A US president lies about the military capabilities of another country and deceives the world into invading it (for years, the US and the president's friends supported the same nation in its own illegal wars, and even provided materials so that it could wage chemical warfare against its neighbours, and its own people).
The US president's lies are exposed
The US president's friends' lies are exposed
The US president refuses to step down
The US president rewrites US laws to make himself immune from prosecution
The US military's use of torture against citizens of the invaded nation is exposed
The US president refuses to step down (he has rewritten the US laws to make himself immune from prosecution)
The US president and his administration condone the use of torture in the pursuit of their illegal war
Scientific analysis suggests 1 million citizens of the invaded nation have died as a direct result of the illegal war
The US president refuses to step down (he has rewritten the US laws to make himself immune from prosecution)
The US president argues that "perhaps around 30,000" of the citizens of the nation he invaded, based on lies, have died
A journalist from the invaded nation throws a shoe at the US president, the president who lied, approved the use of torture, and murdered 1 million civilians
The journalist from the invaded nation is taken into custody by the military of the new regime imposed by the US president and his friends
The journalist from the invaded nation is allegedly beaten by the military of the new regime imposed by the US president and his friends
The journalist's ribs are allegedly broken, as is his hand, and he suffers internal bleeding at the hands of the new regime imposed by the US president and his friends
The US president makes a joke about not seeing the size of the shoes
The US president does not comment on the injuries suffered by the man who hurled the shoe, and US journalists do not question the US president about the injuries suffered by their fellow journalist
The US president does not comment on the fact that the man could face 7 to 15 years in prison for throwing a shoe at the man who has murdered 1 million civilians, and US journalists do not question the US president about the fate of the man
US journalists focus on how the man was free to throw a shoe at the US president
US journalists focus on how the man would have been executed under the previous regime (which was supported by former US presidents and the US president's friends)
US journalists do not comment on how the previous regime was supported by former US presidents and the current US president's friends
The invaded nation has no resources other than cabbages
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tiananmen Square, the South China Morning Post and historical rewrites
From the December 11, 2008 edition of the South China Morning Post.
June 3-4, 1989
"Violent confrontations break out between soldiers and residents. PLA troops force protestors off the square."
"Confrontations break out" means tanks rolling into the square, over the bodies of demonstrators, and troops executing unarmed civilians. The residents sought to protect the student protestors and delay the tanks. The PLA then put the country on lockdown and the administration hunted down students and residents and either executed or incarcerated them. Thousands were murdered.
Kudos to the journos at the Post for standing up to their governors in Beijing and telling it like it was.
FOOTNOTE: The Post was also first to break the news that the tanks that would roll into Hong Kong carrying PLA troops shortly after midnight on July 1, 1997 were in fact "armoured personnel carriers." Not tanks at all. A very important distinction if you crushed by one.
June 3-4, 1989
"Violent confrontations break out between soldiers and residents. PLA troops force protestors off the square."
"Confrontations break out" means tanks rolling into the square, over the bodies of demonstrators, and troops executing unarmed civilians. The residents sought to protect the student protestors and delay the tanks. The PLA then put the country on lockdown and the administration hunted down students and residents and either executed or incarcerated them. Thousands were murdered.
Kudos to the journos at the Post for standing up to their governors in Beijing and telling it like it was.
FOOTNOTE: The Post was also first to break the news that the tanks that would roll into Hong Kong carrying PLA troops shortly after midnight on July 1, 1997 were in fact "armoured personnel carriers." Not tanks at all. A very important distinction if you crushed by one.
Chinese dementia patients see hope in Santa - South China Morning Post exclusive
Top headline from the December 6 edition of the South China Morning Post:
A world class paper for "Asia's World City."
DEMENTIA PATIENTS LOOK TO OPERATION SANTA FOR HELP
A world class paper for "Asia's World City."
Monday, October 13, 2008
Fuck off McCain
War hero? Fuck off. You’re an army brat, the spoilt offspring of an elite army general. You flew a mach-speed fighter over a country full of peasant fighters and dropped napalm on them from thousands of feet in the air. You burned peasants to death, from a distance. And this makes you a hero? Fuck off McCain.
And did you ever apologise to the people of Vietnam for what you did to them McCain? Did you hell. Instead you go on and on like a stuck record about freedom and democracy and truth. You proclaim your service to your country, as though it was a virtue to bomb peasants fighting against colonialism. But can you tell me how you served the Vietnamese people by shredding them with bombs?
You can’t tell me how you served the Vietnamese people McCain, because you can’t even see them as people. Back then they were thousands of feet below you, and because you never saw them it was okay to bomb them. But just to be sure you called them “gooks”, because a gook is inferior – a sub-human – and killing a gook is not a crime. But over 30 years later you still call the Vietnamese people gooks. It’s because you do not have the courage to admit that what you did was wrong that you use the same language of hatred to continue to justify your crimes.
Let me explain what I mean by a crime. Some of the bombs you dropped were filled with sharp plastic spikes. When the bombs exploded, the plastic spikes flew in all directions, and if they hit a human they worked their way deep into the flesh. They buried themselves so deep they couldn’t be removed. The spikes were designed to tunnel through the body and into the vital organs. And because they flew everywhere, the plastic spikes flew into children’s bodies and tunnelled their way slowly into their livers, kidneys or hearts. When I say slowly, I mean 10, 11, 12, 13 days of screaming. Then the children died – there was no anaesthetic, your government’s bombing and embargoes had seen to that, and that’s why the children screamed. There was rarely an X-Ray machine to detect the spikes, and even when there was it could not find the spikes because they were designed to be undetectable. The bomb was an instrument of terror, a weapon that killed by a slow torture. It was an instrument designed to torture the Vietnamese people into submission.
I never hear you talk about the weapons you used against the Vietnamese people, but you’ve made something of a living out of your status as a torture victim, haven’t you John? Let me speak bluntly here: you weren’t fucking tortured McCain. You got a bit of a slapping, which is less than you deserved.
Let me explain again. You know what happens to most downed airmen, don’t you? See, the people you bomb don’t see you as a war hero. All they know is you just bombed their street. You just killed grandma, and you just killed the old bloke down the street who was a bit off – he had a room full of old football magazines going back 35 years, but he never did any harm to anyone. You blew him up. His leg is now lying in the middle of the road.
So the people don’t see you as a hero. When you crash-land in their street they bash your skull in with the bricks that used to be their houses, or they drown you, or they cut your throat. The British did it to the Luftwaffe during WW2. I can introduce you to fishermen who used to surround any downed pilot in their boats, then circle him, laughing and pointing and waiting for him to drown.
You got lucky. You lived. The Vietcong saved you from drowning in a lake after you crashed, then saved you from the mob who wanted to bash your brains out. You got lucky McCain.
So what did you do? You complained. Oh, there was no proper medical treatment for your broken limbs. Of course there wasn’t. You bombed the hospitals, you bombed the power stations, you bombed the sewage and water systems, and you bombed the supply lines. Remember?
You complained about the food, but you got the same food that everyone else had in Vietnam at that time. The frontline Vietcong lived on taro and salt. There was no food in Vietnam. You bombed the supply lines, remember?
You got dysentery. Well John, that’s what happens when you bomb a country back to the stone age: everyone gets dysentery. Didn’t you know that that’s what happens when you cut off medical supplies and food like you were conducting a Mediaeval siege?
Like I say, you got lucky. You lived. You got slapped around a bit, sure. Get over it. You’re alive. The Vietnamese you bombed are not. And let me tell you, if you bombed my street then crashed your plane in it, I’d be first in line with electrodes for your testicles. Or perhaps just a brick for your skull.
Think yourself lucky you didn’t land in England McCain. We’re not as civilised as the Vietnamese that way.
To sum up. You have never apologised for what you did to the people of Vietnam. Worse, you propose that we continue a war in Iraq that is estimated to have left over 1 million Iraqi civilians dead already. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that you have learned nothing from your life experience, which is a poor recommendation for a politician, let alone a man who aspires to be a “world leader”. But I will go further. I strongly believe that you continue to make the same mistakes because it serves your career to do so. Rather than find the strength and human dignity to relive the past and address the immoral conduct or yourself, and your country, you continue to further your career by proclaiming yourself a war hero.
War hero? Fuck off.
And did you ever apologise to the people of Vietnam for what you did to them McCain? Did you hell. Instead you go on and on like a stuck record about freedom and democracy and truth. You proclaim your service to your country, as though it was a virtue to bomb peasants fighting against colonialism. But can you tell me how you served the Vietnamese people by shredding them with bombs?
You can’t tell me how you served the Vietnamese people McCain, because you can’t even see them as people. Back then they were thousands of feet below you, and because you never saw them it was okay to bomb them. But just to be sure you called them “gooks”, because a gook is inferior – a sub-human – and killing a gook is not a crime. But over 30 years later you still call the Vietnamese people gooks. It’s because you do not have the courage to admit that what you did was wrong that you use the same language of hatred to continue to justify your crimes.
Let me explain what I mean by a crime. Some of the bombs you dropped were filled with sharp plastic spikes. When the bombs exploded, the plastic spikes flew in all directions, and if they hit a human they worked their way deep into the flesh. They buried themselves so deep they couldn’t be removed. The spikes were designed to tunnel through the body and into the vital organs. And because they flew everywhere, the plastic spikes flew into children’s bodies and tunnelled their way slowly into their livers, kidneys or hearts. When I say slowly, I mean 10, 11, 12, 13 days of screaming. Then the children died – there was no anaesthetic, your government’s bombing and embargoes had seen to that, and that’s why the children screamed. There was rarely an X-Ray machine to detect the spikes, and even when there was it could not find the spikes because they were designed to be undetectable. The bomb was an instrument of terror, a weapon that killed by a slow torture. It was an instrument designed to torture the Vietnamese people into submission.
I never hear you talk about the weapons you used against the Vietnamese people, but you’ve made something of a living out of your status as a torture victim, haven’t you John? Let me speak bluntly here: you weren’t fucking tortured McCain. You got a bit of a slapping, which is less than you deserved.
Let me explain again. You know what happens to most downed airmen, don’t you? See, the people you bomb don’t see you as a war hero. All they know is you just bombed their street. You just killed grandma, and you just killed the old bloke down the street who was a bit off – he had a room full of old football magazines going back 35 years, but he never did any harm to anyone. You blew him up. His leg is now lying in the middle of the road.
So the people don’t see you as a hero. When you crash-land in their street they bash your skull in with the bricks that used to be their houses, or they drown you, or they cut your throat. The British did it to the Luftwaffe during WW2. I can introduce you to fishermen who used to surround any downed pilot in their boats, then circle him, laughing and pointing and waiting for him to drown.
You got lucky. You lived. The Vietcong saved you from drowning in a lake after you crashed, then saved you from the mob who wanted to bash your brains out. You got lucky McCain.
So what did you do? You complained. Oh, there was no proper medical treatment for your broken limbs. Of course there wasn’t. You bombed the hospitals, you bombed the power stations, you bombed the sewage and water systems, and you bombed the supply lines. Remember?
You complained about the food, but you got the same food that everyone else had in Vietnam at that time. The frontline Vietcong lived on taro and salt. There was no food in Vietnam. You bombed the supply lines, remember?
You got dysentery. Well John, that’s what happens when you bomb a country back to the stone age: everyone gets dysentery. Didn’t you know that that’s what happens when you cut off medical supplies and food like you were conducting a Mediaeval siege?
Like I say, you got lucky. You lived. You got slapped around a bit, sure. Get over it. You’re alive. The Vietnamese you bombed are not. And let me tell you, if you bombed my street then crashed your plane in it, I’d be first in line with electrodes for your testicles. Or perhaps just a brick for your skull.
Think yourself lucky you didn’t land in England McCain. We’re not as civilised as the Vietnamese that way.
To sum up. You have never apologised for what you did to the people of Vietnam. Worse, you propose that we continue a war in Iraq that is estimated to have left over 1 million Iraqi civilians dead already. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that you have learned nothing from your life experience, which is a poor recommendation for a politician, let alone a man who aspires to be a “world leader”. But I will go further. I strongly believe that you continue to make the same mistakes because it serves your career to do so. Rather than find the strength and human dignity to relive the past and address the immoral conduct or yourself, and your country, you continue to further your career by proclaiming yourself a war hero.
War hero? Fuck off.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
China joins 'spacewalk league' (whatever the fuck that is)
“China joins spacewalk league” blares the front page of today’s South China Boring Most, speaking impartially on behalf of Beijing.
Apparently the man who walked in space for China wore a suit that was made in China, and survived. The Boring Most does not say who his tailor was or if the material was a cotton-rayon mix or one of the advanced washable fabrics favoured by German designers for those awful tight trousers they make.
I’m not at all sure what the Spacewalk League is, or how you score points or win a trophy because the Boring Most doesn’t actually tell me that. I suspect this might be just more nationalistic hyperbole and flag-waving, but don’t want to be seen as cynical so I won’t write that.
My first thought then, as someone who came of age in the 80s, was Shalamar or Michael Jackson – you know, walking forward while looking like you are walking backwards? But apparently not. So the Spacewalk League is not a breakdance or bodypopping league. It is not clear what the Spacewalk League is.
What is clear from the Boring Most article is that China will be competing for points in spacewalking against the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R. Except the U.S.S.R. doesn’t exist any more. So, the U.S.A. plus Russia and the bits of Georgia that Putin recently bombed flat. I guess the Spacewalk League is somewhat like international athletics, where competitors travel different distances in competitive times, only now they actually have to be in space in a spacesuit. I wonder if they take steroids. Again, the Boring Most does not say.
The Boring Most does mention that China plans to go to the moon and build a moonstation. My guess is they will then enter a Moonwalking League, which is where they will compete with Michael Jackson and Shalamar, although maybe not. The U.S.A. used to go to the moon but there was no one to bomb there, and no one to preach to about right living, so they stopped going. Maybe China will build a series of widget factories. Maybe N.A.S.A. will bring Michael Jackson out of retirement. It is not clear. The Boring Most does not say.
Finally, and I must go now and have a cup of tea, I should point out that space technology is important because it has been responsible for many important scientific innovations that have improved life on planet earth for many people. One of these inventions is tinfoil. I can’t remember any others right now.
People tend to forget these inventions and focus on the cost of running a Spacewalk League and talk about how when people around the world are poor we shouldn't waste money on shit like this. They overlook the versatility of tinfoil, and focus instead on statistics like these:
Source for statistics: http://www.globalissues.org/article/26/poverty-facts-and-stats#fact3
Apparently the man who walked in space for China wore a suit that was made in China, and survived. The Boring Most does not say who his tailor was or if the material was a cotton-rayon mix or one of the advanced washable fabrics favoured by German designers for those awful tight trousers they make.
I’m not at all sure what the Spacewalk League is, or how you score points or win a trophy because the Boring Most doesn’t actually tell me that. I suspect this might be just more nationalistic hyperbole and flag-waving, but don’t want to be seen as cynical so I won’t write that.
My first thought then, as someone who came of age in the 80s, was Shalamar or Michael Jackson – you know, walking forward while looking like you are walking backwards? But apparently not. So the Spacewalk League is not a breakdance or bodypopping league. It is not clear what the Spacewalk League is.
What is clear from the Boring Most article is that China will be competing for points in spacewalking against the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R. Except the U.S.S.R. doesn’t exist any more. So, the U.S.A. plus Russia and the bits of Georgia that Putin recently bombed flat. I guess the Spacewalk League is somewhat like international athletics, where competitors travel different distances in competitive times, only now they actually have to be in space in a spacesuit. I wonder if they take steroids. Again, the Boring Most does not say.
The Boring Most does mention that China plans to go to the moon and build a moonstation. My guess is they will then enter a Moonwalking League, which is where they will compete with Michael Jackson and Shalamar, although maybe not. The U.S.A. used to go to the moon but there was no one to bomb there, and no one to preach to about right living, so they stopped going. Maybe China will build a series of widget factories. Maybe N.A.S.A. will bring Michael Jackson out of retirement. It is not clear. The Boring Most does not say.
Finally, and I must go now and have a cup of tea, I should point out that space technology is important because it has been responsible for many important scientific innovations that have improved life on planet earth for many people. One of these inventions is tinfoil. I can’t remember any others right now.
People tend to forget these inventions and focus on the cost of running a Spacewalk League and talk about how when people around the world are poor we shouldn't waste money on shit like this. They overlook the versatility of tinfoil, and focus instead on statistics like these:
- At least 80% of humanity lives on less than $1 a day.
- More than 80 percent of the world’s population lives in countries where income differentials are widening.
- The poorest 40 percent of the world’s population accounts for 5 percent of global income. The richest 20 percent accounts for three-quarters of world income.
Source for statistics: http://www.globalissues.org/article/26/poverty-facts-and-stats#fact3
Monday, September 22, 2008
Suck on a Fisherman's Friend
September 22, 2008
Overheard on the ferry this morning.
A youngish, slightly doughy Englishman is sitting on the ferry at 08:25 wearing an ironed tee-shirt with a collar. It has one of those indistinct sporty labels that place you in a certain social category, though which category that would be I really could not tell you.
A youngish, slim, nondescript Chinese woman with a slight North American twang walks up in a tight black dress and stilletoes.
"Hi," she says enthusiastically, "what are you doing here?"
She sits down next to the Englishman while he mumbles something unconvincing about deciding to go to work on this ferry on this day, and sit in this particular seat on a whim, a prayer, a spur, or some such.
It's all rather cute in a Hugh Grant kinda way - all rather gosh fancy seeing you here, umm, well, you know, lovely day, like your dress, gosh, isn't the light so ... sort of ... morningy.
Mildly amusing but not very distracting, like a Hollywood film running quietly in the background. Until, that is, she offers him a sweet.
"Oh, yes please," he says enthusiastically. "It's always good to suck on a Fisherman's Friend."
I look over then.
From his face it's clear he does not understand the pun, and neither, bless, does she.
Overheard on the ferry this morning.
A youngish, slightly doughy Englishman is sitting on the ferry at 08:25 wearing an ironed tee-shirt with a collar. It has one of those indistinct sporty labels that place you in a certain social category, though which category that would be I really could not tell you.
A youngish, slim, nondescript Chinese woman with a slight North American twang walks up in a tight black dress and stilletoes.
"Hi," she says enthusiastically, "what are you doing here?"
She sits down next to the Englishman while he mumbles something unconvincing about deciding to go to work on this ferry on this day, and sit in this particular seat on a whim, a prayer, a spur, or some such.
It's all rather cute in a Hugh Grant kinda way - all rather gosh fancy seeing you here, umm, well, you know, lovely day, like your dress, gosh, isn't the light so ... sort of ... morningy.
Mildly amusing but not very distracting, like a Hollywood film running quietly in the background. Until, that is, she offers him a sweet.
"Oh, yes please," he says enthusiastically. "It's always good to suck on a Fisherman's Friend."
I look over then.
From his face it's clear he does not understand the pun, and neither, bless, does she.
Privacy in Hong Kong
Sunday 16th March
Internet down at City Lofts, or at least, I can’t connect using the passwords they gave me.
I call Arman, the enthsiastically friendly Filipino who works for City Lofts and he says he will bring over their tech guy and check out the connection for me. I have to go out, so I will not be there.
He asks if I will leave my computer switched on.
I tell him no, and he is not to touch my computer. He can check the connection, and there is nothing wrong with my computer, it has worked with wireless connections all over the world.
He says sometimes there is a problem between their system and Macs.
I tell him not to touch my computer.
I turn off my computer and put it in my briefcase next to the glass desk which has the TV on so you can’t use it to write on.
I go out, take the underground, then a ferry, and walk across Lamma, the small island I used to live on. It is Sunday, and the sun has come out. I find myself walking a large concrete road that is all but deserted, apart from an occasional unfriendly village house with a collection of violent, unfriendly dogs which come out to bark at me.
The grass is scorched brown from the winter. There is a fecund smell of earth and leaf. The wind moves through trees. I find myself strangely aroused, and realise that growing up in the country in England, my earliest sexual encounters are forever associated with the smells of earth, of cut grass, of the cold chill of air moving over hot limbs coiled in long grass.
I drift in and out of thoughts, and whilst wondering whatever happened to one of my ex-girlfriends, the one who became a heroin addict, find myself on the brow of a hill, looking down over the island from a new vantage point. The hideously ugly power station dwarfs the tiny village below.
My phone rings. It is Arman. He wants to know if he can go into my room. I tell him he can, and I told him before that he can, to check the internet.
I stand on the hill and look down again at the village. I remember that the power station was built here because it was not safe to build it close to the city. So they built it right on top of one of the oldest fishing villages in Hong Kong, and destroyed the long, softly sweeping curve and white sand of Hung Shing Yeh Beach to do so.
The phone rings again. It is Arman. He wants to know where my computer is. I tell him that he cannot touch my computer. He says the tech guy would like to check that my computer is okay. I tell him my computer is fine, thank you, and hang up.
I remember that there was a pig farm next to Hung Shing Yeh Beach. When I first came to live here, 18 years ago, each morning as the sun rose I would awaken to the screams of a pig being slaughtered. It became a ritual of sun worship: the sun rose, the pig died. The pig had to die for the village to thrive. True enough, on my way to the ferry I would pass the butcher’s, a small shop in a narrow street, and see the steaming entrails and limbs of the fresh carcass surrounded by hordes of old men and women, prodding the parts and calling for cuts of this and that.
My phone rings again. Arman wants to know the password to my computer. So, he has gone into my briefcase, found the computer, and opened it, and now can’t get into the computer because it is password protected. My reverie is broken. I demand to talk to the tech guy. I tell him to leave my computer alone. It is private. It has work documents on there that are confidential. This is true. I do not bother with an argument about privacy. Clearly that is an abstract concept that cannot be dealt with from the brow of a hill, over the phone, looking down on the beach that housed the pig farm and is now dominated by a power station.
I tell him again not to touch my computer, that it works perfectly. I am coming back now, I say.
I find my way back into the village, onto a ferry, into the subway, up the ciggie strewn stairwell, and two hours later I am in my room.
My computer is back in my briefcase. I take it out and turn it on. It connects to the internet.
Two days later, I realise that my log files have been deleted.
By this time I have found that all the techie who hacked into my computer needed to do was to tell me to use a different wireless protocol.
So it goes.
Internet down at City Lofts, or at least, I can’t connect using the passwords they gave me.
I call Arman, the enthsiastically friendly Filipino who works for City Lofts and he says he will bring over their tech guy and check out the connection for me. I have to go out, so I will not be there.
He asks if I will leave my computer switched on.
I tell him no, and he is not to touch my computer. He can check the connection, and there is nothing wrong with my computer, it has worked with wireless connections all over the world.
He says sometimes there is a problem between their system and Macs.
I tell him not to touch my computer.
I turn off my computer and put it in my briefcase next to the glass desk which has the TV on so you can’t use it to write on.
I go out, take the underground, then a ferry, and walk across Lamma, the small island I used to live on. It is Sunday, and the sun has come out. I find myself walking a large concrete road that is all but deserted, apart from an occasional unfriendly village house with a collection of violent, unfriendly dogs which come out to bark at me.
The grass is scorched brown from the winter. There is a fecund smell of earth and leaf. The wind moves through trees. I find myself strangely aroused, and realise that growing up in the country in England, my earliest sexual encounters are forever associated with the smells of earth, of cut grass, of the cold chill of air moving over hot limbs coiled in long grass.
I drift in and out of thoughts, and whilst wondering whatever happened to one of my ex-girlfriends, the one who became a heroin addict, find myself on the brow of a hill, looking down over the island from a new vantage point. The hideously ugly power station dwarfs the tiny village below.
My phone rings. It is Arman. He wants to know if he can go into my room. I tell him he can, and I told him before that he can, to check the internet.
I stand on the hill and look down again at the village. I remember that the power station was built here because it was not safe to build it close to the city. So they built it right on top of one of the oldest fishing villages in Hong Kong, and destroyed the long, softly sweeping curve and white sand of Hung Shing Yeh Beach to do so.
The phone rings again. It is Arman. He wants to know where my computer is. I tell him that he cannot touch my computer. He says the tech guy would like to check that my computer is okay. I tell him my computer is fine, thank you, and hang up.
I remember that there was a pig farm next to Hung Shing Yeh Beach. When I first came to live here, 18 years ago, each morning as the sun rose I would awaken to the screams of a pig being slaughtered. It became a ritual of sun worship: the sun rose, the pig died. The pig had to die for the village to thrive. True enough, on my way to the ferry I would pass the butcher’s, a small shop in a narrow street, and see the steaming entrails and limbs of the fresh carcass surrounded by hordes of old men and women, prodding the parts and calling for cuts of this and that.
My phone rings again. Arman wants to know the password to my computer. So, he has gone into my briefcase, found the computer, and opened it, and now can’t get into the computer because it is password protected. My reverie is broken. I demand to talk to the tech guy. I tell him to leave my computer alone. It is private. It has work documents on there that are confidential. This is true. I do not bother with an argument about privacy. Clearly that is an abstract concept that cannot be dealt with from the brow of a hill, over the phone, looking down on the beach that housed the pig farm and is now dominated by a power station.
I tell him again not to touch my computer, that it works perfectly. I am coming back now, I say.
I find my way back into the village, onto a ferry, into the subway, up the ciggie strewn stairwell, and two hours later I am in my room.
My computer is back in my briefcase. I take it out and turn it on. It connects to the internet.
Two days later, I realise that my log files have been deleted.
By this time I have found that all the techie who hacked into my computer needed to do was to tell me to use a different wireless protocol.
So it goes.
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