The latest squib from Kevin Higgins follows these events and is a re-write/parody of the Horst-Wessel song, see here.
Frank Magnitz Lied* after Horst Wessel
by Kevin Higgins
We button tight our leather breeches. We prance down Friedrichstrasse, everything clenched. Our comrade, Frank, laid gloriously low on the car-park concrete by what we’re calling “a piece of wood over the head”; likely dreaming, as he tends to, of leathering the flesh clean off Geli Raubal’s blessed bones.
Parties across the consensus have united to condemn this assassination attempt that wasn’t. All they wanted was his handbag. Clear Nordstrasse for the march of our sore backsides. Vacate the Autobahn for the coming storm after the beer we guzzled last night.
Revenge must be had for this attack Frank cannot now remember. From this day forth, we’ll annually lay a wreath to mark the moment Frank heroically booked himself out of hospital. Please give generously, for the time of bondage will last only as long as one can pay the Fraulein to dress up as Geli Raubal.
Meantime, we wobble in formation around St. Peter’s Cathedral, croaking out our song: for they are the bacteria of which we will wipe clean the world.
*Lied is German for song
von Kevin Higgins; Übersetzung: Sven Kretzschmar
Eng knöpfen wir unsere strammen Lederhosen. Wir stolzier’n die Friedrichstraße runter, verbissene Mienen, Hintern zusammengekniffen. Unser Kamerad Frank wurde glorreich niedergestreckt auf dem Parkplatzasphalt, angeblich mit einem Brett vorm Kopf – vermutlich erwischte ihn wohl ein Kantholz; wahrscheinlich träumte er wie schon öfter davon, Geli Raubals gesegnete Knochen zu züchtigen.
Die Altparteien sind geeint in der Verurteilung des Mordanschlags, der keiner war. Alles, was die Täter wollten, war seine Umhängetasche. Die Nordstraße frei dem Marsch unsrer wunden Gesäße! Räumt die Autobahn für den aufziehenden Sturm – nach all dem Bier, das wir letzte Nacht gekippt.
Wir wollen Rache für diesen Angriff, an den Frank jede Erinnerung fehlt. Von diesem Tag an legen wir jedes Jahr einen Kranz nieder, für den Augenblick da Frank sich heldenhaft selbst aus dem Krankenhaus entließ. Bitte gebt reichlich, Kameraden, denn die Zeit von Leder und Fesseln dauert nur fort so lange wir Fräulein bezahlen können, sich als Geli Raubal zu verkleiden.
Derweil schwanken wir in Reih und Glied um den St. Petri Dom herum, grölend erschallt unser Lied: Denn sie sind die Bakterien, die wir vom Angesicht der Erde fegen werden.
Leader of Irish Government Speaks Out Against Hyperbole after William Shakespeare
by Kevin Higgins
There has been much hyperbolic comment of late about the admittedly rather sad case of a man who had his new corneas removed by two blokes from Lithuania or Neilstown (somewhere like that) because he fell behind with the payments.
I had one of my interns watch the video of the action those men took to recover that part of his eyes a judge ruled belonged to the company on whose behalf they were acting, and though the defaulter - I mean man - in question has my sympathy, particularly regarding the apparent lack of anaesthetic, think about it this way:
every time you see one of those click bait headlines about a tragic granny who had her new heart ripped back out and the papery old one reinstalled by a team of cut-price cardiologists appointed by an esteemed judge whose daddy bought him a law degree, because she spent all her pension on scratch cards, it’s an example of the market and rule of law weaving their magic, as Adam Smith intended.
To let old ladies we all know, and sympathise with, off paying for their new tickers when they have insufficient funds to meet the direct debit would be the ruin of our financial institutions and put us as a country in breach of the rules of both the World Trade Organisation and European Court of Justice.
So, next time you read about a child with profligate parents who this Christmas was made hand a transplanted kidney back to its rightful owners, the bank of wherever; remember, it’s just our free economy doing shit it must.
Tasks such as this are typically implemented on deniable mobile phones, ordered by a raised eyebrow or nod fourth or fifth floor of an unpainted, concrete building, about which no more can be said because, for reasons obvious to both The Guardian and the Daily Star – though they choose different language to say so – the security services never comment on operational matters.
It’s the unanimous advice of a committee of twenty seven former Attorney Generals, the Chair of the BBC Board of Governors, and all ex Archbishops of Canterbury (living and dead) that for reasons of national well-being no record must be kept of the twitchy eyebrow or official-looking nod of the head in question. Such things are done by loyal servants of things as they must remain when sending round Balaclava-d policemen (and women) might prove counterproductive.
On rare occasions some independent maniac in a top floor flat with hardly any windows who generally speaking couldn’t organise a butt rub at a tantric sex party, to which he’d never be invited anyway, inspired by the sweaty ravings of our Twitter bots which unlike Russia’s don’t exist, miraculously manages to plant a bomb, and as at Bologna, Dublin, Monaghan puts a mass of concrete and angle-grinders asunder, leaves jaw and shin bones separate from the heads and legs to which they were until seconds ago attached, there in the foyer for some rank and file cop to collect, bag and label; or drives a box of nine inch nails into what we consider politically expendable eyeballs at five hundred kilometres per hour. Such actions are a bonus and we welcome their contributions to our ongoing struggle, though they’re not officially sanctioned.
Mostly our task is to convince people we don’t exist, except in the minds of pink eyed conspiracists; to tend the fungus doubt that the likes of you, dear victim, probably divide your Mondays between subsidised yoga and phoning in threats against yourself.
Cometh the hour, cometh the Dame after John Cooper Clarke
by Kevin Higgins
the fucking dame is fucking furious and not fucking having it fucking up is fucking down fucking in is fucking out fucking master is fucking slave fucking Palestine is fucking never fucking Goliath is fucking David fucking catapult is fucking atom bomb the fucking wall was fucking built to keep the fucking Arabs off the fucking land fucking snatched fucking fair and fucking square
and if you lot dare say I stalk about the fucking House of Commons spitting words like ‘fucking’ or mention the fucking bust of fucking Lenin I fucking bought and fucking placed in Islington Town fucking Hall when I was first elected fucking queen you’ll be hearing from the fucking lawyer my fucking hubby gifted me our first night together sincerely fucking yours, Margaret Hodge
Kindly disregard the attention seeking cries of the few. They are child actors being given scripts by liberals. Most of the young people there are delighted with what we’re doing. There is no policy of separation from parents. It’s just if you’re going to process the mamas and papas, you’ve gotta take the bambinos away. The wire we put around them, for their own safety, isn’t even barbed. In there, we help kids go to school; even give them haircuts with our giant - and deadly accurate - Immigration and Customs Enforcement scissors.
This is the exact opposite of cages. Despite the headlines, no one has been gassed. There are, and never have been, any concentration camps. These children are in temporary custody; playing video games and soccer; getting two snacks a day and lots of sleep under their resplendent thermal blankets. The chain-link fencing we’ve used to divide into bedrooms the building we’re warehousing them in is entirely incidental.
Almost none of the adolescents in our possession have, as of yet, been turned into bespoke hat-stands and raffled off to the dissatisfied wives of Texan cattle-hands.
And we have, as of today, no plans to use the hindquarters of the small ones to fashion a new face for Rupert Murdoch.
In the interests of the coming equality, of which everyone is now theoretically in favour, the mahogany dining tables of Taylors’ Hill must be immediately confiscated; the wood used to fashion a makeshift grand piano for every asylum seeker child in the city.
All marble staircases will be yanked out, like massive teeth, and delivered to the nearest band of traveller children to do with as they wish.
Former Senators, with fully paid-up Galway Golf Club memberships, must be auctioned off to buy T-bone steaks for seasonally unemployed fish factory hands.
To further redress the class balance, it will be compulsory for the Armed Response Unit to legally remove by shooting as many times as necessary any auctioneers or Papal Nuncios seen acting suspiciously outside the kebab shop.
Property developers of all genders, races, and sexual orientations who purchase half finished apartment blocks for the very heaven of just watching the price rise, will be taken forcibly
in the back of an obliging HiAce to the nearest available handball alley, where they’ll be given fifty strokes across each cheek by some mad eejit with a grudge.
The teenagers we shot yesterday were shot responsibly through the eye with plain-speaking dum-dum bullets, manufactured in Fife, or taken down with SR 25 sniper rifles flown heroically in from Orange County. Many of these so-called protestors specifically arranged to be shot in the back, just to make us look bad.
The gas canisters our people threw were entirely rational, and legal, like the Boer firestorm the kaffirs brought down on themselves at Sharpeville, or the best-of-British ambush that rubbish walked into at Derry.
The one rogue canister which lost its mind and finished up in a tent beside an eight month old baby, who, sadly, also expired, is currently under investigation and expects to be cleared of all wrong doing, unlike the baby who we’ve already found guilty.
There is no such thing as Palestinians. Just some Arabs who used to live here and think they still do. The keys they wave in the air no longer open any doors. They are a rumour you foolishly believed, now we’ve moved our eternal capital to what used to be their front room.
A spectre is haunting Europe — the spectre of communism.- Karl Marx
You’ve seen me doing my hours emptying the ashtrays of third hand taxis cabs and scrubbing hard with bleach their tainted back seats before they’re offered up again to the god of whatever the market fetches in a town the government has privately agreed is to be discontinued, and wondered what’s with her smirk?
You’ve seen me doing my hours in the two Euro shop and considered offering me twenty quid for a quick ride around the back of the disused funeral parlour next door. For you’ve no idea what I am.
If you’d any sense you’d wake screaming every night in fear of me. By the time you do I’ll be standing over you and you’ll still be wondering what’s with her smirk?
For there’s a crowd coming behind me carrying a flag you won’t believe you’re seeing again until you do.
You’ll go red in the face like an old fool about to choke to death during sex, and tell me I’ll have fries with that. For you’ve no clue who I am. You’ll fumble for your wallet and toss me a fifty Euro tip, and wonder, one last time, what’s with her insufferable smirk?
For by then the ship you thought would never come in will have quietly docked flying a flag you’ll remember from the history books. Its contraband cargo that will give us the metal to own everything you think rightfully yours being silently unloaded by others like me made what they are by years looking at the likes of you poured into your waistcoat, believing in the divine right of your money.
My pals will be here presently – knock knock – with their methods of persuasion and the flag they rescued from the dustbin in which you tried to bury it.
First question they’ll pop when they see you tied up here will be toss him in the skip right now, or lock him in the attic for later?
What Did The Politician Get His Wife? after Bertolt Brecht
by Kevin Higgins
And what did she get, the girlfriend, from the student union meeting at which he rose to his feet and realised he could speak? From that meeting she got the Snickers bar he forgot to eat so busy was he watching them listen; and that speech, unabridged, every other night for thirty five years.
And what did she get, his new wife, from the time he first used a party conference microphone to agree with both sides? Those okay with the Moslems/Mexicans/Gypsies being here, and those who want them kept over there. From that microphone she took away their invitation to dine with the Deputy Mayor and his not new wife.
And what did she get, his no longer new wife, when, at the second attempt, he won that seat on the City Council? From his election she got to drink Pinot Noir and go swimming in their private club with the no-so-new wives of those who got the contracts to make the paving stones and install the pay-and-display ticket machines during his years as Chairman of the relevant committee.
And what did she get, his well-maintained wife, the night he was elected to the big shiny parliament? From that night she took away an architect to re-design their new three storey pad in the priciest possible part of the capital, and an article about herself in the Daily Express lifestyle pages.
And what did she get, the no longer new MP’s no longer new wife, the morning they made him Minister? That morning she got to go horse riding with the Leader of the House of Lords’ fourth (or fifth) wife.
And what did she get, the no longer new Cabinet Minister’s wife, the night the landslide made him Prime Minister? That night she got to hold to her breast invitations to break foie gras with the Sultan of Brunei, the President of China; and the chance to write husband’s speech announcing the crackdown on beggars who accost hard working families who stop to ask for directions en route to the nearest funeral parlour.
And what did she get, the ex-Prime Minister’s no longer new wife, from all the depleted uranium shells he had dropped during the Battle of Basra, all the soldiers he sent to meet improvised explosive devices in far Mesopotamia in the hope of getting rid of something bigger than the beggars and prostitutes at Kings Cross. For these she got white night terrors of him on trial for all their crimes, and the desire to never again look out the front window of their fine Connaught Square house at the tree from which, it’s said, they used to once string traitors.
Here's Ken Loach reading part of the poem and talking about the suspension of Kevin Higgins from the Labour Party. Higgins was suspended in June 2016, but now it looks as if he's unsuspended and is in the members' database again, although he hasn't been notified about it.
Higgins says: "It appears the boys and girls of the fantastically named 'Compliance Unit' at Labour Party Headquarters have decided that the case against me is too silly. But they don't want to tell me this in writing, as this way they retain the option of deciding, at some later stage, that I am guilty after all. On finding himself, at one stage during his varied career, imprisoned in a castle in Romania, the literary critic Georges Lukacs is said to have said that Kafka was a realist after all. It is a tragedy for world literature that Mr Kafka never got to exchange emails with the Labour Party Compliance Unit."