Tuesday, 1 May 2012
I've seen "Predator" more times than I can remember, and "Aliens" is second nature to me. There's me blasting the green eyed monsters into tiny pieces as I reload my portable howitzer with nuclear tipped, neutrino drenched dumb-dumbs. Interestingly, "Shot 'em up video games leave me cold - I think it 'cause they're not real enough yet!
So you would have thought that I would have wet myself with excitement seeing those military sort all tooled up and looking ready to wipe out the Barbarian hordes in London's Tottenham Court Road the other day.
A disgruntled learner lorry driver, having paid over loads of money was quite upset that he hadn 't won his HGV licence spurs. Rather than submitting a formal complaint to whatever regulatory body oversees the schools for HGV learners, he decided that direct action was the only way to get any thing done. (And you can understand why, can't you? Imagine yourself stuck at Heathrow Airport for three weeks staring at empty immigration booths, without any chance of rescue. You can't go back, you can't go forward - your only future is slow starvation and the sight of our Immigration Minister, Damian Green, on the telly swearing that the queue you're stuck in doesn't exist.)
That's how our failed HGV man felt. He had to do something. Stripped to the waist, gas canisters strapped to his body and a blow torch in his hand he struck. Into the offices of the School for Budding HGV drivers he stormed and took one or two of the secretarial staff and the janitor hostage.
He was awesome, he was terrifying, if a little confused and rather unclear how he would carry out his threat to blow his tormentors to Kingdom Come.
He had not counted on the overpowering might of PC Plod. Gone had the genial George Dixon of Dock Green of yore, happy to see any old lady or child across the road. Our gentle bobby has been transmuted, transmogrified, utterly transfigured into a close cousin of "Iron Man". Abseiling down buildings, being dropped from helicopters and closing off most of London in a ring of adamantine, these enforcers of the law bore down on our would be hostage taker.
The earth shock, the presses stilled as London held its breath. "Robocop vs Rubber Duck Trucker": an Olympian tussle. But it was no contest. Rubber Duck was led away, under guard surrounded by all the panoply of warfare, and law and order once again patrolled the throbbing streets of London Town.
Hardly having had time to change my pants and drew breath, surface to air missiles begin sprouting up all over London's East End. In Bow, Greenwich Park, the Lee Valley military installations capable of bringing down a rogue 747 or Frisbee, will be on constant alert over the Olympic holiday. On the Thames, deadly hordes of the SAS will wait silently to crack down on any revolt, insurrection or peaceful protest the police can't handle. Crack units of marksmen will ensure that the Olympic torch reaches its destination and that none of the thousands of VIPs is hijacked or ransomed by the excluded poor of the East End.
This is what power is all about. The power of the State to ensure a multi-billion pound consumeristic farce goes ahead without any inconvenience from the taxpayers.
No one will have the opportunity to object. Our marvellous police, military forces and private army of 24,000 security guards will see to that. If they do Heaven help them.