I sat in front of the computer screen and searched for “white people art.” The results were awash with the faces of Africans, some clutching white women close, others staring back at me. I closed the screen and opened Twitter, where an article on a woman who smears her face with menstruation was posted by the Daily Telegraph. As I scrolled down, an article displaying five black women was followed with the copy “The new James Bond?” I switched to the Daily Mail and every story was on sexism, bullying, racism, or a blistering attack on male sexuality.

I closed the laptop and sat back in my chair. The iPhone winked at me as an email came through from a petition site, lighting up the screen. I gazed at it and was reminded of the horrors that lay within, the stultifying ‘refreshes’ on the Instagram feed, incessant selfies and photos of miserable people, matrix-mind people. A torrent of hyper-sexualised imagery await, created in the hope of making a quick quid, its purveyors held tort by strings unseen—those figures who wish to drain a man of his life force through chronic masturbation and false ideals. The same forces, I thought, that wish the radioactive phone to be kept next to the balls, location services on, with takeout food coming.

The room was quiet for all but eight seconds before I heard a siren wail in the cold distance of the London night. It was getting too much again. This was a feeling known every now and again, like sleep paralysis, no scream could be loud enough for others to hear it. I sat there and took it, knowing that freedom burned upon a pyre, worshipped in the indolence and passivity of the sleepwalking masses. I sat back and smoked a cigarette while I eyed up the pyramid earring left by the night’s blonde. Smoke hung about the air and ash crackled and burned bright, as I was brought back to the light of that London Black Cab this morning.

I broke out of the rat race of Waterloo Station at 8.22am. The sky showed no signs of sunlight. I forced my way through a horde of suits with necks bent 30 degrees—at least, boring holes in their hands, sometimes two, as they caught up on Netflix or Candy Crush. I made for the taxi rank and thought to myself that I appeared to be the only one with a straight spine. A black one pulled up, it’s yellow light shone amid the daily smog of a central London morning. The white chap in the front was a Londoner, an accent like my own and a face like my forefathers, a dying breed. I addressed him: “To the Old Bailey mate.”

“OK mate,” he said firmly.

“What d’ya make of Uber?”

The conversation developed, and sensing trust between the two of us, Graham, a 53 year old driver from South of the river, told me of Swedish businessmen excited about wrist-chips at their multinationals, to girls who carry no cash, to drunk men asking for cocaine.

“Yeah, and what’s more, is ya don’t have ya anonymity when ya get in them cars,” He said.

“Go on,” I followed.

“Everything is tracked, and ya can’t jus’ hail one down, it’s all controlled, ya movements, everywhere you go and they pass on that data.”

“So a cashless society is to be next, they say, I hear, and have experienced—one such city is Amsterdam.”

I left it at that and tipped the chap, the last of the real Londoners. As I left, he told me that Trump was fighting ‘it’. Glory be to Trump, I hoped, as I entered the court building.

Inside the labyrinth of rooms that is the Old Bailey, I made my way through search and staircase to court number six. I took a seat at the back and surveyed the room. This was the case of an Islamist who was being tried for possessing ‘extremist propaganda.’ As time ticked away in that room, I watched clip after clip of his ISIS propaganda, surveying the videos of ‘lions’ who served their God. Clad in black, with rifles and swords, the images showed scores of death cult enthusiasts, the likes of which the common man has not seen—until he watches somebodies daughter maimed by an Islamist at a market or blown to pieces at a concert.

The Old Bailey

As I took shorthand notes, I felt the absent weight of the phone in my pocket, for which I could be glad. I caught eye contact with the barrister’s assistant, a Latina looking thing of about 24 with big eyes and tits to match. It all made sense, I thought, if only for such fleeting moments. Times pulled away from the onslaught of digital castration, dumbing down, newspeak and anti-humour. The tentacle of the social justice warrior is long, but it cannot strangle the two million year old man. I snapped back into attention and was in my room again, staring into nothingness. I put a line through day ten and flicked the switch of the light.

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