Labour / Work

The agrarian cycle is all or nothing. Either the work needs to be done or there is no work to be done. It is cyclical. It follows natural seasons. It is meaningful and useful work. No alienation. Productivity is driven by the amount of work there is to be done, not some arbitrary figure dreamed up in a bland office building somewhere. Inactivity (leisure) is just as valid as labour and certainly more valid than prescribed pseudo-activity.

The Industrial cycle is Fordist, mechanised, dehumanising, but involved nonetheless with the business of actual work. Leisure starts to become reified. Alienation begins.

The post-industrial pattern remains regimented but the veneer of productivity has worn thin and work is meaningless, dull, alienating and false. Leisure is totally reified to the point where labour is self-justifying and the our entire lives are subject to the whims of capital. Regulated commodified leisure is the enemy of spontaneity.

The structural nature of relations demands that labour power is bought for less than it is worth, creating a surplus – capital.

What looks like an exchange of equivalence is actually systemic exploitation.

Does the economy work for human beings or do human beings work for the economy?

Industrialisation creates ruthless exploitation but also the tools needed to escape a world of scarcity.

It is down to us to seize the initiative.



I’m worried I live in a bubble where we are zealous about trivialities, we make tiny aggressions out of thin air and discuss them endlessly. I’m worried that we are involved only in minor disruptions to hegemony, hell maybe thats all capitalism allows us. But lets face it, when we’re on the barricades no one is gonna care that you get yr shampoo at lush or that yr vegan or what yr pronouns are. I don’t believe this behaviour is a form of status-seeking  I think it is sincere and rooted in a good place, and I’m not saying these aren’t battles worth fighting, I’m just saying… I think, that there are people floating across the Med on rafts and the President of the USA is fucking insane and China is a totalitarian nightmare and we’re truly fucked, so maybe we need to find innovative modes of resistance that can affect concrete change rather than symbolic disruptions. Is this post making me sound like a dick? I hope not. I definitely don’t want to belittle things that are important to some people (myself included), I just feel like there is massive shit going on and I don’t know how to attack it. The proletariat no longer exists, or if it does it exists in a radically different form, its hard to know how to organise. I feel powerless because I am.

two concerts


Hagar The Womb, The Cowley Club, Brighton.

The Cowley Club is an anarchist co-operative social space in Brighton. My band Austerity played a fun set supporting anarcho punk legends Hagar The Womb.. People danced. Late in the evening I am sat in the garden on my own smoking a cigarette when a strikingly beautiful girl appears, asks me my name and if she can borrow a roll up. The next thing she says is “you are very beautiful”, I assured her that she was also very beautiful but I think I sounded insincere and she was unsure if I was just being polite. I wasn’t. She put her hand on my leg gently and passionately said “do you believe in anarchism?”

It was a carefully scripted manifestation of my most perfect fantasy and yet it was one I never knew I had. Every detail; location, general context, her appearance out of nowhere piercing my solitude, her german accent. All of it was too perfect, and yes it contains a compliment to me cos this is my fantasy-reality and i’m an insecure narcissist. All of this and further still, all of this was seemingly occurring in actual reality.

I gave her lots of merch and literature about my band and we went our separate ways.


Lone Taxidermist, Supernormal Festival. Oxfordshire.

I was at Supernormal Festival and I went to see Lone Taxidermist. There was a long queue outside. When we got inside everything was covered with plastic. I’d ingested a large quantity of psilcybin mushrooms and truffles, some ketamine and I’d been drinking Guinness and smoking joints since breakfast. To put it another way, I was in a fucking weird headspace. I was bothered by the close proximity of the other people in the crowd, then the group came out leering through taut transparent sheets of film, it was terrifying. I had to leave because the world was ending or something. I decided to calm down by the campfire because I fucking love campfires. This is where I met a girl. We talked all night. In the darkness I could barely make out her face in the firelight but I could tell she had a nice smile. She fell off a bench and got gin in her hair. I found this hilarious which was not the appropriate response.

When we stood up to leave I realised that she was taller than me which I didn’t expect.

We kissed a bit and went our separate ways.



These two examples are interesting because yes they both feature the notion of romance, but they are quite obviously not about sex. They are about fleeting spontaneous deep connections made with strangers. It is not sexual, it is more accurately described as a meeting of minds.

I dare not even DREAM of meeting the love of my life, all I ask is a few moments with someone being authentic and enjoying each others company. If this is my fantasy what does that say about my own sense of alienation?

What happened at the cowley club and at supernormal, these are magical spontaneous events that freed us from the reach of the spectacle. We were not producing and consuming and the primary quality of our interactions were completely divorced from the notion of production (in all its multifarious forms). They were simply about human connection in its rawest most authentic form.

In a more innocent world these moments would’ve remained beautiful vignettes in the memories of those involved. Now most likely we’ll just stalk each other on Facebook when we feel depressed and enable the spectacle to reach at the guts of its enemy. Everything that is real becomes distorted to the point where it is now false.