Get up, fire the computer up, boil the kettle and toast some bread. Feel guilty about where the fuel for those appliances (beamed down thousands of miles of electrical cable) has come from.
Read the news, shout at the screen , laugh at the Sun, gurn at the Mail. I sip my tea and crunch my toast.
Where has my tea come from? Who picked it? How much were they paid? Do they know how to read? What about the fuel spent bringing it to me? What wells have given me this? Did Iraq or Nigeria or even Iran supply me with this cup of tea today? Do I sip from the cup of Exxon's pre Iraq-war dossier? Do I drink from the cup of the ruling class who stand in golden castles surrounded by the seething, crawling masses who have nothing. Perhaps I drink in the riots, the torture, the violence, the oppression of those who order in Iran. But what of the alternative? What of fair pay, fair play capitalism?
What of walking into a supermarket and knowing the provenance of all you buy. What of market forces driving out all the bullshit I sleep-walk into on a daily basis. What of not feeling guilty about filling or even charging my car?
What of socialist capitalism?
What of knowing?
Transmission Ends...
