Dystopia: Introductions and Explanations

Introduction to 'Dystopia', written 17 December 2019.

Since the early years of the the 21st Century, bloggers and journalists had been ever more frequently referring to Britain as 'Orwellian'. Given some of the restrictions placed on civil liberties, it was easy to see why.

But the fact is, it wasn't like 1984 at all. We weren't At War With Another Nation State, nor were we part of a larger conglomerate of nations. The Crash and the Nationalisation had seen to that, with our expulsion from the EU, and our subsequent marginalisation in the UN had ensured it.

We weren't monitored 24/7 by telescreens or by the Thought Police. We still (technically) had freedom of speech. We still (technically) had free elections and opposition parties. There were no labour camps, no death sentences, no Ministry of Love, no Newspeak.

We weren't slaving under the yoke of a totalitarian oppressor. Everything - every single indignity we suffered - was, paradoxically, done to us in the Name Of Fairness And Social Justice.

LEGISLATING FOR FAIRNESS

The Labour Party were swept to power in 1997, and immediately set about their goal of making Britain more fair. This meant, first of all, they wanted to set right all the iniquities they believed were in the system, all the elements of discrimination.

But for every new act of fairness introduced, they found another. And another. Pressure group followed lobbyist followed activist, each with their own agenda, each claiming discrimination against their interest group was unfair. And each one had a new law put in place. Race, religion, creed, sexuality, height, weight, hair colour - one by one, a new law was implemented to create a truly non-discriminatory society.

Intellect was the next target. It was unfair, they thought, that some people were more 'advantaged' than others by the quality of the education received, or their intellect. So the education system was revamped, root and branch, in the relentless pursuit of fairness. The papers of the day called it 'dumbing down'. The result, of course, was intellectual mediocrity.

The pursuit of fairness in education also led to our withdrawal from the Olympics. With winning and losing deemed discriminatory and thus unfair, children were not taught competitive sport in schools. Sports clubs lost their funding as they were promoting unfairness, and those that did retain their funding folded under the weight of child safety legislation.

Safety legislation and fairness also led to the death of the Internet and personal computers in the UK. The 'Information Gap', between those who had access to the Web and those who didn't, was believed to be widening and thus Unfair. Taxation was therefore introduced, first on internet connections and subsequently on computer hardware, smartphones and any device which could connect to the Internet, and in an attempt to control the Information Gap the tax rose steadily to punitive levels. Even if you were able to afford the hardware and the connection, Child Safety Legislation meant so many controls, and so much monitoring, the Web had slowed to a largely-unusable crawl.

The criminal justice system couldn't cope either. With Enforcement Officers issuing fines, penalties and prosecutions for so many new offences, they were so inundated with paperwork that serious crime went uninvestigated, as it took too long and wasn't targeted by Fairness legislation - and anyway, prison was largely a thing of the past as it had been deemed that imprisonment was a violation of Human Rights and thus unfair.

It was obvious as a result of this that the electoral process would suffer. While no political party was outlawed, and there were still Opposition candidates, they struggled to make their voices heard, much less win seats. The retention of a 'First Past the Post' system which historically gave advantage to the sitting Government, allied with boundary revisions in the 2010 elections, meant that the party in power could maintain a majority with less than 5% of the vote. This was combined with the BBC, as a Public Sector employer, being staffed purely by Labour Party members and thus, for the sake of their jobs, denying opposition candidates airtime. All this had led to a complete sense of electoral apathy. Turnout had fallen to less than 20%, the vast majority of these being Party activists. Government succession was, therefore, almost completely secure with no need to rig elections or impose totalitarianism.

FINANCIAL COLLAPSE

The second plank of the Labour Party's Fairness Plan was investment. They invested,invested, and invested, spending far above their means even during the good times. Of course, when the inevitable cyclical came, we were ill-prepared for it, our economy already teetering on a precipice of debt.

The Government paid and paid more, trying to get a fairer health service. Consultants and targets, surveys and minutae. Layer upon layer of management, testing and targeting and generating reports on how fair the system was. Medical staff were drawn further and further from patient care and into paperwork. Of course, this led to the surprise conclusion that the system was, indeed, becoming fair - everyone who went into hospital had an equally high chance of dying.

By the time the Crash came, the tax burden was already too high. Printing money just made the debt problem worse. The additional money in circulation led to rampant inflation, and the only option remaining to the Government was to raise more tax. As the tax cost to both people and companies spiralled out of control, more and more companies folded or went offshore, raising unemployment and increasing the drain on the welfare system while further reducing the tax take.

The benefits system provided the financial coup de grace to a nation already on the brink. In their relentless pursuit of social justice, it was deemed unfair that benefits should leave claimants with less than a comfortable living wage. It was unfair, the activists screamed, that benefits claimants couldn't have the same luxuries as those who worked. So, inevitably, benefits were increased in the name of fairness. They increased until it became, for many people, more worthwhile to sit at home watching their Government-funded television and eating their government-funded food than go to work.

Of course, as the number of businesses folded, the number of claimants increased as the tax take fell. Like a runaway train, the imbalance between income and expenditure accelerated to its inevitable conclusion. The Crash.

By the time the Crash was fully understood in late 2012, there were very few Private Sector companies remaining, and they were struggling. This was, of course, unfair, so to give those companies remaining parity with the Public Sector, the Government nationalised all those still standing. There became only two types of Briton - those who were unemployed, and those who worked in the Public Sector. Job security meant that everyone who could work wanted a job in the Public Sector, and demand was such that the Government restricted applications in the only way they had left - by opening vacancies only to Labour Party members. It was deemed the fairest way.

SECURITY

By 2010, there were only two strands of security remaining - Terrorism and Child Safety.

The attack on the US in 2001, the London bombings of 2005 and the failed attempts in 2007 had left the Government in terror of terrorism. It would be unfair, they felt, to allow a single British citizen to die at the hand of terrorists. This single approach to security led to some of the most drastic diminutions in Civil Liberties the country had ever seen. This included ID cards, a national DNA database, and a nationwide network of CCTV cameras, all to prevent terrorism.

The second strand was the protection of children. In the name of child protection, the UK had seen the introduction of licensing for breeding (subject to CRB checks), and CRB checks for anyone who ever came into contact with children in any manner, at any time. This included everyone from teachers to lollipop ladies to grandparents. Smoking had finally been outlawed completely in homes that had children, and the same law was applied to alcohol in 2016. Children were routinely taught their rights from primary school age, and in the interests of fairness new evidentiary standards had been introduced for children making complaints of any kind against adults. Even shouting at your own child was a criminal offence, and the Naughty Step had been added to the False Imprisonment statute.

CONCLUSION

The Pursuit of Fairness, from 1997 to 2019, had resulted in the complete breakdown of the British system of Government, and in its place was a system that monitored and restricted its people not harshly, but totally. Everything and everyone was regulated and homogenised in the name of social justice.

The system was not Orwellian. It did not seek power for the sake of power. Rather, it started with laudable intent and, in its increasing desperation to be fair and inclusive for all, created something horrendous, dictatorial and destructive.

It was simply a logical progression of the pursuit of fairness.

Dystopia: Chapter Three

As I freewheeled lazily down Cumnor Hill, the prospect of another day of leafletting didn't bother me anywhere near as much as normal.

Winterval* had been a nice relaxing time - a few brief days away from the pressures of unemployment and propaganda. Our saved Credit Vouchers had even meant a few luxuries - we'd even been able to afford a bottle of wine. My computing misdeeds of two weeks before had faded into a distant memory,

*(I preferred the archaic term 'Christmas', but this had fallen into disuse after complaints from other religious groups.)

I wandered into the Volunteer Centre and found a vacant seat, trying to summon up the enthusiasm for another day of distributing Toynbee Tracts. I'd thought up a great idea for speeding up my 'round' by going through the outskirts of Retail City. Soft paper would doubtless be well appreciated there.

"Geoghan!"

I jumped from my seat as if I'd parked my backside on a barbequeue, and spun to face the Harpy.

"What on earth are you doing here?", she asked, as if whatever misdeed I'd committed was done solely to infuriate her.

"Er...leaflet delivery, I expect".

"Don't be fatuous", she snapped. "You're due at the Job Centre at nine!".

I looked at my watch. 8:58. The Job Centre was three hundred yards away.

I flew up the street, covering three hundred yards in a time that would have qualified me for the Olympic relay team*, making it through the Job Centre doors absolutely on the stroke of nine.

*(Or at least it would have done if we still took part in the Olympic Games. But we'd withdrawn from 2016, as winning, losing and competing were considered Unfair and thus against Policy.)

Another becardiganed Co-Ordinator led me to a hard plastic chair outside the office of the Employment Assessment And Placement Facilitator. I waited. And waited.

And waited some more. And some more.

Just as the pressure of my bladder was overcoming my willpower, the door opened and I was face-to-face with the Facilitator - perhaps thirty, small, slim and wearing an expression and suit that spoke of a career spent enmeshed in Diversity training and Public Sector buzzwords.

"Ah yes, Geoghan", he said. "Have a seat.". There was no apology, no indication that he was even aware I had been waiting almost an hour.

He shuffled the papers on his desk and gave his mouse a few desultory clicks. Read something, and made a small, disapproving sound in the back of his throat that sounded to me like a Victorian judge donning the black cap.

"You've been selected for, and approved for, Labour Party Membership, and as such approved for a Public Sector position", he said, sounding about as congratulatory as an undertaker. "I see that you were a writer before the Nationalisation. What do you believe you are fitted for now?"

"Yes, I was. But in all honesty I'll take anything. I'll be Assistant Bagger to the Canine Excrement Hygiene Enforcement Officer if it gets me out of the Volunteer Centre", I replied. Then immediately regretted it.

The Facilitator appeared to notice me properly for the first time. He regarded me coolly. The appraising stare extended past uncomfortable, through unnerving and well into bowel-loosening terror. My bladder warned me that I had only minutes remaining, and if being a smartarse was going to cause delays would I please shut the fuck up?

"Tell me, Mr Geoghan. Do you consider yourself...", he paused, as if savouring the use of a word that had largely passed from British lexicon, "...humorous?"

"I used to. But I'm better now".

"Good!", he said, seeming to brighten at my answer. "The Public Sector is no place for frivolity, you know. Now, anyway, the Assistant Bagger position has actually been filled, but I think we can do something for someone of your apparent intellect and skills".

He turned to his Terminal, his mouse clicking with renewed vigour. I waited, not daring to open my mouth in case it overran my brain again, and trying desperately to ignore the increasingly urgent messages from my bladder.

"Ah! Here we are", the Facilitator said, bureaucratic triumph manifest in his voice. "It's a little more senior than we would normally consider applicable for such a new registrant, but it's available and you're adequately skilled.

"I'm posting you to Information as a Satisfaction Survey Design Co-Ordinator", he said."You can start tomorrow - here's the address".

A limp hand was extended across the desk. I shook it, half expecting it to detach in my hand. It was slick with some sort of moisturiser - the sort of thing never used by anyone who'd delivered Toynbee Tracts to the Jericho Gated Community, that's for certain.

I headed for the door, the call of nature now insistent to the point of pain, and pulled it open.

"Oh, and Geoghan?"

I stopped and turned, wondering whether emptying my bladder on this oleaginous idiot would result in the withdrawal of my Party membership and job offer. I decided that it probably would.

"I would suggest ensuring your mouth doesn't outrun your brain in future."

I nodded, not daring to speak.

"And put on a suit."

I shut the door gently, and as fast as dignity allowed headed for the Gents in Reception. I made it just in time. And the ensuing relief was almost as good as being employed again.

But only just.

Dystopia: Chapter Two

It hadn't really been a bad day, I thought, as I reached the doors of the Volunteer Centre. It hadn't rained, I'd avoided the gangs of semi-feral undergraduates outside St Jade's College of Reality Arts, and I'd even had a cup of tea with one of the Multicultural Diversity Co-Ordinators at the Mandelson Institute For Russo-Brazilian Studies.

As I entered the Centre, I could see the Co-Ordinator in her office, engaged in what seemed to be a somewhat vocal debate with one of the immigrants I'd seen earlier. Her face was flushed with anger and shock at the disrespect being shown to her position, her hands wrapping the cardigan around herself as if the cheap grey wool were body armour protecting her from the angry words clearly heading her way.

I sat in the chair next to the Terminal and, as I shrugged the messenger bag from my tired shoulders, the edge of it just clipped the computer mouse. The screen instantly flashed to life - only it wasn't displaying the usual BBC News page.

I looked closer. Looked again, struck with disbelief at what I was seeing. What was on that screen was something I'd never seen, never even dreamed of seeing. It was the Registration Page. Access was permitted only to those Public Sector officials authorised to grant Labour Party Membership.

My eyes flicked right, to the computer itself. The Co-Ordinator's ID card was wedged in the reader, where she'd left it* in order to become embroiled in her current argument. I looked to the left, back toward the office. The row showed no sign of abating. My eyes returned to the screen. The Registration Page. A cursor in the 'NAME' box, winking at me in the knowledge of what I could do.

*(In contravention of the Data Protection [Terror Regulations] Act of 2014, in case you were wondering.)

The Registration Page. Salvation.

There was no conscious decision. My hands, unbidden, caressed the keys and, with no apparent action on my part, there I was in the NAME box. I'd already entered my Number in the second field when what I was doing hit me. But I couldn't stop. I might only have a few brief moments. An eternity of microseconds later, the Registration Page was completed.

I hit the 'Enter' key, bracing myself for all sorts of alarms. None came. Just a final dialog box on the screen, saying:

HAS THIS REGISTRANT BEEN FULLY CRB-CHECKED, DATABASE-CHECKED, CROSS-REFERENCED AND APPROVED FOR MEMBERSHIP?
YES NO

I hadn't been any of these things. I clicked 'yes' anyway.

Bureaucracy is like nuclear fission. Once you reach a certain amount of it, it tends to be self-sustaining. It reaches critical mass, and takes on a life of its own - paperwork surmounting paperwork, database on database, the creation of bureaucracy becoming both the end and the cause. And there's an upside to this incredibly convoluted paperchase - it becomes so complex that auditing and cross-checking becomes largely impossible.

I had to trust that the bureaucracy was so weighed-down with the burden of its own creation that it would take as gospel the word of one of its own bureaucrats. I was sure - at least, I hoped - that I wouldn't be verified or cross-checked. But the potential reward of Labour Party Membership was too great NOT to take the risk.

I'd pushed my luck far enough. A glance to my left showed the argument still going on, but the Co-Ordinator seemed now to be winning as she drew herself up to her full girth** and met the eyes of her accuser directly. I clicked 'NEW', and the Registration Page returned, the cursor once again winking expectantly in an empty box.

**(This was, trust me, not a joke one would make in polite company, or in any public place. The Harman Act of 2012 had made any form of humour aimed at another person a Hate Crime. The Walliams Two were still doing six months for implying that a fictional Welsh character was gay.)

I pushed my chair back, and with the nonchalance of the truly guilty I started for the door. Ten steps away I heard her door opening. Footsteps behind me. Nine, eight, seven, six. The hand on my shoulder and the questions were coming, I could hear the footsteps. Five. Four. Three. Close behind now, ten beats of my racing heart. Two. The immigrant who had been arguing barged past, bumping me to one side and slamming through ahead of me. One. Door.

I rode home, the dusk gathering around me, thoughts flying as fast as the pedals. What I'd done wasn't an offence, really*** - but if I was caught, it would definitely make it more difficult to get the Membership that I needed. But the system was so slow, so mired in minutae, that to get that Membership might take years. And I needed a job. I wanted a life. Membership meant exactly that. The chance was worthwhile, even as I found myself nearly crashing from riding with my neck craned to look behind for Community Rule Enforcement Officers. It was worth it.

<***(Well, technically it was an offence under the archaic Computer Misuse Act. But since almost nobody had a computer any more, it was just one of those 'laws' that sat on the Statute Book gathering dust, like the right to drive hedgehogs down the High Street on Midsummer Eve.)

Dystopia: Chapter 1

The insistent screaming of the alarm clock dragged me from my dream.

It was a good dream, too - warm and comfortable, interspersed with hazy memories of good food, good wine and our trips abroad back in '08.

The sheets were gritty against my skin, embedded dirt that repeated washing in cold water simply couldn't shift. With the energy shortages, possession of a washing machine was frowned-upon - and anyway, wasting energy could lead to a prison term.

The electricity wouldn't be switched on for another hour, so I washed as best I could in the trickle from the shower, and, dressed in the cleanest clothes I could find, headed downstairs. The thermos had kept last night's coffee lukewarm enough to be drinkable - for values of drinkable, of course.

My bicycle was ready to go, and as always I looked longingly at our cars and my motorbike, sitting untouched and unloved, tyres flat, cobwebby and with weeds growing up against the wheels as if the land was reclaiming them.

(I remember driving, back before the fuel taxes made it unaffordable. Then the oil wars added insult to injury, and the Government's energy policy finally made driving a car financially impossible. Of course, you were still allowed to OWN a car - you just weren't allowed to drive it during normal working hours, and even if you could you wouldn't be able to afford to fuel it. You still paid tax on it though, even if it was sitting in your drive becoming a wildlife sanctuary.)

Heavy-legged, I turned the pedals and started on the 10-mile ride to the Volunteer Centre in Oxford. The Credit Collapse of '09 had resulted in the complete destruction of the private sector, and those of us who had been employed were now required to attend the Volunteer Centre every day in return for our Credit Vouchers.

Another day loomed of walking the streets, canvassing for the Labour Party, handing out leaflets explaining how The Leader was steering us through these troubled times, how they were just 'getting on with the job'.

Pedalling through the streets, joining the throngs heading in the same direction, my mind again wandered. Was this really what everyone, across the world, was going through? The BBC certainly told us it was - but with the Web now censored and access limited to only what you could get on the terminal at the Volunteer Centre, who could tell?

(I remember information. Back before the BBC were funded by the Labour Party, back when you could turn on your own PC and check the facts. Cross-reference. Back then, you could read and learn, and make your own judgements. Before the Terrorism Act made personal computers illegal.)

Riding past Retail City at Botley, seeing the rubbish and human detritus spread across what had been a thriving business park and was now a shanty-town for the homeless. The barbed-wire fencing and police made sure that we were kept a good distance away - doubly important since the rumoured Typhus outbreak - but still the smell hit hard. Thousands of people with no sanitation, no fresh water, no Credit Vouchers, no help and no hope.

This is England. December 14, 2019.

As always, the cycle racks outside the Volunteer Centre were already full. Still gritty-eyed from fatigue, I made the mistake of leaning my bike against the railings of the next-door Labour Party Re-Education Centre, and turned to head inside the Volunteer Centre.

"Excuse me, sir - is this your vehicle?".

I turned to look straight into the eyes of a Community Cycle-Parking Support Officer. Perhaps twenty years old, drunk on the power of his civic responsibility. Barcode scanner already in hand, the red light on his bodycam showing that I was the star of my own personal CCTV movie.

"Yes, Officer. Sorry, Officer", I replied, trying for humility and hoping against hope that this supercilious child had already reached his penalty-allocation targets for the week.

"Your ID card, please".

I handed the worn piece of white plastic over. He took his time perusing it, comparing the ten-year-old photograph of a smiling, well-fed, employed individual against the careworn, grubby and sweaty citizen in front of him.

(I remember the days of trust. When a man was who he said he was, before the Prevention of Terrorism Act (Revised) 2010. The days when you didn't have to carry your biometric ID card everywhere, where not having identity papers didn't mean you were a terrorist. The days before you could be detained for up to 120 days without charge simply for not proving who you are.)

There was a 'beep' as the CCPSO scanned my ID card. It sounded like the clang of a cell door.

"I'm fining you 80 Credit Vouchers for parking a vehicle in a proscribed zone, in contravention of Section 14 of the Vehicles In Terrorism Act 2011", he said. "Now move it, or the bike will be destroyed and you'll be arrested on suspicion of aiding terrorism.".

"Yes, Officer. Sorry, Officer". Keeping my expression humble, grabbing my handlebars. Trying to avoid eye contact. 80 bloody Credit Vouchers. Half a week's 'salary'. Not that it actually buys much, but it would have put some food on the table.

Leaving the bike leaned against the racks as best I could, I rushed into the Volunteer Centre. After that fine, I couldn't afford to be late - I'd be fined again for lateness, and a second note on The Database in a single day would attract the attention of the Police.

The main hall of the Centre was already thronged with people awaiting their assignment for the day. I grabbed a copy of the newspaper - the Labour News - found a chair, and settled down to read the headlines before the 'working' day started.

As usual, LabourBank were trumpeting that they had brought inflation down to just 0.1%. Strange, though, that they never explained why a litre of milk was doubling in price every week.

An Army spokesman was quoted as saying that they were close to catching William and Harry Wales, who were both wanted by the Government for embezzlement and misappropriation of funds. Following the death of King Charles III in a helicopter crash, and the dissolution of the Monarchy under anti-corruption law in '14, these two had been on the run. The Army believed that they were somewhere in Zimbabwe, and alleged that they were being protected by President Tsvangirai and the UN.

There was some sporadic coverage of the trial of someone called George Osborne, who had been a politician but was subsequently arrested and charged with sedition and terror offences. His co-defendant, David Cameron, had apparently died in custody while resisting arrest.

(I remember reading. I remember lazy Sundays with four different newspapers, each with their own spin on the news. I remember reading about the world, not just England. I remember 'all the news that's fit to print', not 'all the news that the Labour Party says is fit to print'.)

Around me, the hubbub and clamour of 300 people was starting to die. Our Community Volunteer Centre Co-Ordinator stood in front of us, glaring expectantly over the rims of her glasses, regulation cardigan wrapped around her corpulent frame, prissily buttoned to the neck. I put down my paper and tried to look as attentive as I could.

"Good morning, Volunteers" she said brightly. As always, her voice was fingernails down the blackboard of my soul. She could *afford* to be bright and cheerful. She was a Public Sector Worker, with automatic Labour Party membership and all the benefits that entailed.

"Today, you will be distributing copies of the latest announcement from the Information Minister, Mz Toynbee", she said, waving a handful of the despised missives in one pudgy fist. "And this week, the five most successful Volunteers will be rewarded with.....", she said, her harpy's screech rising to a new level, "....Membership of the Labour Party!".

There was a collective intake of breath, a moment of shock and awe at her pronouncement. Labour Party membership meant the chance of a Public Sector job. Real work. A real income, the chance for us to provide for our families again! A pension. Rumour had it that Public Sector Workers these days were even allowed to own their own homes!

As we filed out of the Centre clutching our messenger bags, each heavy with the latest lies on recycled paper, I looked back to see our Co-Ordinator. She was chatting with five younger people, all of whom were showing her what were clearly foreign ID Cards. I knew what that meant - they would be the Chosen Five, the Reverse Discrimination Act of 2010 ensured that no white English person was permitted to interview for an available role if there was an immigrant available to fill it, regardless of skillset.

(I remember working. I remember the alarm going off for worthwhile reasons, the joy of using my intellect, the pleasure of a paycheque for a job well done. Before the drudgery, before Credit Vouchers. Before now.)