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The Devil’s Advocate

Some bulltards speaking cryptobabble, yesterday.

In which the curmudgeonly old sod puts the world to rights.

Index — Click ᐅ to expand:

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We tend to name our epochs in hindsight, by reference to the catastrophe that ended them: “antediluvian”; “pre-pubescent”; “pre-historic”; “pre-crisis”.

A wishfully revisionist habit, since the one thing that cannot define a given period is the crisis that will eventually do for it. Especially if the people of that period have no reasonable inkling of what is coming.

But these hysterical times may be the exception that proves that rule. This time, we do know it is coming. It does fashion our behaviour: no-one with a functioning cerebellum has any doubt we are in the end of days, and that we must therefore make what hay we can before the remaining sunlight blooms into supernova.

There is nothing to be done: our faith in experts is gone. Our trust in institutions is gone. Our belief in principles is gone. Our hope for the future is gone. No-one understands, or believes, anything any more.[1]

All that remains is our unshakeable collective conviction in a total lack of conviction. This is what now to spurs us all on: the magnetic horror of being pulled, by the force of sheer, morbid fascination, towards an inarticulate, dark doom — a door to unspeakable guignol that is yet slightly ajar. We are as freshly-infected plague victims, consigned to our fate, acting out a danse macabre while we await the onset of symptoms: a desperate, decadent, demented tarantella, because we are so munted we might as well spin the wheel of fortune and watch it clatter with whatever we find in our pockets — because — well, why not? What else is there to do?

Why not just enjoy the obliterated husk of what’s left of our post-historical project?

Why not enjoy the fireworks when it goes up in smoke?

Since, like unharnessed skydivers, we are falling to our certain death, why not just unclothe and, for the fleeting minutes we still have that are free of the Earth’s surly bonds, just deliriously tumble, free and unchained, in this way optimising exhilaration on our final ride?

What the hell: buy Shiba-inu. Mint some dopey tweet on the blockchain and sell it for monopoly money. Go wildly long Tesla — who cares? We’re off the cliff and there are only moments left, so what else is there to do?

All these moments, lost in time. This is the bulltard era.

See also


  1. © Adam Curtis, constantly, between 1995 and 2021.