Goats: A Short Story Protesting NHS Privatisation

G O A T S

In a British hospital of the future…

 

I had just finished wiping away my tears for the second time that shift when I received a frantic call on my emergency mobile phone. It was Liv from A and E, badgering me to come over in record timing.

‘We’ve never seen anything quite like this,’ she said before hanging up.

Five minutes later, I was standing with her and Shaf. Wrapping the cubicle curtain shut behind me, I began to soak up the patient. He was feverish and squirming around the hospital bed. While he looked dreadful, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

‘So what’s all the commotion for?’

‘It’s an odd one, Doctor,’ Shaf said, trying to stick an electrode to the patient’s chest. ‘We don’t know what the hell to make of it.’

‘Looks like a virus to me,’ I told them. ‘So why hit the panic buttons?’

‘This is no virus,’ Liv said, shaking her head. ‘Take a look at this.’

She grabbed hold of the patient’s wrist and lifted it up. I leaned in and inspected. To my surprise the patient’s thumb had disappeared and his four digits had bundled into two stumps. Both had coarse, yellow nails protruding from them.

‘Arthritis,’ I said as I placed the end of my stethoscope to the patient’s ribcage. ‘It’s just good old-fashioned rheumatoid arthritis.’

‘This isn’t arthritis,’ Liv said. ‘His wife told us that he only began to develop these things after the fever kicked in.’

‘Interesting.’

‘And see that goatee?’

I noticed his wispy beard for the first time.

‘Yes.’

‘It began to sprout just after I hung up the phone on you.’

‘How very peculiar,’ I said, stroking my chin. ‘We’ll run some tests. Meanwhile we need to check his level of medical cover.’

‘We already have,’ Shaf said. ‘And he’s got precious nothing.’

‘Not even economy?’

Shaf made a gameshow wrong answer noise and said, ‘We confirmed it with his wife. She told us that he’s been signing on for the last year so they’ve been struggling to keep up with the rent. She practically begged us to do something for him, but we all know the policy.’

‘We all know the policy alright,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve spent my entire professional life protesting the bloody policy. What’s this gentleman’s name anyway?’

‘William.’

‘Hello, William,’ I said, moving the stethoscope’s chestpiece round his ribcage. ‘Can you hear me at all?’

‘Am I dying, Doctor?’ he murmured.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘You’re not dying. It’s just a nasty virus. We’ll run some tests and get you back to good health in no time. Now I know this isn’t the best time to ask, but do you have access to any money?’

‘There’s about a hundred quid left in my savings account.’

I looked over to Liv and Shaf. ‘That’s not going to pay for anything,’ I told them. Then to William, ‘Here at Meadows Hospital Limited we can arrange a loan through our sponsors which will provide enough money to keep you in hospital while we fix you up. Depending on your credit score, the loan can be as little as five point nine percent APR, but you will be expected to pay it back within the next year. The good news is that the money in your savings account will cover the ambulance journey over here so we can deduct that from the final bill. There are also vouchers available for hospital meals this month as part of our Run for Cover initiative. I believe it’s Mexican Monday as well, and let me tell you that the tacos are exceptional.’

‘The specials menu is only available for patients with economy or above, Doctor.’

 ‘So what do they give everyone else?’

Liv shrugged her shoulders. ‘The soup probably.’

I turned back to the patient. ‘Which is fantastic news because there’s a choice between many different types of soup at the moment. There’s chicken soup, vegetable soup, cream of something soup. All prepared by our Michelin-star chef who once appeared on I’m a Celebrity… before they finally saw sense and axed it. Now, do you have your bankcard with you?’

‘It’s at home.’

‘That’s okay, William. We’ll worry about it later.’ I turned to the others. ‘We need to sort the finance paperwork, get some signatures and then quarantine him over on the Poverty Ward until we know what’s what. Meanwhile take some bloods and send them over to haematology right away. I want a full investigation.’

‘Right away, Doctor.’

* * * *

I remember the first time I met her. It was back in medical school and, like everyone I know, I’d never felt so in love with anyone before. But it was a different kind of love—I loved her for what she did; for the good she brought to this country. No soul excluded. Yet the parasites wanted her dead; they’d been planning it for years. Despite her heart beating with joy, they wanted to place a noose around her neck and kick the chair once and for all.

I’d spent my life trying to stop them, but they didn’t listen. They never listen and now she’s gone. Forever.

All that’s left is this wretched beast.

* * * *

An hour later and I was sitting inside another cubicle on A and E. I was with a chef who’d cut his forearm wide open. The silly Billy had missed his target when dicing up some strawberries. He was less than an inch away from severing his ulnar artery. This would’ve meant an extra ten thousand pounds on his medical tab so every cloud and all that jazz.

As a nurse cleaned the wound and another fixed a catheter to the back of his hand, I got down to business.

‘So tell me, Martin. Do you have any medical cover?’

‘I’m afraid not, Doctor.’

‘Then do you have access to any money?’

‘Not until payday.’

‘That’s not a problem.’ Like a stuttering vinyl player, I rolled my eyes and began with the sales pitch: ‘Here at Meadows Hospital Limited we can arrange a loan through our sponsors which will provide enough money to keep you in hospital while we fix you up. Depending on your credit score, the loan can be as little as five point nine percent APR, but you will be expected to pay it back within the next year…’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Martin groaned. ‘I’m so broke right now that I’m using duct tape to hold my shoes together.’

‘But the rates are very competitive, Martin. And we can tailor the payment plan to your individual circumstances.’

‘You’re quite the salesman, Doctor.’

‘No need for sarcasm. For what it’s worth, you were about half an inch away from a very expensive operation. Fortunately you’re only facing a routine band F procedure.’

As Martin muttered something inappropriate, Liv’s head appeared from around the cubicle curtain. She was looking concerned again.

‘Have you got a minute, Doctor?’

‘I’m tending to a particularly nasty laceration here, Liv. Can’t this wait?’

‘Not really. We’ve got another case of that bizarre virus we saw earlier.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m positively sure. What’s more, he’s covered at platinum level and the only other member of the platinum team tonight is on a conference call with the sales team. So we need you to come over right away.’

‘Marvellous.’

As I stood up, Martin said, ‘Where are you going, Doctor?’

‘I’m afraid we have a priority case.’

‘What do you mean priority case?’

‘I’ll cut to the chase: this doesn’t qualify as an emergency situation and you have no medical cover which means we’re only legally obliged to provide the minimum amount of treatment on the condition that you agree to pay us back via a loan. It’s just the way it is now.’

‘Is this a stitch up?’

‘I suggest you calm yourself, Martin, or we will be forced to call security and stick it on your tab.’

‘It’ll be like trying to squeeze piss out of…’ His eyes darted around the room before he landed on, ‘Plasters.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense and you know it.’

‘You don’t make any sense. This healthcare system doesn’t make any sense. I want my NHS back!’

‘I’m warning you, Martin.’

Martin began to shake his head. ‘I’ve heard of Doctor Doolittle, but not Doctor Dofuckall.’

It was the eighth time in a month that I’d heard that particular joke. It was about as intellectually challenging as a birthday card verse. Enough was enough.

‘That’s one step too far, Martin.’ I turned to the nurse. ‘Call security and ask them to wheel Martin up to the Poverty Ward. But please don’t charge him for the privilege.’

‘But you know the policy.’

‘Fuck the policy!’ I hissed. ‘Just get him to the Poverty Ward.’

‘Okay, okay. Just relax.’

As I tottered out of the cubicle, Martin continued to call me all the names under the sun: cock nose, nipple eyes, arse mouth. By that point in my career, I’d heard it all before. But if only they knew the torment I was going through; day after day, night after night. That hospital was destroying me; scraping me out from the inside. The medical profession was dead to me—nothing more than a cadaver of its former glory.

I proceeded to follow Liv down the corridor. It was chockfull with people who had no medical cover. I knew they had no medical cover because that corridor is where the poor are dumped when the Poverty Ward is overflowing—which is fairly regular these days. We rent out these fold-up camper beds to them for twenty pounds a night while those with economy or higher get to hang out in the VIP lounge, surfing the internet and sinking into deluxe hospital beds.

As I walked passed reception, two security guards dragged a patient out of the fire exit by his collar. From what I could tell, he’d been complaining about the thirteen hours he’d waited for a butterfly stitch on his thumb.

‘…if you expect a premium service, buster, then it’s time to pay for it like everyone else.’

I’d never felt so deflated.

‘And it’s definitely the same symptoms as before, Liv?’ I said, trying to distract myself.

‘Yes, Doctor. He’s growing those strange hooves and a goatee beard—just like William.’

‘Interesting. And is he still compos mentis?’

‘He’s fully conscious and able to communicate with us. From what we saw earlier, it seems as if the worst of the virus is yet to kick in.’

‘That’s promising. I could do with asking him some questions. What’s his name again?’

‘Michael. But remember the policy, Doctor; we should only refer to him as sir unless he specifically requests that we address him by another name.’

‘This world.’

Liv continued to lead me to the Platinum Ward and into the patient’s private room. We found this Michael chap lying on a king-sized hospital bed. He was watching an American sitcom pour out of a flat screen television and munching on popcorn. One nurse was giving him a head massage while another scribbled down a detailed order for coffee.

‘It should be ninety-six degrees exactly,’ Michael was saying. ‘And I only drink it with Channel Island milk. None of that godawful unpasteurised stuff the peasants serve in high street coffee shops. I don’t work long hours in the financial district for nothing, you know?’

‘Of course, Prince Michael.’

‘Hello there,’ I said as I strutted over to Michael. ‘My name is Doctor Shepherd and I’m one of the members of the platinum team. It’s my duty to make sure you have the best possible experience at Meadows Hospital Limited. Anything you require, please don’t hesitate to—’

‘About bloody time,’ he spat at me. ‘I do not appreciate having to wait five minutes to be seen. Just as soon as this racket’s over, I’ll be posting a negative review on your website.’

‘Please accept my sincere apology, sir.’

‘Prince Michael,’ he said, correcting me.

‘Sorry?’

‘I want you all to refer to me only as Prince Michael. Now start again from the top.’

I gulped down my utter disdain.

‘Prince Michael, it’s my duty to make sure you have the best possible experience at Meadows Hospital Limited. Anything you require, please don’t hesitate to ask. Meanwhile we’ll make double sure that the rest of your stay is up to our usual excellent standard which, I should inform you, was runner up this year in the Consumer Times annual award for medical excellence.’

‘I don’t care about any of that. If you don’t impress me within the next five minutes then I’m cancelling my policy and going straight to your competitors.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ I said as I took hold of Michael’s wrist and examined the hoof. ‘So when did this begin?’

‘A few hours ago. It all started with a wheezy cough at the office and the next thing I know my hand’s turned into a cauliflower. That’s when I ordered the ambousine.’

‘And do you have any other symptoms?’

‘This beard’s just appeared,’ he said, waggling his finger at his chin. ‘The Lord only knows how that happened.’

I moved in closer and couldn’t help but grimace. Michael’s goatee looked like an adolescent’s armpit.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ I said. ‘I’ve been a doctor for nearly thirty years and I can honestly say that the only time I’ve ever seen anything like this was about an hour ago.’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘An embarrassment if I’m honest.’

‘I mean what’s the diagnosis?’

‘I really have no idea. We need to run some tests on you. In the meantime we’ll take you up to the Platinum Ward to get some rest. You’re just not allowed visitors until we’ve assessed how contagious this virus is.’

‘Sounds perfect. I need to catch up on some me time anyway. Does it have a gym with air conditioning?’

‘It has everything you need.’

‘Then hurry up with that Vienna. And make me a roast duck and wild garlic sandwich while you’re at it. If it’s as delicious as what my colleagues tell me, I’ll consider leaving a positive review.’

* * * *

If only they had listened. We told them what was coming their way. We told them that we needed to fight for her; to stop these monsters from getting what they always wanted. And now they’re trying to blame us! I was the one who fought for her life while everyone else stood around, looking the other way. I was the one who held her hand as she passed, whispering in her ear that we’d continue to fight for her no matter what.

I told them this would happen. But they never listened!

* * * *

I was tending to a serious case of torsion to the testes when Liv’s name flashed up on my mobile phone. I paused midway through poking around this gentleman’s scrotum and reluctantly answered to her.

‘I’m busy, Liv, with a capital B.’

‘But it’s another case of that mystery virus.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, except it’s a little more advanced than the previous cases we’ve seen. We need you down on the Platinum Ward immediately.’

‘But I have to sort out these testicles.’

‘The testicles will have to wait. Doctor Binks is tied up with the finance department again which means you’re the only person in the hospital qualified to treat him.’

My life!

‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

I hung up and looked over at the patient. He was shaking his head and his eyes were telling me not to leave him in such a sorry state.

‘I really do apologise,’ I said. ‘But this is urgent.’

‘Not as urgent as this,’ the patient said as he grabbed hold of my coat. ‘I’m in agony, Doctor. Please do something.’

‘I know you are, but you’re not covered and this isn’t classed as a medical emergency. We have to prioritise those who are covered.’

‘Then give me morphine.’

‘That’s just not possible. Morphine is reserved for those with economy or higher.’

‘Then give me something to take the pain away—anything.’

I pulled away from his weak grip and began to totter out of the cubicle. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I told him. ‘But I have to get to the Platinum Ward. I’ll make sure you’re seen to before midnight.’

‘Midnight?!’

‘And I’ll sort you a couple of paracetamol at a discount price.’

Before he could berate me about how awful the country has become and how it was all my fault, I stormed out of the cubicle and made my way to the Platinum Ward. It was like leaving a miserable Cumbrian town in winter to visit a glorious Caribbean island in summer. I felt numb all over. We weren’t doctors and nurses anymore; we were corporate hooligans. The hospital ward had finally become just another playpen for businesspeople who’d milk the sick and needy for their last tuppence. I was barely able to hold myself together.

When I reached the cubicle on the Platinum Ward, I found Liv tending to a patient in a private room. He was lying on the hospital bed, shirtless and groaning. My eyes darted straight to his head. It was in the middle of transitioning to that of a goat. He also had two pairs of hooves, but the rest of him was still human—just.

‘What on earth is going on here?’

‘It’s how the ambousinemen found him, Doctor.’

‘This is serious business.’

I leaned over the patient, studying this bizarre transmutation. I watched as the last of his nose became a snout while his eyes shrank into two little beads.

‘What do you think it is, Doctor?’

‘A national emergency.’

‘It is a goat, isn’t it?’ Liv said.

‘It’s a goat alright. But the real question is: how?!

‘Am I dying?’ the patient groaned.

‘He can speak!’ I quickly shone a pen torch into his left eye. ‘Can you hear me, sir?’

‘Yes, Doctor. Loud and clear. What the hell is going on here?’

‘We have absolutely no idea. All I can tell you is that we have to quarantine you right away while we run some tests. You might not be able to use the gym properly, but there’s always the 3D cinema. Can you remember what happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ the patient said. ‘All I remember is blacking out. Now here I am, no idea what’s going on. What’s happening to me, Doctor?’

‘I’m afraid I have some distressing news.’

‘What is it?’

‘You’re turning into a goat.’

‘A goat?’

‘Yes, sir. A goat.’

As the patient asked me how this was possible, my mobile phone began to ring. It was somebody from the Poverty Ward reception area. I immediately picked up, fearing the worst.

‘Hello?’

‘Doctor Shepherd!’ a lady shrieked. ‘I need you up here right away!’

‘What is it?’

‘The patient you asked to be brought up here a couple of hours ago… he’s only escaped!’

‘Escaped? What do you mean exactly?’

‘We can’t find him, Doctor. And what’s even weirder is that he’s managed to leave a goat behind. It’s as if he’s trying to tell us something.’

‘A goat?’

‘Please come, Doctor!’

I hung up.

‘I have to get to the Poverty Ward right away. Make sure this gentleman is quarantined on the Platinum Ward.’

I dashed out of the cubicle. The only saving grace was that I didn’t have to run through the sales pitch with a goat. That would’ve been too much to bear.

* * * *

When I reached the Poverty Ward, I found the receptionist standing on her office chair. She was squealing at something and lashing out with a clipboard.

‘What’s going on here?’ I said as I paced towards her.

‘It’s a goat, Doctor!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes I’m sure! And the fucking thing is talking to me!’

I dashed round the counter and saw that the receptionist wasn’t joking: she really was fending off a goat. It was using its horns and shoulder to ram the office chair.

As I began to shoo it away, the goat turned to me. ‘Doctor,’ it said. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

‘I don’t believe we’ve ever met before in our lives. Who are you? What is going on here?’

‘It’s William—the fella you were attending to in A and E.’

‘William?’ I said as the goat sat down and licked its pastern. ‘What’s happened to you, William?’

‘If only I knew. But you must cure me right away.’

‘But I don’t even have a diagnosis. You’re the world’s first, William. And beside—’ …but I couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Go on, Doctor.’

I shut my eyes.

‘You don’t have any cover.’

‘But I’ve turned into a goat!’

Just as I was about to tell him how sorry I am, two security guards appeared, carrying batons and shaking their heads in disbelief.

‘What’s going on here then?’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I said. ‘It’s only a patient.’

‘Since when did we become a vet?’ the other guard said.

‘It’s true,’ William said to them, his eyes all sad. ‘I’ve finally turned into a goat.’

‘Well that’s unlucky.’

‘What should we do, Doctor?’ the first guard said.

‘We need to quarantine him again. And this time under no circumstances do we let him out.’

The second guard looked down at William. ‘Are you going to remain calm while we walk you back to your bed or do we need to put you on a leash? You can put goats on leashes, right?’

‘How the hell should I know?!’ William hissed.

I watched as the two security guards led the goat up the corridor. Meanwhile it asked if someone could let the wife know what’s happened because he wasn’t capable of using a phone anymore.

As I thought about what I’d just witnessed, the receptionist climbed down from her chair, using my hand as a rail.

‘Do you think this is one of those hidden camera shows they used to have before we invented the internet?’

‘I have no idea,’ I told her. ‘All I know is that this isn’t good.’

‘Why’s that, Doctor?’

‘Well, who knows how far this thing has spread?’

* * * *

I remember the day she finally passed. It was the saddest day. In the middle of the night, they came for her, waving their gold-plated bankcards around. And what’s worse is that nobody but us had taken their threats seriously. Even when they were tightening the noose around her neck, nobody would believe it. But we believed it, and we tried to stop them. They never listened, never cared about what would happen after her funeral.

Now she’s gone; like the snuffed flame of a candle in a world haunted by thieves. I’ve never been the same since; a part of me died with her that day. And all these years I’ve had to smile for her murderers, do their dirty work.

Well, not anymore!

I will make them pay; oh my sweet, lovely NHS! I will make them pay for taking you from us!

* * * *

A couple of months after the outbreak, I was called before an emergency committee. Being the first doctor to treat the goat epidemic, I had been asked to provide some answers on what exactly had happened. It’s no surprise that the committee was made up of chief executives of private medical companies. Among them were some members of parliament and other conspirators. Meanwhile the worst of the British media was sitting behind me, scribbling in notepads and nodding their heads.

As I sat shifting in my seat, gazing at the floor, I finally heard somebody say, ‘So, Doctor Shepherd, we believe you were the first medical practitioner to treat a patient with the G Virus.’

I looked up at the gentleman who was talking to me.

‘That’s correct.’

‘And in your professional opinion, does contracting the G Virus amount to an emergency situation?’

‘I’d say so.’

A lady chimed in with, ‘So you believe it’s life threatening then?’

‘It’s early days,’ I replied. ‘But it appears that the G Virus only turns people into goats. It doesn’t appear to be life threatening—more like life changing.’

‘So it’s not an emergency?’ the gentleman said.

‘It depends what you mean by emergency.’

‘Let me read out the dictionary definition of emergency we’re concerning ourselves with today. According to the Oxford English Dictionary an emergency is, and I quote, “a person with a medical condition requiring immediate treatment”. End quote. What do you say to this?’

‘I’d say according to that definition, the G Virus is an emergency. No question about it.’

‘So the patients will die if we don’t treat them right away?’

‘They won’t die as such; they only turn into goats.’

‘So you agree with the committee that the G Virus isn’t an emergency?’

‘It’s not an emergency according to the definition you’ve just given, but I still think it’s an emergency of sorts.’

‘So you’re telling us that these patients do require immediate medical treatment?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I remind you that lying to the committee is a criminal offence punishable by up to ten years in prison and the loss of your medical licence.’

I was already beginning to feel exhausted.

‘But I’m not lying.’

‘Nobody said you were, Doctor Shepherd. We’re merely emphasising the importance that you tell us only the whole truth today.’

‘I am telling you the truth.’

The lady cleared her throat. ‘Let’s try this another way shall we? How long was it before you treated the first patient?’

‘I don’t believe we ever treated him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He didn’t have any medical cover.’

‘And did he suffer in pain or die as a consequence?’

‘No.’

‘So he’s still alive and well?’

‘Last I knew he was.’

‘So where’s William now?’

‘I believe an industrial farm has employed him.’

‘Then this isn’t an emergency at all,’ the old gentleman said. ‘In fact this is fantastic news.’

I was lost.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Our records show that William hadn’t been in employment for nearly a year. But after two months of contracting the G Virus, he’s finally found himself a stable job with a decent income.’

‘But he’s a goat.’

‘That’s not in dispute, Doctor Shepherd. What is in dispute is whether or not the G Virus amounts to an emergency situation. Now answer the question.’

‘I still think it’s an emergency…’

This for five gruelling hours and then I finally broke.

* * * *

Of course, the private healthcare industry won that day on some legal technicality. They tied me up in knots until all I could do was cry into my hands and tell the committee that it wasn’t an emergency after all.

‘It’s not an emergency!’ I sobbed. ‘Please just let me go!’

It wasn’t very long before the medical companies found a cure for the G Virus and then hiked up the prices so that only patients with economy or higher could afford to be cured. Everyone else was given the option of either taking out a loan with a lifetime of repayments or being left to turn into a goat. In no time, half of the UK population had been infected and went to live on farms all across the world.

When I finally pulled myself together, I tried to protest the ruling. But it all fell on deaf ears. In the end I quit the medical profession and, as a final act of defiance, I infected myself with the G Virus.

These days I spend my time walking around this muddy field with the other goats, trying to organise a resistance to the private healthcare system.

If it’s the last thing I do, I will bring my sweet love back from the dead.

The goats will someday rise!

 

© Rupert Dreyfus, released on the 70th birthday of the NHS

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Thoughts on Diversity and Some Updates

Just a quickie this month.

I was going to write a short essay about diversity in the traditional publishing world and how there’ll never be any. But I’ll save you having to read a thousand words of gibberish by summarising instead: there’ll someday be superficial diversity in the traditional publishing world, but there won’t be any meaningful diversity—diversity which allows authors of fiction to actively assault neoliberalism, junk culture and the status quo.

If you want meaningful diversity—one which speaks out against the current shitstorm—then you’ll find it in the indie scene. I’m surrounded by left-wing authors and poets who have been providing an alternative for years. I’m saddened by the lack of support for it, but that’s really down to a number of factors which I’ve discussed tirelessly over the years. Hopefully things will someday change.

In other news my second novel Broke will hopefully be released within the month. The main theme is inequality in present day Tory Britain; except the dirt poor attempt to scam the filthy rich for once. Alongside this I’m involved in a project which I’ll also be tirelessly promoting once it’s out there. Watch this space for more information.

My next project is already bubbling away, but it won’t be released until next year. I need to do some promoting, gobbing off, making a noise and generally being an arse.

I’ll be in touch again before you know it.

Meanwhile stay frosty.

R.D

x

Scumbag and Broke Updates

Many thanks to all those people who’ve read or intend to read Prezident Scumbag! And extra special thanks to Steve Topple for being one of the few journalists who, along with his other great work, actively supports the independent creative arts which take aim at the powers that be. Also, thanks to Far Right Watch for helping me to spread the word to the sort of people this book is written for. Your kindness really is appreciated.

You can read the latest review of Scumbag here (thanks to another great author Riya Polcastro).

I was a little apprehensive about putting this novella out there for a few different reasons. The primary reason is that I’m aware the language is fairly brutal and I feared that those readers who aren’t acquainted with my stories would be put off by this when, as the story rolls on, there’s a lot more going on. Make no mistake: this novella is an outright assault on the rise of fascism, the return of mainstream racism , the election of our worst nightmare to rule the world and a promotion of philosophical anarchism as a beam of light in a darkened world.

However, it’s no coincidence that Prezident Scumbag! was written in such a brutal style. There were a few things I wanted to achieve with this. Alongside capturing the current anger and giving voice to a subculture completely off the grid, I also wanted to remind people what anti-establishment actually means in the Digital Age. Some of you will no doubt remember that when Trump was running for President, many of his supporters claimed that he was anti-establishment (and still do even though he now is the establishment). This type of nonsense was also said about UKIP a couple of years earlier who I also wrote a story about hosted by one of the best political blogs out there, maintained by my friend Sue Jones.

Fortunately I’m just about old enough to have been exposed to a lot of old punk and hardcore bands who promoted anti-fascism/ anti-racism messages in a style that captured the feeling of despair at a world gone mad. As far as I’m concerned, this is the real anti-establishment; not those people who seriously believe that an even worse version of the same awful politics we’ve endured for the last umpteen years is going to change things for the better. For me, conservatism will always be synonymous with boring, and no amount of rebranding is going to change that.

This novella is the first in what will be a collection of three novellas. Each instalment will continue to build on the narrative until the President’s head is skewered on a stake. The next story will hopefully be out there in the first half of 2019.

On to other matters: at 67,000 words, I’ve finally finished the first draft of Broke. I’m really excited about getting this story out there. Its key theme is inequality in Tory Britain, but this time the dirt poor get to turn the guns on the filthy rich. I hope to release this story a couple of months from now; I’m just sorting out the paperwork. The book trailer and front cover are now in production, and the manuscript will be with the proof readers shortly.

Along with releasing Broke, I’m going to put out three short essays discussing different themes of the novel—all relating to the title. These include mental health, poverty and inequality and the rotten Westminster system of government.

So that’s all for this month. Once again, many thanks to all those who are supporting the revolution of the independent creative. While the mainstream largely continues to churn out play it safe stories about journeys on public transport, the indie scene is the only place where you’ll find a much-needed alternative shaking things up.

Until next time…

R.D

Coming Soon… Rupert’s Sophomore Novel: Broke

Firstly, thanks to all those who helped me to get the word out on Prezident Scumbag! Enough people downloaded it to make the venture worthwhile. I managed to get those lovely people at Far Right Watch (a diverse group of British Antiracist and Antifascist activists) to download it who later said, and I quote, ‘it’s actually in a class of its own’. End quote.

If you’re one of the people who grabbed a copy then please tell a friend and whack up a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads—even if you think it’s an appalling use of the English language. One has already appeared on Amazon here which was a lovely 5 star review. Massive thanks to whoever that was.

FRW Quote

Enough of kissing my own arse.

It recently dawned on me that it’s been almost four years since I released my debut novel Spark; a story about a low-key computer hacker who sparks a revolution from his bedroom. At the time it was a reaction to the awfulness which had been going on under the Tory regime and an attempt to provide an alternative to the current trend of politically inoffensive fiction that always seems to prosper.

Ever since then I’ve released numerous different projects which you can find here, here, here and here. All the while I’ve been trying to figure out what would make a good follow up novel to Spark. Over the years I’ve been working on a few novel-length stories which you will find referenced throughout my blog. One story is called Kane and is a novel set in Brighton which focuses on our homegrown far right. Another has the working title Neilism and is more philosophical than my other stories; sort of an intellectual lightweight’s attempt at updating the existential novel for the meme generation (not really).

Then, very recently, I discovered another manuscript that some of you may remember me talking about quite some time ago. It’s called Broke and it’s about the dirt poor attempting to scam the filthy rich for once. I began writing it in November of 2015 and then paused on it for reasons I can’t remember. I’m pleased to say that, after a little bit of polishing over the last few weeks, it’s a third of the way there.

Here’s an early version of the blurb:

“Despite working two terrible jobs in the capital, Oscar Knight is trapped inside a life of abject poverty. As his financial responsibilities spiral out of control, he seeks ever more desperate measures to keep his head above the water. But after getting wrangled up with London’s most ruthless loan shark as well as a Russian oligarch who wants to purchase one of the city’s most iconic buildings, Oscar has to figure out a way of not just escaping his miserable existence, but also the United Kingdom. And fast!

So I’ve decided to park on the other projects I’ve been working on and will now be seeing this one through until the bitter end as I reckon I can get it out to you soon—weather permitting.

There are two other things going on which I’ll save for another day.

Meanwhile, keep fighting the good fight…

R.D

Anti-Racism Novella Now FREE on Kindle!

As a response to the racist atmosphere presently engulfing the UK, I’m giving Prezident Scumbag! away for free on the Kindle platform. You can get your copy here and you can visit the Goodreads page for more reviews here.

I released this story last year as a response to the rise of the far right across the world, spearheaded by a particularly acidic President who has partly succeeded in normalising bigotry and hostility towards the less fortunate. The far right tried to make out that this is what it means to be anti-establishment. However, this story begs to differ by reawakening the true spirit of taking on the establishment.

Since releasing this story, things have taken a turn for the worst. Our own beloved Tory government has taken a leaf out of the far right’s book of disgrace by ramping up a ‘hostile environment’ towards our fellow humans. The purpose of this is to turn people against each other so that they can continue building the sort of world that good people don’t identify with but are forced to survive in on a daily basis.

You can read the Canary’s review here and here is the latest review I’ve received from my friend and fellow dissident author James Birch.

Thanks to all those who have supported me thus far. And extra special thanks to those influential left-wingers who continue to ignore me presumably because you believe in your own bullshit celebrity status rather than the values you preach.

Please help me to spread the word and leave reviews wherever you can.

Respect and tings’

R.D

Dreyfus writes with the darkly absurd humour of a thirsty and somewhat paranoid Jonathan Swift.

–Imran Khan, Pop Matters

This isn’t just my favourite of Rupert Dreyfus’ books to date, nor is it one of my favourite indie books, it’s simply one of my favourite books, period.

–Harry Whitewolf, protest poet and author

If his work doesn’t make you think, I suggest getting your doctor to prescribe a course of fluoride tablets, subscribe to the Daily Mirror and vote in this year’s X Factor.

–Steve Topple, The Canary

In between the worthy goal and shenanigans of Sick Bastard’s punk band members… there’s wisdom to plant a seed of ‘something else, something different’ into society’s mushy brain.

–Liis Scanlon, Cover to Cover

No-one at the moment is doing more to break down the artificial divisions in writing – between the arts, literature, social sciences; realism, surrealism, social and political satire, commentary, alternative narratives and dissidence – than Rupert.

–Sue Jones, Politics and Insights

Dreyfus is a kind soul which you might not guess from the title and the notion of a punk rock band going to protest something. But, sprinkled throughout this book, are what are clearly Dreyfus’ own heartfelt, humanitarian expressions of bemusement, sadness, and concern at the present state of the world.

–James Birch, author of Discontents: The Disappearance of a Young Radical

If Orwell was alive today he’d be writing the exact same things as Dreyfus.

–Goodreads Review

 

Prezident Scumbag!: A Sick Bastard Novella [Book Review]

James Wallace Birch

Book: Prezident Scumbag!: A Sick Bastard Novella

Author: Rupert Dreyfus

prezidentskumbag-cover-dreyfusMy Review:

I’ve got to give a strong nod in favor of this one! I was immediately taken in by Dreyfus’ style and pointed social critique. I can see why he’s amassed such a loyal following. It’s like Anthony Burgess meets Kurt Vonnegut at a black block/ punk rock show, all while reading anarchist philosophy.

This political satire follows a cast of misfit anarchists who travel to the U.S.A to put on a protest music show. Between drug-addled mischief and philosophical musings, a tale emerges of hope against the backdrop of the election of Prezident Scumbag (a thinly veiled poke at who know who). Racism and nationalism are major themes. The story centers on the UK-born Fazal Khan of Pakistani heritage.

This novella is a quick read but it’s a powerful one. As someone not from the UK there was…

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The Amazon Bestsellers List is Still Artless Horseshit

I’m into my fourth year of putting out stories and in the wider literary world nothing much has changed in all this time. In fact things are getting worse. The bestseller lists continue to be dominated by artless horseshit which any of us could churn out in a week.

As I write this the current bestsellers list on Amazon is almost exclusively comprised of awful thrillers and predictable romances. The opening line of the number 1 bestseller blurb (I Am Watching You by Teresa Driscoll) sums this up perfectly:

When Ella Longfield overhears two attractive young men flirting with teenage girls on a train, she thinks nothing of it…

Teenage girls on a train.

Girls on a train.

Girl on a train.

Girl on the train.

The Girl on the Train.

Fuck me furiously.

If that isn’t blatant product placement then I don’t know what is. They might as well have said ‘sponsored by Trump Towers’ and be done with it. Hopefully you weren’t one of the hundreds of thousands of people who fell for it…

But how did we arrive at this? Ten years ago I would’ve predicted that things would’ve taken a different direction to what they have; that there’d be queues of authors and artists taking full advantage of the unprecedented free creative expression afforded to us by the internet. Instead we’ve got authors falling over themselves to make as much money as they possibly can by mustering up the most inoffensive drivel they are capable of. Even the Guardian supports it with open arms which you can see both here and here.

It’s all about the money. Give me your fucking money.

But how did we arrive at this? The traditional publishing world is responsible for some great literature over the years. However, it’s also responsible for training many readers to see books as nothing more than a Big Mac and large fries. Consequently free expression in the creative arts continues to be shackled by the pursuit of profit which squeezes out all traces of originality. Once a story goes viral in the Digital Age, we all have to endure countless imitations for many years to come.

What’s the response? If you’re writing stories then don’t imitate the same old unless you want mouthy upstarts like me to call you out. Continue to fly the flag of dissent; even if nobody gives much of a shit right now. Writing belongs to us; not the Amazon algorithms which are encouraging authors to unashamedly write stories for profit.

If you’re a reader then occasionally support the alternative that broadly represents your values. Among the piles of wanky books about girls on public transport, there are books which are speaking out against abuses of power, corporate greed and a stagnant cultural scene. Give it a crack of the whip.

We all need to keep angry—for art’s sake. Otherwise all we have to look forward to is more of the same shit. Ad infinitum. Our culture dies a slow painful death and Amazon lives on for all eternity.

Orwell would turn in his grave.

R.D