KILL THE RICH says you.
I can’t help but think that this earnest if seemingly spontaneous (once the can of spray paint was sourced) plan has its inherent flaws.
First of all, do you have a threshold? Some kind of benchmark exercise, to differentiate between the reviled Rich and the more relatable Non-rich (the Poor?) What are the terms and conditions of access to the Cull Club? If you had to put a price tag on it, what would it be? A million? A billion? A trillion? And more importantly in what currency? Does it cover crypto too? What about intangible assets? See, as soon as you scratch under the surface, it becomes an instant headwreck.
Just for the sake of argument, does the fact that, in order to launch your Kill the Rich global initiative, you were able to spend the equivalent of three weeks’ wages for a textile worker in Bangladesh on a can of spray paint, make you one of the loathsome and unworthy-to-live Rich?
Or did you perhaps murder the filthy rich founder of a family-owned hardware store in Finglas to procure the paint and stay true to your principles? The poor bollix was worth what? A mill or two, max, after a lifetime of toil? Or did you start your killing spree with Craig A. Menear, CEO of Home Depot, who received a total compensation of $13,059,751 in 2021?
Maybe he is riled up at the mere mention of the likes of Jeff Bezos who look down on him on the tarmac in his flimsy little Bombardier, from the lofty heights of their private 787s.
Aren’t we all someone else’s Rich? Should we all look behind our back and make sure not to overfeed the dobermans that guard the house, keep them lean and mean, in case your call to arms really starts gaining traction?
Then there is always the question of how. Yes, how do you propose to wipe them out? Depending on where you place the threshold, there could be quite a few. A whole army of those filthy rich bastards. And the richer they get, the more paranoid they become of the likes of you and me and all the other little Non-rich (poor?) nobodies that contribute to their massive wealth. They employ armies of big nasty bodyguards and security experts whose hourly rate is a few months’ worth of the Bangladeshi textile worker’s wages who’s out to get you. It is all very very complicated.
Still, for the sake of argument, let’s imagine that your spontaneous yet earnest campaign of hatred (social justice?) bears fruit and a popular uprising of the Not-so-rich leads to a systematic extermination of the abhorred Rich. Then what? Won’t it be heaven on earth when all supply chains collapse, planes fall out of the sky, hospitals close down and law firms disintegrate (ok, maybe I could live with the latter)? Who will then take on responsibilities, and hard work, and problem solving, and incredibly long hours on a pro bono basis?
Shouty, tuneless and loud*
But boy did the crowd lap it up.
Yer wan from the Fontaines DC sounds like someone’s drunken cousin who howls into a microphone when the wedding band gives up and lets him “sing” a cover of the Pogues at 2.00am and everybody thinks he’s shite, except your Aunty Chris who is convinced that her little Grian has some talent.
Well tonight there were 20,000 Aunty Chrises in the Iveagh Gardens, singing their hearts out with little Grian.
The daughter really enjoyed it, and so did I. There is something contagious about thousands of people together being very very happy.
For a band that doesn’t have a singer, the Fontaines DC can definitely electrify a crowd. I think that they have a thing for the Pogues, and sure enough Shane McGowan at his most slurred sounds like Luciano Pavarotti compared to Grian Chatten.
But it worked. We had a great time. Once again Mimi had a tear in her eye. Two week ago at the Villagers, it was from the shock of being in presence of so much beauty (I welled up too at one stage). Tonight the tear in her eye was from getting so much recycled grass smoke blown into her face.
* J.C.G., famous Scottish rock critic