...and James Murdoch

...and James Murdoch, hesitates, stutters and murmurs nervously. His square spectacle lenses reflecting the lights ahead of him, the frustrating glimmers of light dancing across his darting eyes and distracting me from any natural eye contact I'm accustomed to settling into to during The X-Factor of Celebrity Big Brother. His legendary father, stoic and regal sits opposite, his ancient digits steepled beneath his jowls.... my head is spinning, I run to the bathroom to blow my ever dripping nose, as I return Rupert Murdoch gives a questioning, negative and monosyllabic answer to a question I haven't heard... I swallow two Beechams Flu + tablets, get into bed and drift between sleep this small aspect of News International's sisyphean struggle against their own success... I wake up, it's mid July and has been overcast in England for over a week now, even before my body gave up and let a virus occupy my energies the pollen was giving me hay fever - I've never had hay fever before this summer, there is something in the air, something invisible and omnipresent....


...again the world is grey, my hay fever has subsided, the news is full of riots breaking out in Birmingham, Slaford, Tottenham, West Bromwich, Reading and Oxford... I scroll though endless text about the subject, study youtube videos.. a woman floats from an burning inferno, a youthful silhouette drifts across a deserted road, his ice white feet blurring, beneath his brightly coloured rags, his red hood gyrating....a contemporary road runner.... David Cameron is on BBC, his thumb glued adjacent to his index finger, his bobbing clenched fist animating sporadically around his speech, his skin appears somewhat silicone, his replicant mannerisms, his glassy stare reminds me of a ventriloquists dummy, I notice the sound is off....