The Seven Genocidal Traits

I am hoping to provide a spot-light on the reasons why the human race may well be approaching the end times.... if it is not actually experiencing them already. I am hoping to do this through allegory, symbolism & through the kind of story telling that has provided our species with the unique place it has enjoyed on good old Mother Earth.

I am going to avoid both religious & scientific rationale since I see these two disciplines as the main bookends that have been the keenest genocide enthusiasts of all the forms of analysis human kind has attempted. There will, of course, be regular references to both science & religion but I am keen to avoid relying on either in an attempt to support my findings. I regard the arrogance inherent in both to be the epitome of human self-destructiveness.

So on to the series of observations that I hope will illuminate us as to why we cannot seem to control ourselves whilst at the same time seem obsessed with controlling the things around us.

My mate Terry is a biker. He has, at times, been affiliated to both The Hell's Angels & The Outcasts. In his youth he experienced an epiphany of the kind one would expect a man of his life-style to live through. Whilst cruising down a street in the East End of London at some point in the late Nineteen Seventies a uniformed member of The Metropolitan Police stepped out into the road in front of Terry's Chopper. The constable raised his hand & attempted to stop Terry as an obvious prelude to either an arrest or some form of prejudicial line of investigation.

When I heard the story in the year Two Thousand & Seven he told a room full of us that he felt it could have only gone two ways. One would be to stop which would almost certainly lead to the confiscation of his bike & an arrest leading to some form of incarceration {Hell's Angels are not great fans of the vehicle licensing system or the driving licence system}.

His other option? Well you can do the math for yourself.

An equally maverick & piratical lady in the room with us enquired of him what course of action he took. Referring to his bike he replied, “Well I opened her up didn't I.” The room exploded into laughter. Terry has a very very dead-pan delivery. The lady concerned was beside herself with hysterical glee & drew the spectacle into sharper relief when she enquired of Terry as to whether the constable had then been found lying on the road with a tire track along the length of his body whilst still holding his arm outstretched toward the sky as if in an attempt to stop it falling on his head. Terry said that the swerve he deftly executed saved both the copper & himself from a tragic situation.

It seems to me that Terry represented the unstoppable forces of nature & the copper represented the human race at its most arrogant & self destructive.

I'm not saying that our species would experience something of a reprieve if we all became Hell's Angels but I damn well know it wouldn't last five minutes if we all became police officers as they exist today. The streets would be littered with the corpses of people who just cannot mind their own business & who have the unhealthy desire to go through each other's pockets. But hey, hang on a minute, isn't that what happens when two tribes go to war? Everyone dons a uniform & within minutes the streets are littered with dead bodies because nobody can mind their own business?

It seems our desire to make order out of chaos is at the heart of our inability to appreciate the world as it is. If we, perhaps, merely try to find order within chaos we may not be as injurious to our own place within it.

The day after Terry told his story both he & I were at a close friend's funeral reception. A motley collection of bikers, anarchists, hippies, punks & travellers were collected in the communal gardens of a council estate off the Devon's Road near Bow. Some of the families represented at this crazy, dangerous & extremely humorous party had lived in the area for centuries. All the local residents had been warned that the afternoon would produce more noise & frivolity than that usually experienced between noon & early evening on a week day. Although the sound system Terry had provided was not “banging it out” a young upwardly mobile lady with an unusually “refined” accent stormed into the space & demanded that the music be turned down. She approached me first because I was wearing a Top Hat. This kind of head gear obviously still represents authority for some people regardless of the fact that it was a throwback to the nineteenth century. I assumed she had been the only person to have slipped through our net when agreeing to the noise levels with everyone who lived within earshot. “I'm awfully sorry. Didn't you know this was a wake for a close friend & long time resident of this estate?” I said this as politely as I could considering I'd had about twelve pints of lager since the previous afternoon. She looked at me angrily & said she did know it was a wake. You could have heard a pin drop as a good dozen cheeky chirpy Cockney characters all looked at her in disbelief. “Obviously one of the new “home owners” that are seeking to gentrify the area,” I said as I turned in disgust to my mate Smutley. “I think we should chop her fucking head off,” said Smutley obviously overtaken by grief at the interruption of a memorial to one of the most charitable “East Enders” anyone in the area had ever known. To my amazement she just stood glaring at us. “I've done some extremely stupid things in my time madam as you can probably guess by looking at me but wot you just done has got to be the single most stupid thing I have ever seen in my life.” I turned to Smutley.... “I would expect my four year old daughter to understand the importance of allowing people to “tear it up” at a wake let alone a full grown adult who had been forewarned.”

“Who's in charge here?” she demanded. Ah yes.... a popular question that often crops up during these “end times”.

I pointed to Terry.

I think by now dear reader that a pattern is emerging.