Civil Disobedience
Simplicity is a principle undervalued by the prospective revolutionary. 
With violence and sexual deviance in all but the most unfashionable of diaries, the streaking and f***ing that shocked our forefathers can no longer cut the mustard. I therefore propose a return to grassroots; a basic, easy and cost-effective route to social anarchy that gnashes at the foundations of our culture. I refer, of course, to our ability to shop.
Research has perfected a technique, so subtle in its devastation that only foreknowledge can detect our comrades in action. Participants have infiltrated the nation’s high streets, almost identical to fellow shoppers. Note the clumps of aggressive teenage girls striding through H & M, the harassed-looking mothers with inexplicably wide pushchairs. Not all, but some may be ours. Our invaluable elderly contributors benefit from immunity to frustration and insults, and a social stigma shielding them from extremes of violence.
Your own involvement can begin on a Saturday afternoon, within the shop of your choice. A mess of large, bulky purchases is useful, but far from essential. When ready to leave, stroll confidently towards the doors. You will be followed by a stream of complacent fools, shopping without an atom of your social conscience. Ruminate on the contribution you are making to their undeserving lives, and at the point of exit, stop dead. Pause for no more than three seconds, before turning swiftly and re-entering the shop. An air of embarrassed absent-mindedness is important for your personal safety.
The chaos begins with the person immediately behind you, who for several seconds will forget who and where they are in the confusion. They too will be forced to stop, causing a chain reaction of arrested shoppers that will certainly result in injuries. Waves of bewilderment and undirected anger will resonate around the shop, as for a moment every customer wishes they were somewhere else. At this point, progress casually towards some new item of interest. Once the echoes have died down, the system can be repeated at intervals of some ten minutes with a similar degree of anonymity. The raised temperatures of departing victims will spread seeds of discontent around town, ready to blossom of their own accord.
Like any new initiative, our movement needs supporters to survive. Co-ordination is key; even as I write, our numbers are increasing. Meetings have already begun. We’re just having difficulty getting out.
For more revolutionary tips, try the Flashmobbers, who regularly surprise shoppers with co-ordinated meaningless acts. Otherwise, give Situationism a try.
Misery Lit
A new and sinister display has hit the shelves of WHSmith. 
The ‘Tragic Life Stories’ section is available at a branch near you, ready to fulfil the most rabid desire for other people’s misery.
Decked in nursery pastels with ‘handwritten’ titles, there’s a story for every affliction. Plenty of child abuse, of course, with lurid titles like Stuart Howarth’s “Please Daddy No.” Others are more enigmatic, called things like “Scarred” or “Hidden”.
The last thing I’d want is to belittle the authors of such books. They’ve been through terrible things, they’re often very brave. But the handling of their stories seems more than a little exploitative.
Blogger Chris Applegate hits the nail on the head with his entry on ‘Grief Porn.’
“Each person’s unique and horrible life story has been carefully commoditised, packaged and airbrushed into a book seemingly indistinguishable from the rest. While sold as someone telling their unique life story and experiences, in actual fact they just become another brick in the wall.”
More recently, Iain Rowan asked if people come “home from work to curl up with a glass of wine and a nice story of someone being beaten as a child.”
A psychiatrist of my acquaintance told me he’d recommend these books for abuse victims, to help them understand their situation. Six shelves in a national newsagent, however, is more than a therapeutic tool. People read because they enjoy it. So, what’s to enjoy here?
As a nation, the UK is addicted to ‘grief porn’. It makes us campaign for the return of unknown children, and mourn hysterically for a princess we’ve never met. Obsessed with the evil of paedophilia, we can’t help but look, just to check how bad it is. It almost has a strange glamour.
Observer blogger Rafael Behr blames the media itself for this phenomenon. But as always, there’s a continuum of supply and demand here. Not that I’m excusing us.
In a shameless plug for a friend’s site, feel even grubbier with film blogger Babbit’s entry on ‘Torture Porn.’
