politically motivated individuals.
We know what makes anarchists’ tick. But we don’t know where they get their famous energy from? In embarrassingly small numbers they can close motorways, occupy power stations, throw legendary parties which everyone later claims they attended and apparently threaten the very fabric of capitalism.
Now clearly lying around in bed all day long, being a dolie scrounger has got to help. But counterpointed against that is the cannabis consumption, which is apt to make one completely fekking lazy; so I am reliably informed.
So into their world I went. To find a communion populated by frighteningly knowledgeable individuals, who knew exactly the enormity of the task facing them. But it didn’t faze them. Weeks of intricate conversations about everything under the sun indicated many of them did not wish to create a permanent state of anarchy to live in, as a model for civil society.
Instead they only wished to create moments of anarchy, then to step into that blessed dawn. That’s bound to be an inspirational experience, I surmised. Actually achieving your political ideals from time to time. Across the centuries. How many others could claim their long history of success? It did not matter that not everyone is involved, when anarchists of this persuasion kicked off. They were.
But even allowing for this carry on to become addictive and thus appear to provide the get-up-and-get-stuck-in factor, it did not completely explain the phenomena. What about all the other anarchists? The ones who want to turn the world into some sort of scheme according to their ideological principle? They also go out and campaign hard, leaflet, organise meetings, events, parties and tend to be full members of their communities. What about them?
The answer, I discovered, after months of painstaking work, lies in their spiritual recharging system. Ostensibly billed as “music” gigs, they are anything but, as the video above reveals. Although admittedly my phone’s microphone couldn’t cope with the volume levels. A week ago today, I was at that vegan anarchist punk rock gig. It was much the same sort of thing as last time. Though no actual audience punch up this time, thank God.
A hundred or so souls packed into a basement below a pub quiz at Sticky Mike’s Frog Bar. I heard two anarchist preachers. The first, not a word, just his visceral power, blasted through what I suspect was for him an unnecessary sound system. The second, the extraordinary and estimable Dick Lucas, fronting the Subhumans. Sermonising between ‘tunes’, his political and cultural analysis of our world was more coherent than any politician’s. Tell it like is Dick, we thought. Tell us what we already know. And loudly. Give us, this day, our daily rage.