We know who you are…

No Place To Run

… and we know where you live. That’s because you made it too easy for us to find you living under that rock near the reservoir which backs onto the prison which should have been your natural habitat for the foreseeable future. We know what you did last night. We know what you ate for breakfast. We know what you’re wearing. You’re waiting at the bus stop on Hackney Mare Street and we know it’s raining. We know who you’re meeting later today and we know where you’re going to be tonight. You’re going to be in a comedy pub watching a one-man Rock Opera based on the life of Heinrich Himmler. Should be a laugh. Nothing serious. You’ll let us know all about it in the morning.

We know that you like shopping for shoes. We know that you like selling make-up to your friends in an easy-going and social environment because it really isn’t a pyramid scam run by a Mormon off-shore tax company. Some people are just so mean and negative. We know that you actually believe the self-help slogans you post every morning. Today’s was particularly enlightening: “If you don’t know where you’re going, you might wind up some place else.”  We know that you have a cat. We know what you think about Princess Diana and Nigel Farage. We know what you think about our special forces in the godforsaken deserts of the Middle East, the EDL and World War II. 

We know who you are and we know where you live because you keep telling us. It’s a dangerous lack of awareness for someone sporting a target on the back of their head. 

Vengeance

In this childish age of constant communication it has never been easier to stalk the foolish and the oblivious. World leaders and Everyman alike now has the attention span of Geri Halliwell. This morning’s status update is already out-of-date but we leave a detailed digital trail nonetheless. Every digital photo we upload contains GPS data unless you disable your smart phone’s default settings. Every digital photo contains visible exif information which proves that you don’t really know how to use a camera. Instant karmic vengeance. Admittedly vengeance, by definition, requires a certain degree of anger. Perhaps if vengeance required a degree of humour instead then the revolution might well be televised after all. Teach an owl to throw a smoke grenade, for example, and you’d soon have Chad Hurley and Steve Chen begging you for the footage. 

Thanks to the Daily Mail we now know where the Prime Minster of the UK lives. Sonning is a small civil parish along the B478 in Berkshire. Because it’s about the size of a Mini Cooper it shouldn’t be too tricky to track down Theresa May’s home “at the end of a leafy lane of detached commuter properties”. Thank you Robert Hardman – fawning royalist parasite who is married with 3 children, lives in London, writes stuff about the Queen and used to be a lounge pianist in a restaurant. He works out of an office in Northcliffe House at 2 Derry Street, London W8 5TT. So pop down to the owl sanctuary this evening with a large butterfly net and we’ll see you on YouTube in the morning.

If we can find the Prime Minster’s house and light up the night sky above it with laser generated cartoons of Donald Trump, then we can find you in a heartbeat. We know you’re in that German supermarket next to Argos taking photographs of funny foreign beer (“anyone fancy a pint of Kokk?”). We know you’re out there jogging past the Post Office using MapMyRun in a vain attempt to smash the 17 minute mile (“feel the burn, losers!”). We know you’re sat in Burgerama sharing stories from the Daily Mail Online about the zombie migrant apocalypse (“dirty brain-dead scum!”). We know you’re inanely scrolling through these words idly wondering if we’re ever going to post a photograph of a biker chick wearing a bikini and waving a handgun in the air. Don’t hold your breath.

portrait photography rhodes

And we know who you are / and we know where you live / and we know there’s no need to forgive – Nick Cave

Except that we don’t really care. We don’t really care because we’re too busy reading about each other on social media. Trying to feign interest in some trivial on-line dispute. Trying to be polite and ignore people who share stuff from Britain First and the Premiership League. Trying not to laugh when someone changes their relationship status from Blissful to It’s Complicated after less than a week. Trying not to punch the screen. Enough is enough. We know who you are. We know where you live. You don’t know where we are because we’ve switched off our GPS. Right now we’re in a convoy of sensible saloon cars and we’re heading your way. We have an old-fashioned road map. And we have a fucking owl.

 

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