Brendan O'Neill, Lyndon Larouche and the Coldblair conspiracy

A few months ago, while semi-drunkenly strolling through harvard square, Nick and I were confronted by some of the most curious grassroots activists. Toting a whiteboard with obscure geometry problems and delivering impromptu operatic performances, these were the followers of a nutbar by the name of Lyndon Larouche. At the time, we were fascinated. After probing them with the usual salvo of cynical questions, we grabbed a handful of their propoganda literature and proceeded with the day's business i.e. stumbling into the nearest darkened pub. Later in the day, though, after a bit of online research and looking through their flyers, it became clear that this was yet another muddle-headed cult incapable of distinguishing their asses from their elbows with any regularity. For example, one of the key tenets of their geopolitical worldview is the existence of a "Blair-Cheney perpetual war conspiracy. "

Cut to the present day and Brendan O'Neill's backlash on Salon against what he sees as the sinister alliance between Coldplay's Chris Martin and Tony Blair.

Much like the Larouchies who delusionally overestimate Blair's significance in the field of international power-brokerage (can you say lap-dog?), O'Neill vastly blows out of proportion what is just another mundane case of back-scratching. After all, Coldplay are darlings of big media for their saccharine pop stylings and Blair is an astute politician always looking to expand his power base. Such liaisions are nothing new and to make over-arching inferences based on them about British class relations or the state of contemporary music is ludicrous. Especially, when said inferences are confused, misinformed or factually wrong. Allow me to elucidate:

Although peripheral to the article's main focus, O'Neill confidently asserts that "Both went on to Ivy League universities -- Blair to Oxford in the 1970s, and Martin to University College London in the 1990s.." I had no idea that the Ivy League had extended its membership across the Atlantic. A few sentences later, we get another cosmic revelation: "Blair gave us the Third Way, a new politics of compromise and caution that was neither full-on capitalism nor socialism, neither right nor left, but something in the middle." Clearly, the author is of the view that an armed overseas occupation in support of forced regime change constitutes 'centrist' foreign policy. Dude, whatever you're smoking - I want some.

Speaking of which, the piece then suddenly veers into the realm of contemporary music and the use of mood-altering substances. Aside from the BRILLIANT comparisions between Coldplay, Radiohead and Oasis (someone please forward this article to the pitchfork editorial staff), O'Neill makes a wild leap of reasoning (faith?) to state that Thom Yorke would probably disapprove of drug use at a 1969 Rolling Stones concert. The author's understanding of the prevailing attitudes towards substance use in progressive music circles is also in a word: BRILL.

Finally, the piece launches an unrelated and unprovoked attack on prog rock. Apparently, Floyd and King Crimson were also (unwittingly?) part of the giant plot to repress O'Neill's mythical, unified punk rock nation. Bring back Johnny Rotten!, he zealously proclaims in closing. Come to think of it, Mr. O'Neill, why not bring back that timeless punk icon Johnny Ramone as well? After all, he was a staunch Reaganite and card-carrying member of the NRA. That'll show Chris Martin! Right?

For the time is at hand

Not quite as biblical, but I think these past few days can aptly be called the Week of Revelations. American history buffs now have the answer to what might have been considered the greatest mystery in domestic politics: Who is Deep Throat? W. Mark Felt’s name can now be scratched into textbooks, while the levee breaks with the expected flood of Watergate books.

Revelation #2, although not as earth-shattering and shocking, is that Canadian women are pretty. Rather, one Torontonian (in actuality, a Russian immigrant) was deemed by a handful of judges worthy enough to spend the next year smiling, waving and cutting ribbons. In fact the only revelation at hand is that my country has finally caught on to the mantra employed by our southern neighbours in all international competitions, vacuous or not: if you can’t win with your own people, steal them from someone else.

The dream of the United States of Europe will probably never be fully realised, if revelling nationalists have their say. The chorus of resounding nons and nees threaten the ratification of the European Union’s proposed Constitution, leaving its supporters to scratch their collective heads, and adding credence to the claim that when you want something done right, you don’t rely on sheep.

Revelation or confirmation? Salon columnist Sidney Blumenthal does reveal his inner fashion critic, as he criticises the Bush administration, “cloaked in myopic self-righteousness,” for its vagrant attempts to justify its outrageous behaviour (or is that the other way around?). Whether you believe in its policies, despise those wielding power, or just plain don’t give a damn, its proclivity to unleash the hounds on all enemies is still astounding. Amnesty International joins Newsweek, Jim Lehrer and others on the long list of those who rebelled against the dictum of “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”

A week where our eyelids were stretched wide like Malcolm McDowell's in that Kubrickian torture flick, as images of incredulity flash across the screen, forcing us to face the truth. Wouldn't you know: the Greek word for revelation is αποκάλυψις, better known and pronounced as: apocalypse.