I’d Accept Dystopia If It Wasn’t A Cartoon
Madonna took to the stages of Israel dressed as a crusader the other night, telling everyone to wake up. I’m already awake, darling, and I fucking wish I wasn’t. Netanyahu, the current despot in charge, who amounts attacks against his people each moment like an Eddie Izzard skit, is fuelled by a range of white, right-wing despots of their own calibre, continuing a long string of nonsense of people getting involved in things that are nothing to do with them. Whilst children died on various borders outside the lovely Eurovision cult singathon, Madonna took it upon herself to deliver a message. What that message was exactly is fucking beyond me.
Quick history lesson taught by someone who doesn’t know shit about history. As always, the British stormed the borders of a place that has nothing to do with them, rearranged all the furniture like a Feng Shui master on cocaine, and left the wreckage of upturned Ottomans for other people to clean up, other people that are currently being funded, supported, and propagandised by cartoon idiots like Donald Trump, whose signature looks like the sinking ship that our planet currently is. I could continue exploring and discussing the fraught politics of Israel & Palestine, but, and I will admit, I am a child when it comes to politics and do not have the authority nor the knowledge to continue such a discussion (for fuck sake, I’m using Vox as my initial port of call) (and there are plenty of articles you can read yourself); what I would rather do is consider the implications of the bizarre dystopic message of an aging pop star utilising such an autotuned platform to do what I have decided not to publically get involved with (apart from write this, but let me off, I’m angry).
We know that some (emphasis on the some) of the atrocities of such a country come from Britain sticking its tea-soaked nose in other peoples business; the mass conflagration of confusing, interconnected, genocidal, antihumanitarian histories that have lead the Middle East to its current state of play stem from us, and others, initiating borders from the 1900s onwards. Rather than individuals from within the countries, and without, creating solutions to problems with the human spirit in mind, every step towards such a conclusion merely exacerbates the entangled ball of blood-soaked twine that is the political, religious, and human situation of the land. With every historic step, the issues that need to be unravelled, laid bare, and untangled becomes more entangled, and this is the perfect compost heap of despair that right-wing fanatics thrive within. Confusion breeds dictators, because dictators do not have complex solutions to complex problems: they are a hammer, people are nails. And the nails that are sincerely trying to make their country better just get hammered into the earth.
And yet, even in the knowledge that colonialism is somewhat to blame for the epic destruction of the people there, here comes Madonna, a literal white knight, carrying Palestinian flags, telling us all to wake up to the situation. Whether you read this as a bizarre call-to-arms — to dress as a crusader in a country that wishes to abolish Islam… — or as a truly well-wished yet immature proclamation of peace, this is still the age-old story of a white, uneducated other coming in to save the day. My very act of writing this article is problematic, so what does that make singing Like a Prayer — need I say fucking more!
To further how problematic this article is, here is a video of Father John Misty. Whilst some child in the audience yells “preach, father, preach”, adding to the whole entertainment dystopia we struggle within, he asks us if we think our hilarious dictators will be dismantled, destroyed, defeated by an equally entertaining rebellion. In the same regard as that audience cheers and squeals for nothing in particular (their idol speaks) I read the comments under Madonna’s performance to find more comments on the autotune than on the atrocity. And, of course, this is what would happen; it isn’t our jobs to continuously panic over every genocide, or we’d just go bananas. But in this one instance, the hilarious rebellion stepped out to defeat the hilarious dictators — Netanyahu gets into shouting matches with other dictators on Twitter — and we all punned ourselves into oblivion.
The postmodern nightmare has reached its natural conclusion. We want Captain America or John Wick to save the day. We want to watch Kanye West in the White House so we can jeer at a man (potentially two men) with obvious mental health issues. We want our genocidal psychopaths to be presented unto us on billboards & YouTube live Streams; Jordan Peterson & Stephen Fry asking us in their drivelling voices to stand up for freedom of speech (see: transphobia) all sponsored by Audible. And these titillations culminate in the most obvious form, a camp showcase of anti-talent, each befuddled whining voice heralding from another country we’ll forget the name of in a week, in a country we couldn’t possibly boycott in fear we look like the bad guys. How on earth could we stop the entertainment? We are obligated to make sure the show goes on, whether the bombs keep falling or not. We are entitled to our shindig, buzzing on Prosecco, giggling at every nil pwa like we’ve never heard French before. And if someone does stand up and say that perhaps we shouldn’t all hide in a stadium of facile distraction whilst the murder continues, we’re accused of anti-semitism, because god forbid we should analyse for even half a second what the actual reasons for a boycott would stand for: analysing and thinking about things just isn’t entertaining.
I’m not even one for boycotts. I find them to be — like most solutions that come out of the mouths of overentitled Englishmen like myself — sticking plasters to a gaping wound in the systems of our dystopia. I won’t shop at Tescos because they use Palm Oil. Boo fucking hoo. A woman with three jobs needs you to go there so they can feed their son; stop thinking you’re vegan packaging is going to save the day. But in the instance of hosting an event that represents the unification of the peoples of the world — yes, I know, Eurovision has never been about that, but allow me a moment of naïve hope — perhaps it wouldn’t be best to do a roundtable of who can sing the best whilst people die.
Madonna, darling, you will not save the world. Your little song is going to bounce off the vacant faces of a hundred thousand, before they all go buy a milkshake to throw at fascists (because god forbid we should punch them). You’ll sell a perfume line. People will remember the good ol’ days. One person will remember Moulin Rouge and watch it for the 4000th time. The effect you had on everything is infinitesimal. And I can hear, if you ever did read this, hilariously, you announce that the fact I am writing this is defence enough to prove you did do something, but if I hear the “it started a conversation” argument one more time I’ll eat my own tongue and then yours.
No one wants to change the world because, deep down, the death urge has kicked in; with a host of post-apocalyptic films churned out of the steaming arse-pit of Hollywood, we long, pray, for the day we can hit zombies over the head. Sadly, for most of us, we only have immigrants rather than the undead, but with Brexit Parties looming, fascists in Poland of all fucking places, and concentration camps dotted across the globe like syphilitic sores, we’ve got the narrative structure in place to begin our entertaining little societal suicide. I will admit, I was one of these very same desperate faces who longed for the end of the world. I Love You Honeybear, you’re the one I want to watch this ship go down with. But I thought it’d be entertaining only for me, watching people scramble for ideas. I also never wished for the death of millions to be an entertaining backdrop for a pop-star to announce crude, immature messages of peace. It takes nuance to save the world; it takes guts, and sacrifice, and discussion. A pop song, milkshakes, and YouTube comments, does not activism make.
I realise, in my petty youth-age of 28, that I don’t want the world to end. And even if I still did, I’d never want it to end serenaded by fucking Madonna.
