The Broken Kingdom

By George D. Verlander

One definition of the term ‘united’ is stated as; “joined together politically, for a common purpose, or by common feelings.”

We are no longer a United Kingdom, divided not by colour or creed, not by social class or education but by the very foundation that we have assembled this democratic civilization that we inhabit. The freedom of speech, and more specifically, the availability of free will have acted as the catalyst of our downfall.

We live in a country that permits us to say what we feel, listen to what we want to hear and as a result act upon these privileges in any way we deem necessary.

A prime example of this degeneration can be taken from the mutilation of Lee Rigby. Was his execution ‘necessary?’

On the afternoon of 22^nd May 2013 the British soldier, Drummer (Private) Lee Rigby of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, was run down by a car in the streets of Woolwich outside the Royal Artillery Barracks. The very same men who had wounded him from within the automobile then attacked Mr. Rigby, who had been returning from work to the barracks. After exiting the vehicle the pair proceeded towards his injured body, assaulted him with multiple weapons including knives and a cleaver, until he was dead. The two men then concluded their attack with an attempt to decapitate the dead soldier.

The two men, later confirmed as Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale, remained by their target after their assault, waiting for police to arrive so that they could be shot down and die glorified in martyrdom. The pair even encouraged civilians at the scene to video tape them so that the whole world would know of what they had done on that day.

One of the assailants, Michael Adebolajo, was filmed stating – “The only reason we have killed this man today is because Muslims are dying daily by British soldiers. And this British soldier is one … By Allah, we swear by the almighty Allah we will never stop fighting you until you leave us alone. So what if we want to live by the Sharia in Muslim lands? Why does that mean you must follow us and chase us and call us extremists and kill us? … when you drop a bomb do you think it hits one person? Or rather your bomb wipes out a whole family? … Through [many passages in the] Koran we must fight them as they fight us … I apologise that women had to witness this today but in our lands women have to see the same. You people will never be safe. Remove your governments, they don’t care about you. You think David Cameron is gonna get caught in the street when we start busting our guns? Do you think politicians are going to die? No, it's going to be the average guy, like you and your children. So get rid of them. Tell them to bring our troops back … leave our lands and you will live in peace.”

The two men were yesterday found guilty of murdering Lee Rigby. They await sentencing.

How can a man who had served in war-torn countries be murdered on British soil by the very same enemies that he sought to protect us from; allowed to roam free in our streets, live off our resources and slowly, but surely integrate within our own society and claim to be one of us. Months before the event took place Adebolajo was known to police for spreading hate, even approaching young children in an attempt of persuasion to get them to join his cult’s warped beliefs.

Lee Rigby’s murder was pre-meditated; thought out and conducted solely on a military individual to represent an apparent illustration that Britain is at war with ‘Islam.’ This was the motive given in trial from both Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale. They condemned foreign policy, the British military’s involvement in Islamic dominated countries and the treatment of individuals belonging to the Islamic faith – all of which indicated the justification of their actions.

Sadly, part of this is true. Individuals in these horrific environments indeed die every day, and the reasons for the British government’s involvement with these wars in the last decade have sometimes been hard, if not impossible, to establish meaning.

I am not against war, nor am I against fighting for what is right. However, I have little hope in the rehabilitation of some middle-eastern countries, so corrupt with political and social turmoil. I fail to support the involvement that our troops have been forced to operate in the last few years. What will happen when, or better yet if, we finally cease this war? How long will these disintegrated societies stand until they are taken back into terrorist hands?

I live in a democratic society where we are all deemed equal. We are encouraged to support, listen and learn from one another. I cannot believe that this same society has been stained by an event such as Lee Rigby’s assassination; where just because an individual or two have an opposing view from another that this may lead to rationalize their measures.

Islam is not to blame. I have known and have been friends with Muslims. Radicalization, and more specifically extremisms within Islam – which minorities in this country are associated with – are to blame. Killing someone because they do not agree with you, or do not comply with your personal thoughts and ideals should never, and I hope will never, be an excusable reason to take another life.  

In Britain we are divided by an endless list. We are divided by our support in football teams. We are divided in our choice of political parties. We are divided by our musical preferences. We are divided by our educational achievements and our sporting abilities. We are divided in our faiths, our religions and our personal thoughts of what lies after this life. However, these divides are what represent our multi-national and cultural communities. An Atheist and a Catholic can be best friends. An Englishman and a Nigerian can be best friends. That’s not what the problem is in this country.

The problem, as I mentioned earlier, is free speech. I am grateful for it, and truly blessed to live in a land that allows it. Although, am I not the only one who believes that it has begun to fall into corrupt hands? An individual such as Anjem Choudary, who does not at all represent the Islamic faith as a select group, is permitted to preach freely wherever he likes. He has manipulated this humanitarian right – preaching hate to individuals, urging them to take up arms against our country and it’s customs. It may not come as a surprise to you that he was connected to Michael Adebolajo, and even resisted to condemn his follower’s actions after he had killed in Woolwich.

Should the right of free speech only be permitted up to the extent where what you say does not affect others? Should we make it an offense to offend someone? That's a gigantic grey area in itself. 

In a peace promoting country such as ours why should individuals such as Choudary be allowed to reside in it? If all these people do is oppose it and seek to destroy it from within, surely they are forsaking their right to live in that particular domain, regardless of whether or not they are born here. Would it be cruel to think of a future where every individual has to prove their worth, and why they deserve to live in a country such as Great Britain, those who offer only negativity failing the requirements and forced into exile? It would be interesting to see nevertheless. Perhaps we would see an increase in work productivity, or even maybe a decrease in crime rate statistics, alas, who knows?  

I am no politician, nor any policy maker. But I do believe that if you have an idea that others may find truly oppose then you should retain it to yourself. Your thoughts, however radicalized they may be, are your own. What gives anyone the right to impose their ideals onto other people, to force what they think onto others and compel them to act like they act? Since when did that become the depiction of a democratic state? How quickly did these select individuals forget youthful messages such as "if you have nothing nice to say then don't say nothing at all!" 

Divided, and broken, although similar, are not identical. Divided, yes, we may differ from thought to thought, emotion to emotion, faith to faith. That’s acceptable. It is what makes us unique. Broken, however, denotes the actuality that these differences have caused a catastrophic reaction in our society, which they have and will continue to do so, until we decide to turn away from treachery and it’s inviting sources that dwell in this un-united, broken kingdom.  

Desolation in the Lion's Den

Written By George D. Verlander

The three Lions, the living embodiment of England and the representation of it proud majesty, are currently licking their wounds, inflicted from the source on an unlikely pair of foes. An Emu and Kangaroo, to be precise.

During the summer, the remains of an Australian side consisting of only one “world class” talent in Michael Clarke, made their way to England. In conclusion they were defeated 3-0 in what was not at all a rollover, but merely a tense, close contest that at some instances could have gone either way. Nevertheless, no longer were the likes of Ponting, Hayden, Langer, Lee, Warne, McGrath and Gilchrist gracing the side, several, solid pillars that had upheld Australia’s consistent golden age for over a decade. The time for Australia to lay down and die had come; turmoil in management had arisen, complications between skipper and a frontline batsman were evident and the team evolved into the uncanny resemblance of a Woodham Mortimer 1^st & 2^nd XI, infamous for their unsteady bowling displays and even more unsteady batting attempts, often resulting in dreary, laughable collapses.

Slinking back over to the other side of the world the team returned home with their tail between their legs; disgruntled by their Ashes display. However, under the guidance of Darren Lehman, strict training regimes and an honest acceptance of where the team are in terms of test cricket (5^th in the ICC test rankings) they were determined to claw their way back. Refreshed, motivated and hell-bent on revenge the Aussies were going to ensure that they would once again be their greatest rival’s reckoning.

And that’s exactly what they have done.

Kicking off at The Gabba, Australia posted a reasonable 295 before yielding to the English bowling barrage, Stuart Broad taking six of the wickets and ending on figures of 6/81 of 24 overs. Assurance was running high in the tourist’s dressing room, was this to be a repeat of the earlier 2013 clash? No, was the simple answer. In reply to the measly total England were all out for 136, failing to capitalize on Australia’s average score. The 2^nd innings was underway promptly, Australia, shocked with the early Christmas present from their enemy, chalked up 401 for seven (declared.) The target was set. However, it appeared all too easy on paper, and once again England were tormented by Mitchell Johnson – a man who was the primary focus of endless insults from the traveling fans – as he relished their chants of “he bowls the left, he bowls the right, Mitchell Johnson, he’s bowling is s****” retorting with 5/42 off 21.1 overs. His nine wickets overall granted him the man of the match award, pummeling England’s line up with frightening pace, Michael Carberry the sole resistance of a shattered team with a score of just 40 off 113 balls. Michael Clarke, the Australian captain, obviously didn’t think the climate was warm enough and so propelled the series into a new blazing heat with his comments towards James Anderson towards the conclusion of the test, assuring him to “get ready for a broken f****** arm” as he faced down Mitchell Johnson’s torrent. Controversy consumed the aftermath, a debate whether this was so called “banter” or a prime example of an overstepped line, split between everyone from fans to the players themselves. England had fallen into hysteria, their firm grasp on Australia’s throat had loosened, and consequently they had allowed the old adversary to gain a foothold towards the reformation of their forgotten dominance.

The 2^nd test wasn’t much of an improvement for the visitors. Once again, wining the toss on what seemed a perfect batting pitch, Australia, intoxicated with confidence seeping from their very pores took England’s bowlers to ruins. Chris Rogers (72), Shane Watson (51), George Bailey (53) and Ryan Harris (55) all reached half centuries. However, the combination of the skipper and wicket keeper’s total caused the most tragic damage. Brad Haddin (118) hit a superb ton with eleven 4’s and five 6’s notched on his tally. However, leading from the front Michael Clarke showed why he was the most gifted batsman amongst the ranks, hitting 148 runs and excelling the total to 570 before declaring on the 9^th wicket. Have a go at that then England. Alas, we might of known. 172 – all out was the response, Ian Bell (72*) the only one to highlight a glimmer of form that he had so fiercely demonstrated in the previous Ashes conflict, where he won player of the series.  Hungry for more the Aussies once again went into bat, posting 132 with only three wickets down when Clarke declared, bringing his boys back in from the wicket as the smell of blood thickened in the air. Mitchell Johnson, who had slain several wickets in England’s first innings, stalked them once more like a great white after a seal pup. He quickly dismissed the England captain, Alistair Cook for 1; Cook showing diminished scores in back to back matches now. However, the pick of the bowlers was the constant unsung Peter Siddle, who seized 4 of England’s batting line-up, finishing on figures of 4/57 off 19 overs. Joe Root (87) played with integrity and continued to offer his childlike smirk in correspondence to Johnson’s aggressive leer; a feature often displayed towards any batsman that came into his eye line. He’d most likely picked up a few tips from my personal bowling acts, taking detailed notes on how to startle a player with a hostile stare! Johnson was once again in the action with Ben Stokes after the two briefly collided with each other in the centre of the wicket as the batsman pulled a bouncer down to the leg side boundary. Johnson, who took offence to the knock, followed Stokes angrily towards the non-strikers end, where the argument had to be dissolved by the umpires as the two sized each other up. Pietersen (53) reached his half-century after a poor performance in the previous test, and Matt Prior (69) showed promise in his return to good nick – something that had been non-existent in England’s middle order at The Gabba. Unfortunately however, the target was set too great and on the final day England were for a second time cleaned up by their foe; Australia increasing their lead to 2-0 in the series.

What has been the catalyst of England’s demise? Perhaps the psychological breakdown of one of their most sturdy batsman, Jonathan Trott, who failed to cope with the extreme pace of Australia’s opening bowler – who has taken 17 wickets so far in this series - could have begun the domino effect? Could it be blamed on the management and training staff;in their last 20 consecutive test matches England have failed to pass 400 and 21 of England’s 40 dismissals so far in this series have come from leg side catches. Do we have no answer to the short-pitched ball? It would appear not. Is it possible that Australia have finally gotten inside the psyche of England, so far under their skin with sledging that they can manipulate the very actions of their prey? One thing is for certain, if this continues Australia will have another 5-0 whitewash under their belt, and would more than deserve it.

England captain Alistair Cook brought to light his responsibility not only as skipper but also as an opening batsman at the end of the 2^nd test. “I need to score more runs, we all do. But there are only so many times you can tell the lads to do it, and if you’re not doing it, it makes it harder. I’m there at the top of the order as a batter, and in the last two games I haven’t been scoring enough runs." Mitchell Johnson, who won the man of the match again during the second test also spoke of his performances “I’m bowling in short spells, that is what Michael has wanted me to do through this series so far, and it’s something that I have really enjoyed doing. I guess having that intimidation factor is definitely a bonus.”

It pains me to confirm that the dense unity of the England cricket team seem to be crumbling under the weight of a team seeking retribution. Australia, tasting two sweet essences in back to back test’s, will not stop now until they have firmly reinstated their previous supremacy. Where do England go from here? The team that not so long ago held the title of the highest ranked test side in the world seem  a distant memory at this point; a selection of timid schoolchildren who have been bullied out of their wickets from the new Mitchell Johnson, who returns to his home ground in the 3^rd Ashes test match at Perth on Friday 13^th of December. Is it possibly we could blame the ironic, negative omen on another pitiful performance?

We have been outplayed and outgunned in every way so far and although I would like nothing better than for England to come back 3-2 now it's most certainly a long, lost cause. We must respect Australia again for the way they have returned. This post is not at all a glorified worship of the team but merely a realistic scrutiny of the facts; if we had at all showed some shred of positivity it would of been mentioned. Although that too, much like England's batting order, has all but disappeared.  

For now it appears that the three Lion’s pride has somewhat disbanded, both in a metaphorical, and literal sense.  

This Sorrowful Life: An extensive look at 'Marine A' and whether or not the British Justice System is displaced.

Written By George D. Verlander

446 fatal casualties. 446 fallen comrades. 446 families that have lost a father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife, son or daughter. 

This number threatens to increase with every second we are at war.

'446' is the number of deaths that have tragically occurred since the British Army first arrived in Afghanistan, over a decade ago now, in October 2001. The most recent fallen hero has been confirmed, Sergeant Major Ian Fisher from Barking, London, who served in the 3rd Battalion, The Mercian Regiment as a Warrant Officer. He was killed on the 5th of November 2013, as a result of a vehicle-bourne suicide attack whilst out on patrol. 

However, it seems that even if you're blessed enough to have the chance to put down your weapon, and return home to the country that you have risked your life for, you're never out of the war-zone. The dangerous life-threatening environment can alter into a political battle, as seen in recent news regarding 'Marine A', and his possible life sentence after killing a Taliban insurgent. 

The event, which took place on 15th September 2011, has recently been discovered and brought to the intention of the British Government and British Judicial System, who now will decide whether or not the 'accused', a Sergeant in the Royal Marines, should be punished for his actions. The 'execution', as some have described it, was in fact taped on film from another soldier's head camera, only known as 'Marine B' - who has since been released of all charges and admitted back to military duty. Although the video itself has been withheld, deemed too disturbing to distribute via news channels, a voice recording has been released that highlights the sequence of events. 

After finding the Taliban insurgent in a field, dying from wounds recieved from an Apache helicopter's gunfire, 'Marine A' proceeds to take out his 9mm pistol. He then shoots the man dead. From the voice recording it is clear that after this 'Marine A' states, "There, shuffle off this mortal coil... It's nothing you wouldn't do to us." The same Marine then follows this up with "Obviously this doesn't go anywhere fellas. I just broke the Geneva convention", to which 'Marine B,’ replies "Roger mate." 

'The Geneva Convention' (1929) was signed at Geneva on July 27th, 1929. Its official name is 'The Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War', which was entered into force on the 19th June 1931. 

http://www.ppu.org.uk/learn/texts/doc_geneva_con.html

The Third Geneva Convention - "Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War" states:

Prisoners of war MUST be: 


-Treated humanely with respect for their persons and their honor.

-Enabled to inform their next of kin and the Central Prisoners of War Agency (ICRC, the International Red Cross) of their capture. 


- Allowed to correspond regularly with relatives and to receive relief parcels. 


- Allowed to keep their clothes, feeding utensils and personal effects. 


- Supplied with adequate food and clothing. 


- Provided with quarters not inferior to those of their captor's troops.

- Given the medical care their state of health demands. 


- Paid for any work they do. 


- Repatriated if certified seriously ill or wounded, (but they must not resume active military duties afterwards).

- Quickly released and repatriated when hostilities cease.

Prisoners of war must NOT be:

- Compelled to give any information other than their name, age, rank and service number.

- Deprived of money or valuables without a receipt (and these must be returned at the time of release). 


- Given individual privileges other than for reasons of health, sex, age, military rank or professional qualifications. 


- Held in close confinement except for breaches of the law, although their liberty can be restricted for security reasons. 


- Compelled to do military work, nor work which is dangerous, unhealthy or degrading.

The actions distributed from 'Marine A' clearly notify a violation in the regulations of this specific convention. Nevertheless, we must examine the facts at our disposal. Firstly, did the accused shoot dead a wounded individual who would have been classed as and therefore become a PoW? Yes. Secondly, would the 'victim', a Taliban insurgent, have tried to and, if given the chance, inflict maximum damage onto British soldiers if presented with the opportunity to do so? Yes. Thirdly, if wounded and if indeed captured, would British Personnel be protected under the very same ‘Geneva Convention’ from an organisation such as the Taliban, an organisation who have in the past video taped and released public executions on not only soldiers, but on innocent journalists and civilians also? Ah. 

Prime Minister David Cameron, along with multiple figures within the British Army, have condoned the event which has been called 'murder.' Today the PM stated, "We should not let that single incident besmirch the incredible work the Royal Marines have done, not only over the decades but over the centuries." 

'Marine A' will be sentenced on December 6th, 2013. The Royal Marines Sergeant could possibly be facing a life sentence if found guilty of these so called ‘war crimes.’

Should 'Marine A' receive a prison sentence? For some it is a highly grey area. Do I personally condone this incident? I know I do not support any form of murder. But there is something about this case, which doesn't resonate the term 'murder.' The statement given by 'Marine A' after he shoots the Taliban insurgent "There, shuffle off this mortal coil... It's nothing you wouldn't do to us” I can’t help but concur, and can't understand anyone who begins to disagree. 

To those individuals within our own society who believe that 'Marine A' was wrong to kill this human being, you do have a point. Perhaps we should have taken the 'victim' captive, even though on the voice recording you can clearly hear all present at the scene refuse to waste their medical supplies on the dying man. Perhaps we should of saved his life, brought him back to a barrack, taken tax payers hard-earned income to ensure that this danger's life span is preserved by providing him with shelter, food and any other necessities, patched him up, sent him on his way, only to later be responsible for another death that our army would suffer.

On the other hand, perhaps 'Marine A' was doing what he felt morally right. He put the man out of his misery.  Are we so naive to believe that this is the first Taliban insurgent to be killed by our armed forces, even if they could of become a PoW? 

Our country is at war, and has been for far too long. People die every day out there, whether you're guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter as soon as a bullet's in you. We all bleed the same way. But I ask, what would you have done in a position such as the one 'Marine A' found himself in? 

What would you have done, if you was out there in that war zone, fearful to tread the very ground underneath, due to the cowardly tactics used by the Taliban, who plant unseen IED's that could tear your life away from you at a moments notice. 

What would you have done, if you had seen brothers-in-arms killed over the course of months and years, and personally seen the enemy take their limbs and hang them from trees to taunt you? 

What would you have done, if you was a battle-hardened soldier such as 'Marine A', who has served countless tours of Afghanistan, and who may be psychologically damaged due to the sheer ungodly things experienced on the battlefield?

What would you have done, whilst you wonder what the purpose of this war really is and why you are really here, knowing that in the near future, if you’re lucky to go home, that the very same place you have been trying to civilize is more than likely going to slip back into a dystopia. 

Now, what would you have done? 

I personally feel disgusted to come from a country that is represented by people who have turned their backs on this brave man, known as 'Marine A', and that this story has been brought into the limelight so near Remembrance Sunday. Tomorrow should be a day when we honor every serviceman or woman that have bravely gone to war for us, especially the glorious dead who never returned. We are so focused on this story at the present time that we also have seemed to forget about the two monsters that murdered Drummer Lee Rigby in May of this year, who was trying to receive donations for the ‘Help For Heroes’ campaign in Woolwich. Why have they not yet been sentenced? Why has this specific case been brought forward before theirs? Shouldn't we instead be trying to rid our country of the very same evil that our soldier's overseas are bravely striving to protect us from?

Is this controversial? To me, not really, it's just a simple view of mine. Any individual willing to go to war for this god-forsaken county is a Hero. It seems to me that the government have just used 'Marine A' to cover their own backs, willing to sacrifice this soldier to make an example out of him.

In conclusion, there is in fact a small part of me that does believe 'Marine A' should go to jail. At least in jail this Hero will have a roof over his head, a daily source of food and four walls surrounding him, so that he is protected from the harsh reality of society and how the British Government and Justice System treat servicemen/women after they return home from war. At least he won't be homeless. Homeless amongst thousands of other veterans in our country who are left crippled with post-traumatic stress, which should be the main concern of our attention. Instead we ignore them, we walk past their sleeping bags on the streets, and we dehumanize them from existence. 

Sadly, this is the honest truth. We would rather spend our time and money on witch-hunts in order to backstab the very best people we have to offer from this country. 

Give him a medal, not a prison sentence.

Let him remain a Hero within this sorrowful life. 

If you agree with this article please follow the link below and support this page. He fought for us, now we need to fight for him. 

https://www.facebook.com/freemrinea?notif_t=fbpage_fan_invite

OR

Follow the link below to the official petition to free Marine A and sign it to show your support. Thank you. https://submissions.epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/56810

'Rescue Me' - Perhaps the world's most underrated TV series and why you should be watching it.

Written By George D. Verlander

'Love, Sex, Life, Death' - Denis Leary, Actor/Comedian

Nobody wants to do it. The family and I sit motionless staring at the television  screen. I unfortunately have the remote in my hand, that has since begun to tremble with a tinge of excitement and dread, knowing I'm the one who has to submit the killing blow. Before us we have downloaded the 93rd and final episode of FX's hit TV show Rescue Me, one of the greatest and most underrated television dramas ever to appear on our screens.  

The show, which premiered on July 21st, 2004, until its finale on September 7th, 2011, centers around a New York City Fire Department based in Harlem. Rescue Me, created by Denis Leary and Peter Tolan follows the personal and public lives of a fictional fire crew after the events of 9/11 have taken place. Rescue Me's originality stemmed from this examination - no other television show had previously gone near this specific field, the subject so delicate and so caught up with the tragedy itself, that the aftermath of the survivors were almost completely forgotten about. Over the course of the series endless issues are brought into the limelight and tackled, such as alcoholism, racism, conspiracy theroies, violence, sexism, sexuality, religion, substance abuse, sociological tension, lust, family relationships and the inevitability of death itself, which firefighters have to accept in the dangerous role they play in society, where at any moment life's flame could be extinguished. 

Co-creator Denis Leary plays the lead role, a senior fireman by the name of Thomas 'Tommy' Gavin, the man all ladies want to be with, and all the men want to be like. The no-nonsense, black-humored, firefighting adrenaline junkie and dad of three suffers from survivors guilt as a result of 9/11 terroist attacks, turning to alcoholism throughout the series  in an attempt to treat his post-traumatic stress disorder that he tries to keep hidden. Along with his dysfunctional Irish family Tommy has to deal with divorce, the loss of his fellow firefighter friend and cousin Jimmy Keefe, who died at 9/11, and how his ghost constantly appears to him, not known wether it is a figment of his imagination or really the deceased back from the dead to haunt him. Astoundingly, despite seven series and 93 episodes, some particular ones where the most dramatic and heart-breaking pieces of acting are portrayed, Leary somehow never managed to win an Emmy for his performances, losing a total 5 timss. A total fix up and sham if you ask me. 

His crew, Ladder 62 truck, also deal with the attacks on the World Trade Center in their own ways. Lieutenant 'Lou' Shea, Tommy's best friend, struggles with his weight towards the end of the show's run, revealing to the main character that "you filled your hole with alcohol, whereas I just filled mine with food", once again exploring real-life situations of how people deal with loss and extreme stress. Franco Rivera, another firefighter within 62 truck provides issues with youth and the playboy identity of the FDNY, as well as occasional elements of political debate, questioning wether the attacks had anything to do with the government. This intelligently highlights evident conspiracy theories that have and continue to circulate the media, much to the anger of the FDNY. Two other characters Sean Garrity and Mike Silletti (both firefighters) provide the comedy element with countless screen time of mature, adult entertainment, as well as dealing with inner issues, such as Sean's romance with Tommy's sister/diagnosis with cancer and Mikey's exploration with his sexuality, unsure wether or not he is gay or straight.

Still haven't sold it to you yet? Well.

The show is so well rounded it is hard to fault it. The two leading actresses, Andrea Roth (Tommy's wife) and Callie Thorne (Tommy's cousin's wife) are both stunningly beautiful in their own way that it is hard for the male fans of the show to pick their favorite. I know I had trouble, and still do! Even within the fire crew itself the complexity of the characters are so imaginative and so detailed that after watching a few episodes you think and almost hope they're real individuals, as well as wanting them to be your friends. Rescue Me literally has everything, from romance down to gritty and realistic sexual relationships, from laugh out loud humor to sombre and tragic moments and edge-of-your seat vein-pumping action that blends so well and so beautifully with occasional moments of slow and meaningful emotion. 

So, if by chance you've stumbled across this piece of writing, my only question now would be... at what point did you stop reading to go to your Sky box and download every single episode? If you haven't ever heard of this show then I truly, truly cannot understand where you have been for the last decade. I hope that by reading this it has intrigued you to find out more about the show, enjoy it and cherish it like I have. In all seriousness however, this is a brilliant television drama of pure genius and will live long in the memory. Whilst watching it women will contemplate burning their houses down in hope that they stumble across a Tommy Gavin, whereas men will be inspired by these heroic, Super-man like figures that occupy our very own society, so that they to can be better people themselves.

Firefighters bleed, and burn. They're not invincible, nor are they any different from any of us when they step off that rig and take off that helmet. They're people. But they're the bravest of the brave and the best of us alongside our other servicemen and women. God bless the 343 firemen that perished in 9/11, and for those who remain, who are still fighting a continous struggle with their inner demons. 

Rescue Me Season 1 - Intro Clip (All rights to Rescue Me belong to Sony Pictures Entertainment)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgE19tnQeoY

Rescue Me Series 1-7 can be obtained on Sky Demand until February 2014. 

"Are you the crazy one? Or am I?" : An in depth examination of Sociological Oppression

Written By George D. Verlander

Last night my girlfriend and myself made our way into London for her sister's 22nd birthday. Upon arrival we were greeted by her friends, all of whom were current or recently graduated university students, who are now either furthering their studies with PhD's/MA's, or making a living in the working world. 

Thirty seconds round the corner from Southwark station situates a variety of various hidden gems in the form of lavish restaurants, a multiple complex of contiguous cultures side by side. If you're ever in the area, make sure to check out 'EV' (which means 'home' in the native tongue) a swanky, and hospitable Turkish cuisine. And not one that would break the bank either! For £19.95 waiters supplied our party with a range of starters, no I'm not going to try and pronounce them, and after we had finished a main course of our choosing. 

Sipping Rose wine whilst savoring each morsel of marinated lamb I couldn't help think about my working-class heritage from Limehouse. Had I gone up in the world? Exquisite food, delicate ambiance and intriguing conversation between intellectual minds. Well, I listened mostly. However it was at the moment whilst talking to an excellent young journalist I began to have another thought. "She is living a life that she is passionate about, one she loves." This lady had gone out in the world, worked hard for her degree and was now working for a well-established newspaper, as well as having a popular and fascinating blog. I was already hungry waiting for the food to come. Now I was hungry for success.

It was refreshing to meet someone who was living out their dream, especially when we live in a world where dreams are sadly left by the wayside and forgotten as we grow older.  

I experienced this first-hand in my previous career as a supermarket checkout cashier. On my very first day I engaged with the old lady on the till next to my own in a desperate attempt to make a friend. 

"So how long have you been working here?" I began nervously

"Oh, only thirty-nine years my dear" she answered back sweetly. 

That scared me from the onset and stayed with me until I was no longer able to deal with job. So I left. 

It has been five months since I have had a job. Would I go back to working at a supermarket? No. Before working in that sector I admit whole-heartedly that I would often take up a pretentious attitude towards people who worked in these roles. I don't believe I felt I was better than them as a person, but rather better than the job itself. A sense of shame has replaced that feeling as I have matured and emphasized with these workers, combined with pity, not for supermarkets themselves. For the people who have no choice but to work in them. 

Who as a child grows up dreaming "One day, I'm going to make it. One day I will be a supermarket till operator." No one does. Unless you're utterly fascinated by the whole system and love to handle plastic bags for inconsiderate and rude strangers. You do get some odd individuals in Pitsea. As I said though, not many people do wake up in the morning and look forward to that kind of job. Would you wish upon your future children to work in places such as these? I know I wouldn't.  I hope you don't take this article the wrong way. I don't mean to present myself as a stuck-up teenager with some personal vendetta against supermarket corporations, nor do I mean to insult any person who has, or is currently working in these particular locations. That is not the focal point of this post.

It just breaks my heart that the world turns this way. You're born, you go to primary school, you go to secondary school, if you work hard you get good GCSE's, you go to college, if you're blessed with intelligence you get good A-levels, you go to university, if you work hard and are blessed with intelligence you get a good degree, you go to work, you buy a house, you take out a mortgage, you pay bills, if you're lucky you have kids and you spend the rest of your working life paying for these luxuries and expenses. At the age of sixty-five, if you have paid enough money into your pension plan, you can retire for a fews years and wait for the end doing what you wish. No one questions this. We all just do it. 

Are you the crazy one? Or am I? To me society itself seems so wrong, so fragmented and twisted. No, I am not going back to work in a supermarket. No, this isn't a case of 'snobbery' anymore. 

This is a case of defiance! Defiance against sociological oppression, an invisible disease which slowly latches onto us and prevents us from speaking out, from acting out. It leaves the body. It takes the mind. 

What do I know though in reality? Not a lot. Whilst writing this article I happened to have a conversation with my mum about the whole thing. Is it better to not have a job, to be looking for that diamond in the rough, the thing you've always wanted. Or should we all be doing something that doesn't fulfill us deep down, but provides us with a sense of security, and an ability to enjoy the little things in life, expensive they may not be, but personal and rewarding? I do not know the answer. All I know is that there are people in this world breathing success, and consider it not be hard labor. How nice would it be if we could all have that? 

We have precious little time granted to us in this world. We might as well do what we love before we don't get the chance again. So when someone tells you "we can't all be astronauts" simply try and defy the odds and demand,

"Why not?" 

Chapter 1 - Machines

Written by George D. Verlander

It was a dirty old town this one, situated contiguous to the ocean, where off in the distant a storm was forming slowly, but surely. The boardwalk was empty except for the occasional plastic bag that floated past graphitized walls, trapped in the gust of the strengthening winds. In the high street a bus which read “no service” rattled along, it’s driver weary eyed from the long graft of yesterday’s labor. The windows, intoxicated in steam from the inside radiator, where no longer transparent. Near the front of the bus a lavender coloured light erected out onto the street outside, its glimmering shade dousing closed newsagents, launderette and takeaway establishments in a murky radiance. The bus gave off a ghoulish façade at this time in the morning, one that became the living embodiment of nightmarish thoughts had by young children. As the bus drew nearer the horrendous noise of the engine resonated in the air, waking up a homeless man that lay in a nearby doorway of a café shop. “Hey you mug some of us, us guys are… are trying to sleep!” the tramp hollered. The bus continued on, oblivious to its inconsiderate journey. The tramp sat up in his filthy green sleeping bag. It was creased, ripped in various crevasses identifying how it had often been used to provide the man with a bed for the night atop of the chewing gum plastered pavements underneath.

He wasn’t a very old man, although the patched beard that grew out around his face disguised his middle-aged features, making him appear older if you scrutinized his face. However, most of the time this was not an issue, as passers by ignored his pleas for small change or hot food during the day, going about their business with their important lives. His face, grim and mustered with dried dirt, was the face that had once known great happiness. But that was evidently gone now, a whisper of his former self. His green eyes were peculiar and sparkled like luxurious emeralds. They somehow seemed displaced within his cavern-like sunken eye sockets that had the mystery of treasure deep within its shadows, swallowed by hard stone. The tramp rubbed his hands together gingerly that had begun to shake, the fingerless gloves failing to protect his fingertips from the cold night air that bit at him like a ravenous dog. Beside him he kept a tattered rucksack, littered with holes. Apart from the very clothes on his back, inside the bag contained the last possessions he had in the world.

He dragged the bag close to him, struggling to open the zips with his trembling hands. From it he drew first an old wooly hat that he quickly placed upon his greasy, unwashed hair, in a desperate attempt to retain some heat that was quietly slipping from his body. It wasn’t much help but at least it kept his head cosy in the consistent decreasing temperature. As he looked up from the doorway he noticed how clear the sky looked tonight. No clouds shielded the brilliant gaze of the moon. The full sphere shined brightly down upon him, amongst tiny silver diamonds that glinted every so often, basking in the never-ending abyss of the skies. A tear formed in his eye as he brought his right hand up to his brow, making no attempt to wipe it away. Gradually the tear trickled down his face, until it finally disintegrated into nothing within his stubble.

His cracked lips, that hid away his chattering yellowed teeth, began to tremor as he struggled to cast back bitter and harsh memories from his mind’s eye. He looked shamefully down towards his bag.

The second item he withdrew was a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Bronze coloured dregs sloshed around playfully at the bottom of the glass, as if they were almost teasing him. Unscrewing the lid he raised the bottle upwards, toasting an apparent person, place or thing, although he himself was not quite sure these days, which were invisible around him. The heavens gazed back down upon him with a sense of sorrow.

He drank the whisky impulsively, savoring the flavor in his mouth. It would be a long time before he could save up for another one. The charity of civilians was hard to come by.

After he had finished the last essence of the bottle, he gently screwed the cap back on, and with that violently flung it into the road. A loud smash followed as glass flew into the gutter. But no one was there to hear it, and only silence answered. The tramp drew up his legs to his chest in a last ditched effort to keep warm, the clear sky overhead now gone from the incoming storm. He could not lie down in the doorway now as rain begun to pat on his sleeping bag. He would have to sleep upright again tonight. In the street the heavy wind barged against shutters that rang out every so often when two pieces of metal came in contact with each other. The tramp hobbled out from underneath his shelter, peering to see if there was anything he could eat for his dinner. He examined a nearby pile of trash. Finished cans and sweet wrappers lay abandoned, tipped out from bins by bored youths the previous day, that had been left idly on the floor. No one had bothered to pick them up. But there was nothing there, so he gave up the search. He begun to shiver fiercely now, internally frozen, his heart bitter with frost, from the weather and the hate for how the world seemed so unfair. He returned to his bed for the night, until morning when the owner would kick him off the property. He was running out of places to stay in this town.  

Finally he took the final item from his bag, in the same order he did every single night. He held the metal in his hand caressing it with his fingers, smiling at it as tears once again stung in his eyes. The wine red ribbon had been snapped, and tender threads hung loosely from it, threatening to expand and shorten the material. He was still proud of it however, regardless of its appearance. Proud of himself. Proud of the men that were apart of it. Proud of the glorious dead that forever slumbered because of it. He slurred the words out aloud.

“F, for, Var-lour in de face… off the en-em-my”

He half grinned, half sobbed himself to sleep, clutching onto the Victoria Cross medal that had been awarded to him, a long time ago when he had meant something to the world that now had forgotten him.

The rain bore down upon the town, heavy, but not strong enough the wipe clean the streets submerged in the storm. The waves rose and fell mightily in great tides, scattering sea mist along the barren shore. Overhead the air roared like a majestic lion, the void between the powerful ocean and jet-black skies uncertain. The clouds consumed the town in a thick dark aquatic hellfire.

In another part of town, close to the sea, howling could be heard. Although it was not from an animal's throat, the resonance was in fact animalistic. The tempest thundered like a caged demon. However inside the house a demon itself had been released within a man. It had crawled out if its bottomless pit, twisting and torturing his soul until all that remained was an insoluble rage. Its fangs, sharp and grotesque, scratched at everything, devouring anything in its path. It's claws, dark and ungodly, splintered doors effortlessly off their hinges, decimated floorboards and scarred walls inside the house, tearing down ornaments and tarnishing photographs as it roamed the lonesome halls and corridors. 

Lightening continued to streak across the somber sky, illuminating briefly the animal's reflection in a windowpane. Rain bombarded against it. Another shot burnished his reflection, momentarily confusing the savage. Confusion filled him, unable to decipher the droplets of rain outside which fell effortlessly down the glass, from the creature's very own tears that fell burning against his cheeks. His eyes were red and swollen, hot and heavy with grief. But it was the look that shone out from them that was most fearful. To the thing the entire colours of the universe had been drained out of existence. Only Grey remained.

The storm finally ceased, returning the sullenness of the town immediately. It’s clouds drifted onto tomorrow, a new day, until it would finish and dissolve into the atmosphere. It was a certain endless circle of life. 

The scarlet eyes were both exhausted and sore. Before first light hit he decided to take a walk, to go anywhere, but not to remain here. There were too many emotions within this home that he was petrified to face yet. He put on his ash-tinted woolen coat, carefully rapping the navy scarf that he had received as a present once upon a time, around his neck to cover up the blisters and cuts he had self-inflicted a few hours previous.

The young man walked alone silently along the boardwalk in the dying darkness, its surface slippery from the nights encounter with the storm. It would be another day tomorrow. The same as the last, and the same as the day previous to the one before. The same people who hated their animals would walk the same dogs out and about, passing the same shops that were daily opened and closed by the same people who never wanted to own a shop, giving up their dreams long ago, and they would refuse to serve the same homeless people who sat in the same door steps and alleyways constantly thinking the same thought of how wrong the world is and how false the faith they had once pledged themselves to had failed them. But somehow, he would never be the same. He was struggling to accept that.

He sought to walk aimlessly, but he knew where his was feet were directing him. To that place where they had first encountered each other, so long ago it seemed to him now. The sands squirmed underneath his shoes, and stuck to the rubber. Behind him he left fresh footprints in the damp ground as he trudged off the wooden embankment and onto the beachhead. It was too quiet for his liking. No birds circled overhead, no people laughing or joking. Ahead of him there was only the endless crash of waves, as they hit and retracted, one after the other.

The ocean itself was a constant motion of brief, dominating life. A force that rushed onwards, breaching everything in its way until its life had no more energy to draw upon. And it was also a never ending eternal inevitability, that once this same life force was drained it would seep back down and regenerate itself looking for another adventure. The current surged forwards, each ripple overlapping and making a unique and perfect sound, until crystal white waves lapped at the shoreline uncontrollably.  

Here he was then. It was the pivotal point where life had brought her too him. When he got there he stood, right on the edge of the sands just before the waves could reach him. Here he felt secure. The most secure he had felt in an age. The sands, although maneuverable, held him tightly in place and kept him safe from the cold, ungraspable ocean before him. The divide between land and sea was fine; yet vastly extreme he couldn’t help but notice a poetic irony, as if nature itself had a funny sense of humor. Of course it had. He was sure of it. His phobia of the water had restricted him from ever indulging in its icy depths. Had she thought less of him because of it? He wondered, but would never know. Next to him the ghosts of the past played out their roles like they had done often so recently as he revisited moments of closure. The sea once again breached the pebbles, decreasing the space between it and the man. He glanced at her again; staring at him with a smile that was so pure it must have been molded by God personally. He saw himself also, how it had been that year ago when they had met here for the first time. It seemed to last an age, and just a single second. The wind rolled across, the specters of the past decomposing along with an angelic invisible force, until they where dust that fell softly to the ground. Untouchable. 

The last thing he remembered of her was that heart-stealing smile, and without objection or defiance, he was a prisoner of her charm once more.

The man let out a long, lonesome cry, flooded with pain and adoration, which echoed out across the shore, over the swelling waves until it was so powerful it must of reached heaven itself. 

When his isolated scream of anguish halted, no soul answered his despair, and the earth was lifeless once more.

And with that he was the saddest man in the world. 

'Reflections' - A short story regarding Dissociative Identity Disorder

Written by George Verlander

The following story is a work of fiction. The piece examines  the rare condition of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), and how an individual may cope, or fail to cope, with its extremely psychological hardships. 

Part 1

Dear Diary,

I was told that it might be ‘healthy’ to record my thoughts in here, maybe even my memories if that helps. Thinking about it, it can’t do any worse I suppose being in the position I’m already in. Where to start though, I mean, it’s all a bloody mess. And not just my situation at the moment I mean my life, my home and my famil… family. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

Dear Diary,

I just wanted to say sorry for the other day. I don’t know what to talk about, never done this kind of thing, never thought I’d have to. It’s nice to finally talk to someone though. I mean, you’re not real and all and I get that but at least you don’t criticise like every else that’s tried to do the same all my life, my teachers, friends – if you can call them that the bastards. I’ll start from the beginning though. I was born in Limehouse on October 12^th 1985, and used to live in a block of flats – elland house – off Copenhagen Place, just a stone’s throw away from where Canary Wharf is now. I used to be happy there. My favourite television show growing up was Only Fools and Horses – ‘shut up Rodney you tart’ –all that hilarious nonsense. You had to laugh. My earliest memory would probably be inside a pub, although I can’t say for certain. I remember spending large amounts of time in there though, and it being a heavy, hostile place, where dirty smoke polluted the air, and laughter rang in my ears from the crowd, intoxicated from the indulgence of their alcoholic drinks. I just used to sit on the carpet though, playing with an empty bottle, fascinated by my distorted face that gazed back at me through the translucent item.

Tommy

Dear Diary,

Have you ever been to the East End of London? It’s the best place in the world! Even though I’m not there anymore, I still consider myself to be a cockney. The place had history and it had character. And I’m damn well proud to come from there. I just wish I were part of the Kray’s and Jack the hat’s era, them swinging sixties when they ran the block, zooming around in their cars shooting the villains, BANG! – Yeah they were the good guys. They wouldn’t of stood for them poxy immigrant bastards who’ve since slithered in, tearing down the chiming bow bells which now ring silence. Why don’t them curry munchers just fuck off back where they came?

Tommy

Dear Diary,

I apologise if I caused any offence in my last entry, I forgot to ask you if you were of any nationality before hand. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what comes over me it’s like I just get anxious and then as soon as I get anxious I feel like I want to explode with this emotion but I don’t know where its coming from so how can I stop it from… Jesus Christ. It just always makes me think of the day I left. I can’t remember anything else after my Granddad passed away until the day my mum dragged me out of the flat, pushing me into the car and driving away. My granddad used to take me everywhere with him. He introduced me to Pie & Mash, a cockney delicacy, and a meal that at the time puzzled me when I thought how could anyone eat the green gravy that seeped over it. “Never be a grass me ole china, always stand up for yourself, and make sure you stick up for your mates” he used to say in between mouthfuls. I’ll always remember that. His wise, cockney rhyming words echoing through my mind as I looked out of the car window, racing down Commercial Lane, past Billingsgate Market, out of Limehouse, leaving my home, and my heritage behind, with only my mum and the blank reflection which starred back at me, darkly.

Tommy

Part 2

Dear Diary,

I haven’t seen my mum in a long while. I don’t think the poor mare could cope any longer with the way things were going at home, at school, between us. She tried her best. Hell, if I had had a kid like that I wouldn’t know what to fucking do either. If this ever goes on record I just want to say that I’m sorry, I.. I’m sorry that she was ever a part of me, I hate her and what she did it’s her fault and I’ll never forgive her.

Tommy

Dear Diary,

Do you want to hear the rest of my story? After I left London I moved to Essex. It was the best thing for me, I dread to think what would have become of me if I had stayed and gone to a school like Bishop’s Green, where most of my old friends probably gone. I left them all too. Haven’t spoken to them in near enough ten years. When I think about it like that, I just feel empty. If we walked down the same street now I would be a stranger, all them memories drowned in the dry sands of time that have twisted me into someone completely different, a world apart. No longer one of them.

Tommy

Dear Diary,

Sure I made new friends, a few at least. I used to play cricket years ago, had a whole team, bunch of lads which grew up together, laughed, took the piss – you know how it goes yeah? We all hated the captain, right bloody grass, who’s dad was a screw – (rhyming slang for copper) – ironic really, corrupting our system when his job titled him to be the source of justice in society. I wonder how he’s son ever got to be in charge? Everyone hated them. Especially my pal Luke, funny kid, you would have liked him. When Luke was dropped from our team after saying something about the captain I stood up for him.  I expected the whole team to do the same. Only…I was alone. Double-crossed. Betrayed. The echo of my Granddad’s words whispered in my head once again, the vacant, sullen looks on all their faces sinking into my soul, along with the realisation of how very far away from home, its values and traditions I was. I never went back to cricket. 

Tommy

Dear Diary,

The treason I suffered left me bitter for months after that, livid and spiteful to everyone. I didn’t trust anything. There were times when I didn’t even trust myself. I ended up getting suspended too, broke some kid’s jaw in a fight that I have no recollection of physically. I was given the name ‘Beast from the East’ in class when I returned, cause I’m from east London and fight like an animal. What a reputation I had! They loved me! I felt like Jake Lamotta – the boxer in ‘Raging Bull’ – ‘the thing ain’t the ring, it’s the play, so give me a stage, where this bull here can rage’ you must’ve seen it? But… I couldn’t control it. Some days I found myself talking differently, using cockney rhyming slang for no reason and I couldn’t explain it, like I was being manipulated. The dark face in the reflection now gleamed back sadistically, its mysterious tone altered and increasingly surfacing. Then, one day I came home… I found mum had packed my bags… and I smashed every window. I can’t see the memory, only feel it, the pain in my hands as the blood dripped down my knuckles, the relentless despair in my mind of being so far away from home and my everything I used to know when I used to see my da

Part 3

Dear Diary,

I apologise for my last entry. I had another blackout. It always occurs whenever I go to speak about my Dad. My psychiatrist, Dr Lewsey, has been trying to focus on that subject for a few weeks now since I was admitted to Woodlands Adolescent Psychiatrist Ward five months ago. I remember them first couple of months, the violent outbursts and anxiety attacks, the needle shots and the group therapy sessions with my mother, the bitch! I hate her and I hate this place and why am I even fucking doing this. They… they took away my stage.

Dear Diary,

I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. Since the age of three my father physically abused me, until I was put under police protection when I moved to Essex. Dr Lewsey says it’s treatable… but how can you treat something that you can’t see? How can you destroy something which is you, something that looks out through the same eyes, hears the same sounds and feels the same emotions. Being integrated with something on such as level spawns unimaginable isolation with no one being able to sympathise with the notion that with each fleeting glance at yourself, you cannot say what is reflecting back.

Tommy