The horror, the horror

This is something I really would prefer not to write, but sadly world events have made it unavoidable.

Puzzled by media stories over the last day or two claiming that Anders Behring Breivik has apparently admitted that he most definitely did kill all the people that he variously shot and bombed into oblivion, yet he insists he is not guilty of any offence, I started wondering what the likelihood is that he could be insane.

The impression given in some quarters is that it would be a relief to many should this in fact turn out to be the case.  Pretty cold comfort for most in the circumstances, you would have thought, but at least it might be very slightly easier to come to terms with the enormity of what he has done. 

Madness is nice, easy and convenient.  If someone is crackers, you can summarily dismiss them as an unfortunate aberration.  You can lock the looney up in a padded cell for the rest of their natural - and make sure you throw away the key right into the middle of a massive great hole situated in the arse-end of the Crab Nebula at the end of the Cretaceous Period.

And then you can forget about them.  (Unless Dr Who +/the Daleks manage to retrieve the key, but that's the start of a whole different story … )

No point in going back after fifteen years and asking the bugger why they committed whatever ghastly atrocity it was that got them banged away in the slammer in the first place.  They're a nutter, nutters don't make any sense, you won't discover anything helpful or useful from them, don't waste your time and effort, case closed.  Over, done with, finished, as my father is so fond of saying.

Anders Behring Breivik, on the other hand, seems quite determined that this won't be happening to him.

It has been reported that he may well have written a manifesto.  This document, it is claimed, is no less than 1,500 pages long, took him three years to research and write - and he has posted it online so that everyone who wishes can take a damn good look.

I'm afraid that I did.

My only excuse is that I wanted to find out if he was mad or not, in his own words rather than anybody else's.  And whether he was or wasn't, what type of rationale he could possibly use to explain (and even attempt to justify) his appalling actions.

So I spent 10 minutes on Saturday afternoon reading this production of his.  This is where I found it, if you must insist on having a ghoulish rummage around his mind for yourself:

http://www.zerohedge.com/article/mass-killer-andrew-berwicks-aka-anders-breivik-complete-777724-word-manifesto

Now presumably Norwegian police are currently poring through it in painstaking detail, in an attempt to establish whether or not it is in fact his own work.

Should it turn out that he has truly written the invidious thing and posted it online, then the implication must surely be that he wanted the world to find and read it.  That would strongly suggest that he could have planned his actions well in advance.  So he's going to be pretty well stuffed if he (or, more likely, his lawyer) tries to argue that the attacks weren't premeditated in any sense.

You'll see that one of the people who commented on the Zero Hedge discussion board attempts to dismiss Breivik with the curt observation that he 'drones on' for 1500 pages.  Besides which, what on earth could the man have found to chunter on about for so long?

Er, plenty, it turns out.

According to the table of contents, the first part of the book describes the historical and social background to what he presents as 'the problem'.  He then goes on to put forward various plans of action that can be taken to 'solve' the said 'problem'.  And his suggestions are extremely radical, yet at the same time postulated with a cool, clear 'logic'.

Take his views on women. 

The relevant section in the manifesto declares that men of the far right tend to be far more 'chivalrous' in their attitudes towards women, because women are the mothers, daughters and sisters of the world who bear and bring up the babies required to create the next generation.  Anyone who supports feminism must automatically qualify as a 'Marxist' - particularly if they happen to be of the female persuasion.  The 'rationale' for this conclusion is the old suspect - nature has fitted women to be the 'weaker', 'subservient' sex, so anyone who attempts to argue with it is flying in the face of human evolutionary 'efficiency'.

Breivik admits that this could mean a Justiciar Knight is inclined by nature to treat women with great tenderness and respect.  However, the central mission of the Justiciar Knight requires him to act as judge, jury and executioner combined.  He cannot fulfill this function properly if he lets any 'guilty' person off the hook.  Inevitably, this will include women who hold 'unfortunate' views.

It doesn't matter how 'attractive' they might be - and he readily admits that some women are 'very' attractive.  If they've got to go, they've got to go.  A Justiciar Knight is never less than scrupulously fair-minded and impartial.

Nobody should sign up to become a Justiciar Knight if they lack the requisite toughness of mind and character.  Instead, they should content themselves with writing yet another far right wing blog.

Understandably, flatmate got rather worried when I told him about all this and roundly condemned me for going to the lengths of reading such disturbing material. 

"If it's upsetting you so much to see what this fruitcake keeps raving on about, then don't bloody read it!" he yelled.  "This sick fuckwit is just clamouring for the world's attention.  If you refuse to read what he has to say, then you are doing your bit to deprive him of it."

That statement sent me utterly spare.

"After his actions the other week, I think it is a bit bloody late to ignore him or dismiss him by describing him as 'unimportant'!" I screamed.

Judging by the enormous amount and range of comment that he and his views have already prompted on the Internet in the short time since he carried out his awful attacks, he himself would no doubt feel that he is doing really well in spreading his message across the world/.  I bet the bugger is delighted that so many people from so many countries and faiths have been logging on to read his manifesto.  No doubt he revels in the thought that just a month ago, hardly anyone had ever heard of him.  Now everyone, his dog and a packet of crisps is discussing him and his extremist opinions.

Despite Breivik's claims both in the alleged manifesto and his initial interviews with police that he has been working as part of a cell, experts believe that he could well be a lone fanatic.

If he isn't, then obviously the Norwegian police and other forces across the world will need to catch up with his colleagues and take them out of circulation pronto, before more people are killed or hurt.  They cannot afford to dismiss even the slightest possibility that he might have colleagues and sympathisers.

Even if it does turn out to be true that he acted alone, that is no reason to downplay the immense danger he continues to pose to society.  The fact that he went to all that time and trouble to research and write the manifesto tends to suggest pretty strongly that he would like to inspire others to follow his example.  I presume this would explain why he wrote the damn thing in English.  Unlike Norwegian, English is currently one of the global languages of choice.  Therefore the document will prove of interest to far more people - and it can be disseminated much quicker and easier than a Norwegian version.  (Why did he refer to himself by the Anglicized version of his name, though?  Does he think that potential supporters might not believe he is a proper 'Aryan' if he signs himself with a non-English name?  Or is it to claim kinship with English-speaking 'Aryans'?)

Sadly, there are probably some people out there who would take his virulent 'arguments' extremely seriously.  That's why I can't for the life of me understand why the manifesto hasn't been removed from the Internet yet.  (Unless of course, the world's various governments, law enforcement agencies and Internet providers all reckon that enough interested individuals must have downloaded the damn thing already for it to be circulated on the quiet via e-mail?  Hang on, it appears that shortly before he set off  to wire up the bomb in Oslo, he e-mailed copies of it to over 1,000 people … )

Breivik also points out in his manifesto that he thinks he may need to 'fortify' his 'courage' before setting out to carry out his 'mission'.  He reckons he will do this by securing the services of a prostitute.

If he really did go ahead and book an appointment with a sex worker, the poor bloody woman must be mortified now she knows who her strapping blond client was.  Like the rest of Breivik's family, I bet she'll be keeping her head firmly pressed to the ground for a long while.

Even if the world's media haven't beaten a path to her door yet, who is to say that the Norwegian police and secret services haven't managed to smoke her out?  Can you imagine what that interview must be like?

"So, what did Mr Breivik say to you … ?"

"Er, um, how much do you charge for a topless hand-shandy?"  (Wonder how you say that in Norwegian?)   

Rachel In Danger

Continuing in my quest to get round to watching every last film and television programme that Ronan Vibert and Stephen Greif have ever appeared in before I die, I’ve just finished viewing the cult classic Rachel In Danger on YouTube.

The first of the noted Armchair Thriller serials from the late Seventies, this is the famous one that stars Stephen Greif as a delightful South American terrorist named Juan.  And it’s such an oddball of a thriller, that programmes like this don’t tend to get made any more.

Just to start with, most of the major characters involved don’t have the slightest idea what ‘cool’ and ‘sophisticated’ means.

Rachel herself is a dumpy, frumpy introvert of an eight year old girl, brought up in Scotland by her strict, if somewhat eccentric mother.  She is a committed vegetarian bookworm – and extremely intelligent.  If you offered her pink glittery ballet slippers and a feathery tutu, she wouldn’t hesitate to spit on your grave from a great height.  There’s no wavy long blonde hair in bunches, either.

As the series opens, Rachel is sitting on the Intercity train from Glasgow to London Euston.  Her mother says it is fine for her to travel down on her own as long as she uses her commonsense.  Despite her claims to the contrary, she probably still feels so angry with her ex-husband that she’ll do anything she can to avoid further direct contact with him.

During the journey, the little old lady in the next seat takes Rachel under her wing, in a gentle hint to viewers that later on the small girl will be devoid of help and protection at the very time she needs it most.   

Meanwhile, down in London, it’s all starting to go a bit Pete Tong (thus creating the inciting incident).

Rachel’s dad Peter Warmington is a nerdy university lecturer who took a job abroad somewhere in South America after his marriage to her mother broke down when she was just two years old.  Now he’s been offered a post at London University, so he’s returned to the UK.  Rachel’s mum has suggested that father and daughter get to know each other in person during the summer holiday before he starts his new job.

In a previous letter, Peter told his estranged daughter that he is ‘not a political animal’. This turns out to be his first mistake.

While making the final preparations for Rachel’s arrival, Peter is both surprised and delighted to bump into an old acquaintance at a street market.  Juan is someone he met back at the university in South America.

Juan claims he has been sent to the UK on business.  Peter feels lonely and isolated, so he invites him back to the temporary flat he is renting round the corner for a cup of coffee.  Big mistake number two.

Back at the scruffy dump of a flat, Juan questions Peter in some detail about his expected arrangements and movements over the next few days.

Peter assumes he is just taking a friendly interest.  Big mistake number three.

Once Juan has all the information that he needs from Peter, he disposes of him with the aid of a handy cigarette packet concealing a lethal stiletto blade.  “Don’t mind if I smoke?” he asks politely, then ker-CHUNK!  Juan appears to have a weakness for nifty little gadgets he picks up in the sales at the spymaster store in down Kensington.

This series certainly isn’t afraid to major on seriously bizarre murders.  In a later episode, a Welsh hitman disposes of the Brummie traitor via a deadly round of butties on a park bench.  You’ve got to love any programme that features Welsh Marxist terrorist hitmen in kitsch T-shirts, pretending to be university students and tourists on daytrips to the capital, before marmolising their targets with the aid of a well-aimed cheese and ham pickle!

Juan, it turns out, is actually the leader of an international cell of hardline Marxist terrorists.

I assume it was probably decided to make the cell international in composition because having all the terrorists originate from just one country could have had the scriptwriters accused of trying to stir up some covert sympathy for certain real-life terrorist organisations of the time – most probably the IRA in this case, though maybe also the PLA, ETA or the Baader-Meinhof gang.

Juan’s cell consists of a suave South American businessman, an intense young German academic, a scruffy Brummie forger and a stroppy Japanese woman. They all travel round the world helping each other commit violent acts of protest against their respective regimes.

Their plan on this particular occasion is to assassinate a member of the royal family at the next garden party due to be held at Buckingham Palace.  Juan intends to gain access to the event by taking over Peter Warmington’s identity.

This should be quite easy because the two men are of the same physical type. Plus Juan knows a lot about British culture and speaks fluent English with only a very slight accent.  He has probably targeted Peter precisely for this very reason.

The Japanese lady is supposed to be posing as Peter Warmington’s second wife, who she met while they were both working in South America.

However, there is one slight problem – Rachel.

Either Juan didn’t know that Peter has a daughter – or else he believed that Rachel would be staying at home in Scotland with her mother until the terrorists had completed their mission in London.

After the murder, Juan decides to stash Peter Warmington’s body in the airing cupboard, on the grounds that he and his colleagues won’t be staying in the flat for long enough for it to start to smell.  Tell you something for nothing, they must feel pretty damn certain that they won’t get extradited from their respective countries of origin, then, because the very first thing the police will do once the new tenants have reported the murder is establish the corpse’s identity.  Once they have discovered he was the real Peter Warmington, they’ll obviously decide that the fake one needs to start helping them with their enquiries as a matter of urgency.

Just after Juan has finished concealing the corpse, there is a knock on the door.

It is the police.  They want to know why he has not come to meet his dear little daughter at Euston station as he promised her and her mother he would.

Well, mainly because he doesn’t know he now has a daughter – nor that she has been duly dispatched from Scotland to London by his estranged wife.

Juan is caught on the hop.  To avoid suspicion, he is forced to improvise.

Rachel, he insists, will provide the perfect cover.  With a daughter, he and his second wife can now not only get into the garden party, but up much closer and more personal to their intended target (who is never named, presumably to avoid upsetting the Royals, by inadvertently implying that this could be based on any real assassination plot, thus giving the genuine terrorists out there a few handy hints for their own nefarious plans).

To ensure that she cannot betray them, they will murder her straight afterwards.

Wormauld the Brummie is a kind-hearted, sentimental sort of bloke, so naturally he objects to this.  He suggests they should spare her life.  Then he will escort her back home to her mother in Scotland.

If they don’t agree, then he won’t give them the official garden party invitation he’s managed to forge so brilliantly.    

Now he has a temporary daughter, Juan finds he has to keep improvising.

He claims that his female Japanese colleague is actually his second wife, and thus Rachel’s step-mother. They met while he was still in South America because ‘Japanese people are everywhere these days’.  He didn’t want to tell Rachel and her mother by letter or telephone because the news was far too important.

Because Rachel is now kipping in the spare bedroom, the Japanese lady must obviously sleep elsewhere.  As she is now apparently his wife, Juan has the bright idea that she should sleep with him.  This even appears to involve sex with the cheeky bastard, as he then has the audacity to complain about her bad performance in bed the next day!

She does not like him at all, so quite why she agreed to have a shag with him I really couldn’t say (according to Japanese culture, is it bad manners to turn a man down in these sorts of circumstances?  Haven’t got a clue, I’m afraid).  Though I could well imagine Juan arguing that as Rachel is a very intelligent girl, she will of course be perfectly aware that her father and stepmother must have sex together, so she will realise something is up if they don’t.

As an adult woman, I think it would have been really funny if the Japanese lady had told him that because he has upset her so much, no way is he going to get any tonight – and if he isn’t going to sleep on the sofa then she is.  Or she complained about what a load of old rubbish he is in the sack.  Just to add a note of realism or three to the proceedings.  However, if Juan is prepared to resort to physical violence to remind the Japanese lady just who is in charge and why, he presumably wouldn’t take very kindly to being refused – or criticized - in bed.

Somebody who has watched all the episodes on YouTube keeps complaining about this Japanese character being very aggressive in her general attitude.

This could possibly be a more subtle allusion to the frequent personality clashes that were reported in real terrorist gangs from the Sixties and Seventies, most notably the Baader-Meinhof gang.  Some of the women members wanted to prove they were every bit as tough and uncompromising as the men, so of course they made sure to err on the side of excess in this respect, and could often end up pretty narky.

Being such hardline Marxists as it is implied in the script, questions of both doctrine and dedication no doubt spark the most massive rows between the members of Juan’s cell.  Plus Rachel’s mere presence has obviously given the Japanese lady a severe fright – and people who are terrified can often become extremely aggressive.

The Japanese lady loathes Rachel because she realises that the little girl represents a serious security risk to their carefully laid plans.  Both Juan and the Japanese lady are aware that Rachel is very intelligent – which only increases the threat that she poses to them.  As both a pretend stepmother and a real woman, the Japanese lady is able to make a more accurate assessment of the potential danger than Juan.

Juan’s stroke of genius is to devise horribly plausible explanations for everything that could possibly provoke awkward questions – from Rachel or anyone else.

For example, when Rachel asks her presumed daddy why he bothered marrying the Japanese lady if they don’t like each other very much, he replies: “Well, I expect it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Later at the garden party, he delights in informing a posh lady guest that Rachel happens to be his daughter by his first wife, so ‘of course her step-mother loathes her.  It’s just one of those things, really.’   

Stephen Greif handles all the social satire with his usual deft touch – and a slight, but perceptible edge of real glee at the acute discomfort experienced by the stuffiest of the British characters.  Quite appropriate for such a hardened class warrior as Juan, not to mention great fun for Greif.

Like Harry Fenning, Juan the terrorist and Peter Warmington the lecturer both subscribe to the bad taste school of Seventies menswear.  Their version is slightly more low-key than his – but still worrying all the same. 

What we are talking about here is beige dogtooth jackets with a slight safari cut and front yokes in tan suede.  The lemon yellow cotton shirt is worn without a tie and the top couple of buttons undone at the neck, leaving a few faint wisps of chest hair to poke out at the top (I couldn’t make out if he was wearing a vest or not.).  

Moving down, the trousers were cut to make even the finest of masculine bums look slightly flabby and square from the back.  Let’s be brutally honest here, no-one would respect Commander Travis if his trousers did the same.  Remember the considered opinion of Spike Milligan’s Jewish ex-tailor colleague during the war: “You need to make a soldier look attractive to the opposite sex – or think he does.”

Juan finishes his elegant loungewear off with Peter’s ghastly pair of horn-rimmed bottle-bottom spectacles.  A taste for frowsty eyewear obviously runs in the family, seeing as Rachel sports them too.  Wonder if her mum back in Scotland has an equally frumpy pair?

As Juan doesn’t seem to need to wear glasses himself, Peter’s prescription gives him headaches, so he has to keep taking them off.  This is the first sign the police have that not everything is as it should be.

Because he’s considering changing the way that he looks, Juan informs Rachel, he is now trying to get used to going without glasses sometimes.