13 December 1972, Eugene Cernan, commander of Apollo 17, took mankind’s last walk on the moon. Under a full moon, 47 years on, we took our last collective walk in the United Kingdom. There was nothing to see on the moon, save for the breathtaking view of the blue planet we call home, a sight that shook the astronauts who beheld it.
13 December 2019, the British People took a giant step towards a new kind of light.
In a landslide comparable to those that unearthed Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, the British working class voted against a Labour manifesto designed to restore public services and human dignity, preferring a Conservative trope composed of three words: Get Brexit Done. And this in Labour heartlands held in some cases for nearly a century.
How did this happen?
As the years since the 2016 Advisory Referendum on the EU have proved, arriving at a coherent exit arrangement is an almost intractable problem. Leave/Remain was a sword of Damocles that cut the nation in two, along lines orthogonal to the old axis of Left and Right. This was precisely its purpose.
Through the new lens of Big Data, the commanders of the 21st Century Apollo Mission saw that the old axis was, like that of the moon or the earth, pretty stable, save for the slow, regular wobble of precession. Like so many balances in Nature, this balance is the outcome of a complex system. It is a balance, like homeostasis in the body, that is emergent and self-regulating. Unless sufficiently disturbed.
Few really understand the power of Artificial Intelligence trained on Big Data – data that encompasses the entirety of the new, virtual commons: every event, every interaction, from switching your phone on or off to the click trail that brought you here to whatever you click through to next. And the same for your friends and their friends.
And the same for others you have never heard of and never will, related to you only in the artificial brains that hover neither here nor there but everywhere, in the cloud.
At some point perhaps, those brains will out-think their inventors. Researchers at Facebook found chat-bot virtual machines were talking to each other in a language the researchers did not understand. Discussion about what they were saying continues, but the current consensus is that the Terminator is not here quite just yet.
Or is it? It should be obvious that the real power of AI will not announce itself in a full metal jacket. It will not announce itself at all, but simply effect change through its ability to see us in ways difficult for us to imagine. We have two eyes. We are bicameral. Whereas AI sees us in N-dimensions through a billion cameras. The result of the UK General Election is a landslide victory for this post-human perspective.
Observers can only wonder why the post-industrial masses of the Wales, the Midlands, the North, voted for the political party that has overseen the demise of their communities, pulling the rug out from under some of the most vulnerable people in society.
We can speculate on the role of Nigel Farage, a bit player in the wings of a Trump stage lit by the same artificial lamps. A shadow play wherein that great forgotten, downtrodden tract of humanity, the White Man, triumphs over the forces of neoliberalism and cosmopolitanism to have a voice once again. Now He Hath Spoken.
But wait. Neoliberalism, aka neoconservatism? Isn’t that the very movement riding shotgun in the Big Data car?
And there you have it. Get the people to vote for their own demise and your aggrandisement and enrichment. A rocket to the moon (when Lambo?) fuelled with the blood, sweat and tears of someone else. The astrological eighth house of other people’s money gamed and weaponised.
But the humans are not entirely ‘post’ just yet. Luxury car salesman Nigel Farage, wearing his UKIP then Brexit Party costumes, has worked the strings of the White Man, whose country, ancestry, rights, trains, GP surgeries, pride and post-1066 honour has been stolen by the Not-So-White Men and even Women of Somewhere Else.
Far-flung places full of liver-lillied wops and spics who caved in to the Germans and had to be rescued by the hard grafting, blue veined White Men of the moors and valleys and mines, who had themselves to be saved by the Bigger White Men across the pond, with their nuclear Final Solution stolen from the Nazis.
Nigel Farage, prophetically decoded by the internet anagram solver on this blog, helped sell a tale of victimhood, spiced with racism wiped a little cleaner than the football terrace thuggery of his ideological ancestor, Tommy Robinson, for presentation on the telly.
Sure, Farage didn’t have it easy. But through grilling after grilling and the odd, symbolic bit of theatre with black people, he was able to say to the zombies gathered in his salesroom that he was singlehandedly shifting the elitist lockdown of London and telling it like it is. GP Surgeries bursting with Somalis. Billions flung at unelected wops and frogs. The British identity disappearing under the shit-stain of Islam.
These are the vibrations that resonate with the older systems in the mammalian nervous system. Like that subwoofer noise they throw at you in Alien movies to jiggle your kidneys and get the adrenalin flowing.
Farage has played his part rather well. He got his puppet’s limbs jerking, got the zombies shuffling to the polling station, and then handed the X in the box to Boris. That was the gameplan and he executed it to perfection. The post-industrial wasteland could not have related to Bullingdon Boris unless it was told to.
And from there on, it didn’t matter what Boris did or said. It didn’t matter that all the members of his own family disowned him, or that he had his hand up this skirt, or had said XYZ or about black of gay or less able people. All he had to do was repeat the mantra. Get Brexit Done. Even though no one knows or apparently cares what that means.
Some reading this will say, Ah but the lumpen proletariat are much smarter than you think. They have had three years to weight up the pros and cons of Brexit, and weigh it up they have.
Maybe so. But as my brother, an NHS clinician puts it, they will have to keep their faith as the hospitals close, the queues lengthen. They will do well to bring an extra coat to throw down on the floor for a bed.
From the idealistic position I obviously share with Mr Corbyn, this country has taken a Giant Leap, not for mankind, and certainly not womankind or children or the vulnerable but for the tax dodgers, the corporates, the hedge funds.
A giant leap for Priti Patel and the secret Israeli lobby, who worked so hard to crucify JC. A giant leap for Donald Trump and the faceless machinery of Big Pharma, at this very moment doing whatever they do to celebrate. (A Jeffrey Epstein style party perhaps).
Even in the last dying moments of the Manifesto for Hope, Laura Kuenssberg, the BBC’s Minister for Propaganda, couldn’t resist mentioning that Ken Livingstone, “Red Ken” formerly and famously Mayor of London, had mentioned somewhere that the “Jewish vote didn’t help,” meaning that the enormous and relentless smear campaign against Mr Corbyn. But Kuenssberg’s mention, like countless crafted mentions before, was designed simply to reinforce the connection. Corbyn. Livingstone. McDonnell. Williams. Abbot. Shah. The left. Socialism. Evil. Jew Hating. Nazi.
In the carefully and constantly machined accommodation (I hesitate to call it a mind) in the skulls of the New Popular Right, that is enough. It is fact. And like a file written to an already full hard drive, it overwrites whatever was there before.
Ultimately, there is no Left, nor Right. There are no Jews. Just file fragments assembled and reassembled billions of times per second. A machined accommodation into which anything can be put. From which anything can be enacted, carried out, executed, and retrospectively justified.
While Aaron Banks, one of the sponsors of the post-human coup looks on from his seat at the BBC table, as we take JC down from the cross, the light of the Sun God goes once again into occlusion.