Dear Kurt. Or Bad People On The Rise.

Because I am going to America on Saturday, and their backwards time thing, it seems OK that I am awake at 5:43 am, drawing ET and Michael Jackson and listening to RA The Rugged Man and Slick Rick and Morrissey and Meatloaf and MF Doom, whist reading about Kurt's so-called suicide, and the efforts of Tom Grant, who's done a very fucking thorough job in investigating the thing.

I may have mentioned before the importance of the boy Cobain to the boy me. I remember where I was when he died (in a car, on a motorway, with my Auntie Sheila), and I don't remember much of anything. I will perhaps write at some point about why he was important, and what he did, and how it helped, but given how much I loved his music, it seems strange to me now what little energies and thought I payed him after he was murdered. (For murdered he was).

I have never been the sort of music fan to obsess over a Person, find out what pets they have, where they were born, all that. But you'd think I'd have maybe read a book about his death before or something, at some point over the past decade. But I have never been one to dwell on the past, which is perhaps why I remember so little of it.

But I am supposed to be one of those that thinks. I was raised by books thanks to my Mother's disdain for television. I was taught to think. Nobody is taught to think anymore. People are taught to respond. So if lucky me doesn't question, if lucky me accepts these statements in the "news"- Kurt shot himself, Hunter shot himself, Michael Hutchence hung himself in sex act, blah blah - then who won't?

Kurt was full of enough heroin to sink an elephant when he supposedly pulled the trigger. Hunter was in the middle of a pretty dry conversation with his wife, and Michael had a broken nose and arm and all sorts of shit, yet somehow, we are told, he managed to hang himself off the back of a door.

These things pop out of the papers and become fact, and hilarious GLC songs.

Yesterday Rupert Murdoch and Rebbecka Wade continued their assault on my brothers and my sisters with some typically frantic "SANDNIGGERS ARE PLOTTING TO MURDER YOU ALL!" shit, regarding Kamel Bourgass, this guy who killed Steven Oake, a Policeman and was apparently building poison kits in his yard. Somewhere amidst the fearmongering, the tiny voices of the dead Policeman's family made the only sense. "The family has forgiven the person who killed him," said his widow. "We have no revenge in our hearts. I just feel quite sad that things had gone so wrong for this person."

Steven Oake's widow, Lesley, is my fucking hero. I just typed that and my stupid face tightened and my eyeballs were suddenly swimming, so it must be fucking true. Sometimes it seems that we're in a world of reactionary assholes, but we're not at all - it's a fucking beautiful world, full of fucking beautiful people, its just the ugly ones make the most noise sometimes, and work really fucking hard to make us all feel as ugly as they are.

They use all they can. They don't give a fuck! They'll even use little girls, like they used Britney. A lady called Rahni is another new hero of mine. She wrote an excellent webpage about that poor symbol for what we are becoming, or what we have become. They gave her plastic tits at seventeen, for fuck's sake, as if the whole schoolgirl thing wasn't fucked up enough. Britney will be lucky to see thirty, and they did that to her on purpose and they did it to her to do it to us, and they did it to Courtney, so she did it to Kurt, and we are all being done to, every second of the day, everytime we look out the window even, unless we live in the countryside, which perhaps then we all should. Poor Britney. Poor all of us.

But no. Fuck them. Really fuck them. Just because they used TV to make drooling, terrified morons where could have walked Gods doesn't mean any of us should even think about giving up. That is why (aside from all the fucking evidence) I know Kurt, Hunter, Michael, and the rest did not go by choice. They knew that. They loved what we can be, and they were doing what they could to help more of us be what we can be, not what They make us be, all so They can continue in the sick vein to which They, through theft and murder and rape, grew so accustomed, a billisecond in the earth's lifetime ago.

Erol made this film, beacuse he knows it too, like we all do, really, deep down. Life is beautiful. It doesn't matter how much foul excretion they pile on top. We are like the Princess and that pea. We know we were fucked, that it was you that fucked us. It was nonconcensual and that is rape.

One day we will find you and we will tear out your throats.