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Sir Christopher Lee, whose death on Sunday at the age of 93 was announced today, was an actor who used the modern art of cinema to evoke ancient feelings. Standing at six-foot-five and with a voice like chilled silver, Lee was a druid capable of inspiring deep terror, a conjuror whose skills belonged just as much to the bards of some long forgotten land as they did to the studios of Hammer.

At the beginning of his career, Lee, who had already served in Intelligence and the Special Forces during World War II, struggled to make his height work for him. He was so tall that he was told to remain seated during his first film appearance, as a nightclub customer in 1948's Corridor of Mirrors. But by the time he got his break in Terence Fisher's 1957 horror film, The Curse of Frankenstein, in which he played the monster, and Hammer's Dracula (1958), in which he played the vampire himself, Lee had turned his height into an asset. Dracula was, of course, one of his most famous parts, and the English actor's looming, darkening presence made the film a critical and commercial success. "Lee's Count is piercingly rapt, a fierce carnal evil burning behind his flashing eyes," Jeremy Dyson wrote in the Guardian on the film's reissue in 1958.

The series made Lee famous but it got worse and worse at is went on. In Dracula: Prince of Darkness (1966) he doesn't say a word as the Count. This was because he'd read the script and thought it was a pile of shit. "The lines were literally unsayable, they were not Bram Stoker," he later said. Born in 1922 in Belgravia, the epitome of posh London, the floridly named Christopher Frank Carandini Lee was the son of an English army officer and an Italian aristocrat. What is often not said about Lee's portrayal of Dracula is that, away from the operatic terror he brings to the part, there is a great deal of finely tuned pathos in his performance.

Dracula is lonely and cut off from the world. Lee understood this. He identified with Dracula, he said, because the Transylvanian count was, like him, an embarrassment to an aristocratic family. Educated at Eton and Wellington, Lee said that, even then, he was "tall, dark, and gruesome." Even when he received his BAFTA Fellowship in 2011, the sense of Lee as the improbably tall patrician standing just to the side of the world was present. Emotionally introduced by Tim Burton, who directed Lee and was in awe of him, the whole hall rose to acclaim a master of the craft. Lee was generous in his speech. He knew that actors are nothing without each other: "My fellow thespians, many of whom are involved in this," he said, pointing at his award. And yet, standing tall and stately on the stage, he was ethereal and otherworldly, a man possessed with attributes others don't have.

His height, appearance and background contributed to this, but so did his voice. As Lord Summerisle, the pagan leader in The Wicker Man, Lee raises the dead with his voice, commands and controls a population with his magnetic power. The character is clever, charming, cultured, and terrifying, his ruthlessness lurking beneath a veneer of civilization. It was a perfect role for Lee, one he helped devise, and it was, he said, his favorite role. No one could have brought greater weight to the part of a feudal lord with a pagan heart. Lee's skill with patrician outsiders was exercised in a different way when he played Mycroft Holmes in Billy Wilder's The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970). Sherlock's brother is stuck up, stuffy, and unimaginative. Lee's spin on him is funny and nuanced.

For a later generation, Lee was perhaps best known as Saruman, the wizard with, fittingly, a bewitching and dangerously powerful voice. Lee was the only member of the Lord of the Rings cast to actually meet JRR Tolkien and, when they did, the author had given him his blessing to play Gandalf. But when the films eventually came to be made, Lee was too old and, as the man in possession of perhaps the finest voice of his generation, he was the obvious choice to play Saruman. Just look at him here, talking of the "great eye, lidless, wreathed in flame."

As a teenager, Lee witnessed the last public execution by guillotine in France, and brought his real-world experience to The Lord of the Rings. During a scene in which he had to react to a man being stabbed in the back, the old actor stopped director Peter Jackson, who was in the middle of coaching Lee on how he should react. "Do you know what it sounds like when someone is stabbed in the back?" Lee asked, "Because I do."

This gothic grandeur was also, of course put to more comic use. "And now ladies and gentleman, I'd like you to meet Loaf," he intones, introducing Meat Loaf on Saturday Night Live in 1978. It was, he said years later, "the single most important television show in the United States in the last 20 to 30 years." He played Death on the show, complete with scythe and hooded cloak, and said that one of his most cherished possessions was a photo of him and John Belushi, who died in 1982, four years after they appeared together. The photo bore a message from Belushi: "To Chris, you are the best in the biz, John Belushi (second best)."

A big music fan, Lee sung on opera, country, and metal albums. He made two metal albums about the emperor Charlemagne, on which he recites, in that doom laden voice, things like, "I shall claim the iron crown of Lombardy," and "I shed the blood of Saxon men." He was, of course, a descendent of Charlemagne. When he met Tony Iommi, the Black Sabbath songwriter and guitarist told Lee that he had been "totally inspired" by many of the films he'd seen the English actor in. Lee was the "emperor of metal," Iommi said. "Which is a wonderful thought," said Lee, "because Black Sabbath are one of the greatest metal bands ever."

"Emperor of metal" is one of many fitting tributes. Sir Christopher Lee, a man of grand performances and operatic portrayals, brought something unique and ancient to our screens.

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I met the writer Safy-Hallan Farah online, when she interviewed me for The Awl. By the time we were done with the interview, I was enmeshed in her Twitter feed.

The first of her tweets to woo me was: "tbh if you're not a cancer, check your astrological privilege. our sign is named after a disease that has killed millions of people."

I then became enthralled by a multi-tweet miniseries she did about skinny white girls, which included "skinny white girls peak everyday" and "show me a skinny white girl who was popping online a few years ago and i bet she's a walking tragedy right now."

Safy seemed to love So Sad Today. But I wondered if she knew that behind So Sad Today was a skinny white girl? Could I still be cool? I decided to delve with her into my shame, and also ask her some questions about her own shame and anxiety.

So Sad Today: I laughed at your series of 'skinny white girls peaking' tweets. I was like 'yeah, fuck those skinny white girls.' Then I was like, oh no, I'm a skinny white girl. Would you think So Sad Today was lame if you knew she was a skinny white girl?
Safy Hallan Farah: No, because I like your personality—well, I like So Sad Today's personality and I like your tweets. I think you're funny, very self-aware, and very on-brand for what you're doing. The only time I ever felt like you had a weird tweet, I think you deleted that like within seconds. And also, even before you came out, I knew who you were, because I feel like So Sad Today was always an out secret, just like in Hollywood, when everyone is like "John Travolta's gay!" but he'll never come out, even though everyone knows? It's kind of like that with you.

What if So Sad Today is a skinny white girl but was chubby as a teen (like, her stomach was bigger than her tits and at 14 she was like 'yo where the fuck are my tits and also why don't I have pubes and where the fuck is my period?') as well as at various other parts of her life. Would that lend some cred back to the skinny white girl?
I can relate to this. I didn't have tits. I was a chubby kid. I'm still a chubby kid. I didn't have the body hair I expected to have, like, at 14. I didn't get my period until I was 14. But it was cool. I was growing. I didn't stop growing until I was 21. I'm 5'10".

OK, so I want to ask you something as a white girl (well, I'm a Jew, so, like beige). Not to put too much pressure on you, or ask you to speak for a whole culture. But just, human being to human being. Your opinion.

So, I feel sad about what is being revealed to me about the systemic racism in this country. I want to help the movement. But how do I be the best ally I can be without appropriating anyone else's pain or speaking for anyone else's struggle? I ask this, because I went to some of the Eric Garner protests in Los Angeles a few months ago and felt really empowered, moved, and almost high from the energy of the crowds. But then I felt kind of weird about that after. Like, am I having a catharsis over something that is not mine to have a catharsis about?
First of all, that is a very normal feeling. I think that in the history of movements and protests, people are energized by that because the system is so exhausting. And when you see people banding together and being like, this is bad or let's do something good or whatever the sentiment is, then you have that feeling like you're energized. Me, personally, I've never been to a protest, because just like you I deal with anxiety. I feel like I don't want to ever put myself in these kinds of anxious situations. Especially as a black Muslim woman, I feel like it would be not fun? Also, I think about stuff like how I'm perceived, especially in Minneapolis, because Minneapolis is a very weird place with very interesting dynamics, and I don't want to ever look like I'm a "politically active" person, because that could get me branded in a weird way that I'm not interested in.

Now do I like to share resources and links and share my time and energy with people? Yes. But you'll never catch me at a protest, partly due to anxiety and partly due to what I think it says about me and the way people read me. I'm not a very political person. As much as people would like to think I'm political because I have opinions, I'm not political. If I feel like something needs to be said or someone needs to be uplifted, I use my platform for that. I don't have a huge platform myself, but the little platform I have, I try to use it for more than just myself. Do I think there's something wrong or appropriative with you having a cathartic moment at a protest? No, because what are you supposed to feel other than bad? Like, there should be at least some good out of it. It is healing and it is affirming to be around people who agree with you and are trying to change things that are bad.

It's weird, but protests are way less of an anxiety trigger for me than one-on-one intimacy with another person. At least at protests you can move around a lot and yell. I think I'd rather march with thousands of strangers than have coffee with one person whose judgment I fear or who I'm scared of alienating (which is basically, like, everyone).

OK, let's talk about your "glo up." On your Tumblr, you said that you started doing the work of loving yourself (for real) last summer. I've been thinking a lot about self-love lately, because while I kind of never understood the point of it, I feel like I am now being forced to love myself. Like, my anxiety and depression have been so bad in 2015 that I've been forced to slow down (I'm sort of doing this), not expect so much of myself (I'm sort of doing this), eat better (this hasn't happened yet), and a bunch of other stuff. I guess I always thought that self-love was a feeling, but now I'm starting to think of it more as an action. Tell me more about the work you are doing.
When I don't feel so great about me, I acknowledge and interrogate why. I don't swim in self-pity as much. I do what I can to build myself up. What I mean by building myself up is I try to nourish my body. I try to read and internalize positive affirmations and imagery. It sounds really hokey but it's helped me master my emotions more and manifest goodness for me and my friends/family/colleagues.

'Glo up' is a term coined by Chief Keef. It means to more than grow up—to grow up to the point where negativity can't phase you for that long, you look better, you feel better and everyone can tell. The glo up encompasses the personal and professional. The way I see it is I've really invested in myself since July of 2014. I say 'no' when I want to, I'm not self-sacrificial anymore, I don't trust as easily and I've started really actually writing? I was writing before last summer but mostly through Tumblr. Now I write for a lot of different publications. But the glo up isn't just about me. ALL MY FRIENDS ARE THRIVING. It's about radiating positivity and love and manifesting greatness for the whole team. My team is made up of wonderful friends, mentors, and colleagues. It takes a village to foster a glo up. It's really about building everyone up. I think rap lyrics—not just Chief Keef's lyrics—really help facilitate the glo up. I'm always like "team us we ain't worried about them" or "my squad good, we don't really need a mascot" to myself because these lyrics are the truth. It's powerful to focus on yourself and your friends. It's like ARMOR from all the negativity, hatred, and spirit killing out there.

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Safy-Hallan Farah

It doesn't sound hokey at all. Rap lyrics as mantras are definitely the way to go. When you say that you aren't judging yourself as harshly, how were you able to turn that around? Like, is the first voice in your head still one of self-criticism and then there is a second voice that tells that first voice to chill out? Or at least, the second voice examines it to see if it is really true? Or has the first voice also changed and gotten softer, gentler, more kind?
It's weird. I think I over-analyze everything, which doesn't help. What I used to do but am learning to do less of is over-analyze everything that is going wrong in a way where like I come to the conclusion I'm the worst seven out of ten times. I would almost always reach that conclusion. And when I wouldn't, I would be over-analyzing and being over-critical of others. I'm still an over-analyzer and I'm still very critical but I just try to be fair. I have to be kinder to myself and I have to look at others with a kinder eye, too. It's very easy for me to hate myself. I think that's kind of the default for a lot of people because it requires almost no work, just like it takes no effort to hate other people.

So you're, like, still the worst sometimes but not as often? That's cool. I'm still usually the worst. But I feel inspired by your glo up. Can you share some more rap affirmations that you like—maybe some that don't include the squad, for those of us with social anxiety?
An old friend of mine had this mix we used to listen to a lot in her car. The mix had a song by the Roots called "Rising Down." I love that song because it has this line that's like "I don't wanna floss, I just lost my passion." I interpret it like this: stunting/flossing is EXHAUSTING. It gets tiring. I love stunting on people and I went through a phase in 2012 where my stunting was mainly about looking cute. I got into makeup and used to straighten my hair everyday. That got exhausting. I don't have time for that shit. I lost my passion. Right now I'm burned out from stunting with regards to, like, writing. I've lost the passion a little. It's exhausting. I like this lyric because it's really about preserving your energy, especially within the context of the whole song, which is about a politically and otherwise chaotic world.

Another lyric I love is "yeah you got some sweet and low but really are you eating though?" from Childish Gambino's "Sweatpants." I love this lyric because it makes me think about all the people who have a lot going for them on the surface but who seem so unfulfilled? A lot of writers aren't eating! They have a lot of nice stuff (followers, bylines, etc.) but I don't really want their lives or want any of that nice stuff. I'm really fulfilled over here. I'm really eating in the "I ain't missin' no meals," Nicki Minaj sense.

Oh, god. I feel like Childish Gambino can see right through me. Like, he knows I'm deep in the Splenda game—literally and metaphorically.

Stunting is exhausting. Sometimes, when you lose interest in things that you used to enjoy, people start to worry about you. Like, it's a big question on depression questionnaires: have you lost interest in activities you once enjoyed? And it can be seen as a sign of an existential crisis. But maybe that existential crisis is actually good. Maybe it's your soul's way of eliminating the bullshit so you can glo up. Like, glo or die?
Yep. Stunting I think is exhausting because it's showing off, because it's performative. I love feeling great about myself but I'm a writer, so I also REALLY WANT APPROVAL. Stunting in this warped way is another form of seeking approval from others, albeit more aggressively. It's like, 'HEY LOOK AT ME I'M THE SHIT. DO YOU SEE ME BEING THE SHIT???? HEY YOU!!!!" It feels wiser to just cut out all the spectators and stunt on yourself. The glo up, in its purest sense, is about stunting on yourself and aggressively courting your own damn attention.

Trying to impress other people can definitely burn you out. But some people stay on that hamster wheel forever. It's a really nice way to avoid feeling your feelings. I love avoiding feeling my feelings! But when you're stunting for yourself, you have to know who you are and what you really want. That's more real. And it's scary.
You're very successful. Do you stunt? I get the sense you do but everything you do seems so effortless and self-deprecating, it feels like you're not as concerned with looking accomplished or great in front of everyone.

I definitely have stunted to avoid facing the reality of being alive and the reality of death. Like, if X thinks I am hot then I don't have to think about death. Or if Z knows that I have accomplished this thing, it really matters. I feel less ephemeral. I feel witnessed. Stunting is a beautiful distraction. And I think we all want to be seen on some level. At the same time, I recently got burned out on stunting for others. I didn't want to get burned out, because the stunting protected me from deeper fears and questions. But it happened and now I'm like, "Fuck." Now I actually have to make meaning for myself. The act of writing, itself, has always felt meaningful. But the publication—by the time that happens, it's always been very stunty. I think this is part of why I'm really interested in your glo up. I'm sort of searching.
Are you worried about other people's insecurities? My thing now is that I'm hyper-aware of the fact that a lot of my stunting has contributed to my own suffering in recent months. I don't want to make anyone feel insecure, even though stunting, when it's done for others, is about making everyone STEW over your accomplishments, your beauty, etc.

I'm worried about everything. And I don't want to hurt anyone. Wait, do I? I wonder if the suffering of others is implicit to successful stunting.

I think one way to appear less stunty is, like, when you announce something cool that you've done, to do it in lowercase and, like, throw an emoji in there. I feel like there might even be certain emoji that implicitly chill out the stunt. Like, the spaghetti emoji and the sheep emoji are def not super stunty. Whereas, the shooting star emoji might bait the haters.

In all seriousness though, I would hate to see you not stunt at all. Your bravado is wonderful. I think it's a big learning curve in terms of how much we take in "the haters" and other people's criticism and utilize it to evolve, and how much to stick to one's own vision and just be like fuck it. You come off as brave, so it's interesting to note that behind some of the stunt there are questions regarding the stunt itself. I guess that's how it always is. We always think everyone else knows what they are doing. That's why it's refreshing when people take off the mask sometimes and are like, Gurl. I have no idea.
I feel 100%. Namaste, So Sad.

Safy-Hallan is a writer for Nylon and Pitchfork, among other publications. She lives in Minneapolis.

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Loud, loud oilmen. Photos courtesy the author.

Oilmen speak at a volume approximately 10 decibels louder than necessary. That's the first lesson one learns while riding the C-Train to Calgary's Global Petroleum Show: regardless of the quality of your headphones, you will listen to middle-aged white men pontificate about oil prices and Russia's Illuminati-like role in the ongoing global supply shock. More oilmen pile on with every stop, each contributing their own respective takes (in distinct conversations, that is: the subjects are fairly limited in scope). This combo culminates in that weird grade school phenomenon in which the commotion amps up until everything melds into gibberish.

The doors of the train (which is incidentally powered by wind energy) unfasten at the Stampede station and dozens of oilmen proudly sporting lanyards costing $125 apiece exit. It's day two of this gargantuan trade show and with over 50,000 people from 100 countries expected to show up for the three-day fossil fuel festival you wouldn't know the industry is going through one of the worst downturns in its history. Thankfully, it's only 9:30 AM, so spicy cologne and dad jokes haven't completely inundated the venue. Yet. Very Important Persons pace the vacant halls while barking into their phones about contracts and leases. There's a disturbingly high per-capita ratio of Bluetooth headsets. Someone strolls by wearing an olive cardigan, briefly interrupting the monotony of black suits.

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Transporting oil is not for vehicles weak at heart.

The weighty event guide that one is handed upon registration is 176 pages long. There's also a brochure-sized "pocket guide" and a free smartphone app available for download. With 2,000 displays stationed in a half-dozen sizeable halls, such a diversity of resources becomes really rather valuable. Two landmarks quickly become obvious—a dozen models in black cocktail dresses promoting an oil cleaning centrifuge company, and a massive climbable drilling rig. Those are hardly helpful, however, when one somehow ends up in the eerily darkened Stampede Corral, where all sense of direction dissolves. At least booths representing operations in Poland, New Mexico and Nigeria are consecutively placed to provide some sort of sequence.

It's tough to tell whether it's the irksome omission of an apostrophe in its title or the colourful assortment of bottle caps on display that makes Caps 'n Plugs such an appealing exhibit. As it turns out, the company's product isn't actually bottle caps, but intricate parts for pipelines. Wayne Dowson, the company's Western Canada account manager, says the pieces are "protecting all the equipment oil companies use." Important stuff. Unfortunately, the downturn has made a considerable dent in sales for Caps 'n Plugs, a fact partially alleviated by the company's borderline prophetic expansion into other industries like agriculture and aerospace technology.

"A lot of companies are trying to diversify and change, especially now that they're talking about fossil fuels being phased out over 80 years," Dowson notes. "You're going to see a lot of changes happening."

His colleague Karen Wetherley returns from a Timmy's run (apparently the alleged boycott isn't industry-wide). Wetherley was formerly a recruiter at Suncor; she and her team were a few of the 1,000 employees laid off by the energy giant in the early months of 2015. Luckily, she knew the boss at Caps 'n Plugs: "I got let go, got in my car, drove down and he was like, 'Here's your new office,'" she says. "I was out of work for about 20 minutes." That's not the case for many, though. Dowson says everyone in the industry knows a few people who are currently unemployed, while Wetherley adds that a majority of her neighbours in Okotoks are out of work.

"It can't get any worse," says Dowson about the potential for the newly elected provincial NDP government to further impact economic conditions. "Never say that," Wetherley quickly retorts with a laugh. "It can always get worse."

Conversely, the Global Petroleum Show just keeps getting more amazing. Exhibits spill outside and clog parking lots usually reserved for Calgary Flames fans. The variety of shit on offer is staggering; categories range from "hydraulic systems," to "asset management," to "pressure vessels." Hundreds of attendees are wandering under the slightly overcast skies. They stop to examine amphibious vehicles and filtration systems, but more often check their smartphones. Asides from the massive climbable drilling rig, the Pettibone Cary-Lift is the most noticeable outdoor attraction: it's a giant, arrestingly yellow vehicle with a mission to pluck pipes from a railcar with its overhead grip (historically, workers would literally have to kick the pipes to the opposite side of the cart for extraction, a dangerous task).

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Christian Wales, specialty products manager at Leavitt Machinery (the Edmonton-based company that sells the $400,000 machines), says times are extremely rough for the business: "Pipes are laying on the ground. No one's moving it. All the major projects have been shut down. Oil executives are at a pause: let's wait and see. That's affected sales."

Such a reality results in an dampered mood at the trade show. Recently, a vice president for ARC Financial projected the downturn could last for two to three years; many vendors back that assessment, forecasting 2016 as a particularly dire year. Marlin Quessy—sales rep for Alta-Fab Structures, a business based near Edmonton that builds fancy-ass modular homes for workers—says the company was forced to cut half of its staff due to the situation. Alta-Fab would usually be constructing a building a day. Instead, they're currently down to four a month. He gestures out the large window to point out the spot Caterpillar Inc. usually sets up. The massive machinery company skipped this year's show. Quessy signals out the window again, noting the unit he's sitting in would typically be set up immediately in front of a rig if deployed in the field.

The number of suited dudes wearing sunglasses indoors doubles exponentially every half-hour. By midday, the halls are packed. Many attendees covertly snag free candy from exhibits, avoiding incriminating eye contact with retailers. Wes Scott, executive vice-president with dmg events—the firm responsible for organizing the extravaganza—notes that the 2012 show resulted in almost $9 billion worth of business, with half of that involving companies from Alberta. He also says the phrase "Global Petroleum Show" approximately every 15 seconds in conversation. Scott assures that despite criticism, the industry is very ready to reform to fit new standards.

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These machines could be hurting the environment.

"The industry is anxious to be better," Scott says. "They're concerned about the environment. They're concerned about air quality. They're concerned about climate change. They are looking for solutions."

The ride home on the C-Train's considerably quieter than the morning commute. Except for the inebriated dude partway down the car, that is, who at one points bellows the question: "Anyone got some marijuana?" Silence ensues. He then starts counting numbers in French, petering out at "neuf." The oilmen remain glued to their phones. They're quiet for once. It must be tiring talking about oil all day. The wind-powered train slows to a stop in the downtown, and most of the oilmen get off.

Follow James Wilt on Twitter.

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Image by Ben Thomson

As gay marriage sweeps across such ultra-left-wing nations as Ireland and the United States of America, some crazies have suggested it be adopted in Australia. Both Labor and the Greens have moved to introduce bills to see it legalised, and many within the Liberal Government are also in favour.

But is it time? I mean, is it really time? We've got all this work piling up, we haven't decided what we're doing for dinner tonight, and season three of Orange is the New Black is on Netflix, so maybe we're rushing this whole gay marriage thing.

The renewed interest in the topic has seen us treated once again to the Socratic debating skills of our national leaders, so if it's time for anything, it's to examine the nuances and detail of their highly-intellectual and seemingly-watertight arguments.

Here are some of the most persuasive:

"Due to the separation of church and state, we shouldn't have legally-recognised marriages at all." – Scott Morrison, 9 June 2015

Scott Morrison makes a really strong point about an "argument I saw on reddit", suggesting a scenario in which the institution of marriage is given over completely to the church, and the government only handles "civil unions". Civil unions are a lot like marriages, except you don't get to call them marriages, thus protecting the right of the word. As Social Services Minister, Scott Morrison is duty-bound to protect words.

But he should be lauded for his uncompromising belief in this issue. He's so committed to preserving marriage that he's willing to dismantle it completely before the gays get their hands on it.

Morrison cites the French system of federal civil unions, which have seen marriages become the exclusive domain of the church. And even though that's a completely incorrect view of what the French actually do, France is a very long way away, and it's difficult to tell from the other side of the world what they're actually doing.

Conclusion: If you love marriage, dismantle it before anyone else gets a shot at it. If it comes back, it was yours all along.

"Redefining marriage will only lead to more calls for 'equality' in the future." – Senator Cory Bernardi, 6 June 2015

Senator Cory Bernardi is one of the great thinkers of our time, and if you don't believe that, then you clearly haven't read his blog or newsletter "Common Sense Lives Here". I challenge you to find anyone more common.

Bernardi is concerned that redefining marriage is a slippery slope that will lead to people marrying and having sex with their pets. That's the sort of Common Sense argument that led to him being forced to resign as Tony Abbott's parliamentary secretary in 2012.

But marriage is still the oldest institution we have, and it should never, ever be redefined. Except in 1882 when the United Kingdom determined that women were not the property of their husbands. And except in 1967 when the USA decriminalised interracial marriage. And except in 1992 when marital rape was criminalised by the Australian Supreme Court. But maybe that's the point: marriage has been redefined enough already! One more and it may stop being marriage and end up being something else. Like a house or a shower cap or a pigeon, or something.

Bernardi is entirely consistent on this issue, as he is on every issue. Earlier in that same exact same post he rails against "manufactured faux outrage" in reference to Joe Hockey's comments on housing affordability. Cory had been training up on manufactured faux outrage by retweeting this popular meme about how Caitlyn Jenner won the Arthur Ashe Courage Award over the runner-up, inspirational Army veteran and newly-minted conservative poster-child Noah Galloway. This turned out to be completely made-up, of course, and Cory retweeting it was probably just him trying to see what it's like to get angry about something that doesn't exist. It's all about getting in your opponent's mindset.

Conclusion: Cory is right to be concerned. If we let some people have equality, then everyone will want it. It's like they don't even know what the word means.

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Interested in LGBTQ issues? Watch Young and Gay in Putin's Russia.

Like that? Then check out Young and Gay in Belgrade.
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"If same-sex marriage is legalised, we will get a divorce." – Nick and Sarah Jensen, 10 June 2015

This heterosexual Canberra couple's threat to divorce if same-sex marriage is legalised is, without a doubt, the best form of protest I've ever seen. We are honestly going to have to adopt this for all issues. Like if more health-threatening wind farms get built, we stop using electricity in our homes. Or if, say, the Australian government recognises Palestine as a state, we squint in confusion whenever we see a Palestinian on the street and look like we're thinking really hard and go "Hi, uh... I wanna say Portugal?" and then Palestine looks crushed and we stride off, grinning wildly and sassily snapping our fingers.

But opponents of opponents of same-sex marriage should pay close attention to the Jensens, and not just because their house is up on big stilts and they have a robot maid. No, Nick and Sarah have legitimately demonstrated something that nobody quite believed until now.

Opponents to gay marriage believe that its legalisation will somehow affect their marriage, an idea that inspires incredulity in gay marriage proponents. But given this belief, it makes perfect sense that such a couple would then assume that their own divorce would in turn affect everyone else. It's a totally insane move—partly because nobody cares, but also because, seriously, NOBODY CARES—but it is entirely consistent with their initial premise, so I have to give them props for their commitment to going back on their commitment.

Conclusion: A sound and reasonable plan of action, up until the point that gay people start getting divorced. Then Nick and Sarah will need to get remarried out of protest.

"I support gay marriage." – Bill Shorten, 31 May 2015

When Bill Shorten came out in favour of gay marriage, it brought the total number of things we knew about Bill Shorten up to one. It was a bold move on Shorten's part: not all politicians can find the courage to eventually support an issue that 72 percent of Australians also want, and one that's sweeping the world, and is considered largely inevitable. But somehow, Bill found a way.

So what does Shorten's support actually mean? Labor's role in Opposition is to give voice to those who disagree with the government's policies. A great example was in March, when the Government put forward a contentious bill on mandatory data retention, a vital issue in terms of both national security and the privacy of Australian citizens. Labor was unequivocal in its response: led by Shorten, they dragged their feet and walked with notable slowness as they crossed the floor to vote with the government on this issue.

So if all of Shorten's decisions are based on mitigating criticisms ahead of the next election—for instance, the Government can't use his theoretical opposition to data retention as an example of him being soft on defence—then clearly gay marriage fits in that box as well.

Basically, if Bill's strongly in favour of something, we should be very wary.

Follow Lee on Twitter: @leezachariah

Like this article? Like VICE on Facebook.

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Immigration Minister Chris Alexander seen in the House. Photo by THE CANADIAN PRESS/Sean Kilpatrick

The dumpsterfire of rhetoric that is the House of Commons' question period grew even worse on Thursday.

On behalf of myself, I'd like to go ahead and apologize for that.

Last week, I sat down with Immigration Minister Chris Alexander, a generally pleasant person who has faced heat for a litany of controversial decisions made by this government. Those decisions include deporting people from Canada back to war-torn Libya and Yemen and creating a system whereby the government can take people's citizenship away without going before a court.

The whole interview was pretty informative.

But we wanted to know why the government isn't letting women who wear the niqab take the oath of citizenship and become a Canadian.

Alexander said some questionable things in trying to explain the policy. He said that the niqab ban was "uncontroversial" (it wasn't), that the rules weren't new (they are), and that it's a formal requirement under the law (it's not).

The interview that started it all.

But what immediately led to a Twitter meme was his answer when asked—for the third time—why Canada would bother telling women what-and-what-not to wear at the citizenship ceremony.

"The overwhelming majority of Canadians want that rule to continue to apply. We've done a lot in the past year to strengthen the value of Canadian citizenship. People take pride in that. They don't want their co-citizens to be terrorists. They don't want people to become citizens who haven't respected the rules," Alexander said.

Now, were you to be a cynical person, you would immediately point out that Canada's Minister of Immigration just implied that women who wear the niqab are terrorists.

That's certainly what Liberal MP John McCallum thought.

In a press release on Wednesday night (that seemingly only went out on Twitter) McCallum expressed his dismay at the minister's comments.

"I am appalled by the language used by Immigration Minister Chris Alexander in an interview with VICE," McCallum says in the release. "It is unacceptable that this Minister, speaking on behalf of Canadians, would suggest that all women who wear the Niqab during citizenship ceremonies are 'terrorists.'"

Now, putting aside that Alexander didn't really say that, Alexander did manage to turn from talking about a woman wearing the niqab to saying that we have to prevent terrorists from becoming Canadian citizens in the span of two sentences. Much in the same way you don't work Nazis into an answer about the modern German automotive sector, it's a general rule of thumb that you don't segue from an administrative spat between a woman exercising her religious beliefs to banishing someone who wants to blow up a car bomb in downtown Toronto.

So McCallum got up in question period to ask about it Thursday.

"It is the most predictable thing in Canadian politics. Someone says 'Muslim' and a Conservative minister says 'terrorist,'" McCallum started off.

"Yesterday, when asked about rising hate crimes against Muslims, the Minister of Immigration felt obliged to talk about terrorists. We also saw yesterday that the Minister of Citizenship and Immigration assumes all Muslim women who wear the veil are terrorists, unless proven otherwise. This is simply unacceptable, so will he apologize to all Muslim Canadians?"

Alexander, obviously, didn't take kindly to that.

"That is, of course, not what I said and if the honourable member wishes to repeat those remarks outside of this chamber, we will have a reckoning with him on the facts of this matter," Alexander said.

While that might seem like an invitation to take the fight outside, Alexander was referring to the fact that MPs have privilege in the House of Commons, meaning they can't be sued for what they say there. And maybe it was also an invitation for fisticuffs. You decide for yourself.

Alexander went on to talk about how the Liberals would be terrible on managing immigration and fighting terrorism.

McCallum tried again.

"It is obvious from the minister's previous statement that he equates terrorism with niqabs."

Which, OK, he didn't exactly say that.

"When only Muslims face a rise in hate crimes, it is obvious the government's toxic anti-Muslim rhetoric is a part of the problem. As when he talks about terrorists plots in mosques, this is the only prime minister in my lifetime who sinks to attack a whole community for political gain. Will he at least apologize to Muslim Canadians?"

The Liberals and Muslim groups have, indeed, have blamed the Conservatives for an anti-Muslim sentiment they say is increasing in Canada.

So the Immigration minister fired back, saying the Liberals' history was "racist."

"Those are the most outrageous, untruths I have yet to hear in this place. This is the only party in this Parliament that is taking action to protect Muslims and other Canadians from the threat of terrorism. I would invite that member to apologize for decades of racism by his party under Mackenzie King, blocking South Asians from coming to this country, blocking East Asians from coming to this country, blocking Caribbeans from coming to this country. The injustice of backlogs under the Trudeau regime and the Chrétien era, it is that party that has been the racist party in this Parliament over decades."

And, hey, it didn't end there. Alexander took to Twitter to call McCallum's comments defamatory and demand he apologize.

The one sure thing about this whole snafu is that you don't get a lot of nuance in question period.

Follow Justin Ling on Twitter.

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Tonight at Pioneer Works in Brooklyn, an exhibition of ambrotype photographs by Rybyn Renee Hasty called "Z" opens to the public. The photos depict transgender, cisgender, and a spectrum of genderqueer and gender non-conforming individuals in the nude.

The process Hasty uses to make the photographs was most popular around the time of the American Civil War, and is similar to tintype processes in its use of sensitized wet collodion on a carefully prepared surface. Anyone who has been subjected to an introductory photography theory course will remember Roland Barthes's famous meditation on Alexander Gardner's iconic 1865 wet collodion picture of the devastatingly handsome failed assassin Lewis Payne, which was taken before the kid was taken to the gallows: "The photograph is handsome, as is the boy... But the punctum is: he is going to die."

In recent times, this old-timey process has been applied to everything from surf culture to Sally Mann's husband with varying degrees of logic. No matter the subject, collodion photographs are always beautiful. But they are aesthetically rooted in the past, and sometimes it can be more an effect than an essential part of the concept of a body of work. This is not the case with "Z." Instead, the anachronistic aesthetic of Hasty's work points to a fluid conception of time, in essence positing that a full spectrum of gender expressions has always existed, though it is only now photographable. In Barthes' words, "This will be and this has been."

"Z" (curated by Walker Waugh) will remain on view at Pioneer Works Center for Art and Innovation in Red Hook, Brooklyn through July 12, 2015. It opens tonight with a reception from 6 to 9 PM.

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_{Installation photograph courtesy of the artist}

See more artwork by Robyn Renee Hasty on her website.

Last year, a stranger locked me in my apartment and told me I was going to die.

It was July, my air conditioner was broken, and my door was cracked open for fresh air. He walked in, told me someone was following him and going to kill us both, and then locked the door behind him.

But no one was chasing him. No one was even following him, and within a couple of minutes I realized that this man who towered over me and was clearly not in his right mind was the real threat.

I grabbed my ten-pound dog, ran out, and called 9-1-1. He was arrested within minutes.

"Oh, Mason," the police said when they saw him. (I've changed his name and several others in this piece.)

"You know him?" I asked.

"Oh, we know him," said one officer. "He was bothering people at the Scientology Center earlier today."

"There's not much we can do," the cop went on. "He didn't technically break a law."

"He kind of held me hostage," I said.

"Yeah," he responded, "but he didn't say he was going to kill you."

This was a fair point: Maybe Mason really was mentally ill, and thought someone was after him, rather than wanting to hurt me. Even if he was the real threat, maybe he didn't know it.

Related: Sex-Crazed Groupies Are Stalking Australia's Chefs.

The police took Mason in and booked him for the night. According to police records, he was out after three days.

A few weeks later, I was walking home with groceries in my arms, humming Cabaret as usual, when I spotted Mason. Then he spotted me. Immediately, he began walking at full speed toward me, cackling and pointing as I ran from him. I was so frightened by his pursuit that I ran straight into the street to get away. I barely missed getting hit by a car, but got to the other side, where I stopped and looked at him. He stared back. For a second, I felt like I was being held hostage again, but in plain sight.

Months later, as I was walking toward my car to visit friends, a dark figure jumped from behind my 2004 Matrix and attempted to get inside. It was Mason again.

I ran. He followed, shouting gibberish, albeit of the hostile and frightening variety. It sounded as if he were threatening me, but it was difficult to tell. What I did know was that he was running now, shouting at me and dodging behind trees in an attempt to sneak up on me.

I called 9-1-1, but no one came.

Related: The VICE Guide to Mental Health

Most people who attempt to get restraining orders are trying to protect themselves from someone they know, but my situation is different. I had never seen the man before that summer day when he entered my apartment. Only by talking with neighbors did I discover that he was homeless and lived in the park nearby.

When I faced a judge, five months after the first incident, and asked for legal protection, my case was fairly clean-cut. A mentally ill person was stalking me; he had six arrests on his record, including two for felonies, and he wouldn't leave me alone. The judge granted the order within two minutes.

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Restraining order laws vary from state to state, but California offers four types: a domestic violence restraining order, an elder or adult abuse restraining order, a workplace restraining order (that's for if you are an employer who wants to protect your employee from threatening behavior at your workplace), and civil harassment restraining orders. My restraining order is of the latter variety, which is reserved for those of us being pursued by a stranger or acquaintance who won't leave us alone. While many tend to think of a restraining order as the final word, it is actually only one step in what can be a long process of self-protection.

When I first got my restraining order, everyone I'd ever met wanted to let me know why such documents are useless.

"Crazy people don't care about a sheet of paper!" I heard, over and over.

OK, so maybe they don't. But the order's purpose is not simply to tell the offender to stay away, but to stop them before they come close enough to do harm. If Mason comes within the distance spelled out in my order, I can call 9-1-1 and, simply for being near me, he may be arrested and jailed for up to a year, or fined up to $1,000. This safety net can prevent crimes before they occur.

In my case, Mason stopped his stalking the minute the police told him that he would be arrested if he came near me. I had secured a temporary restraining order, and was waiting for the court hearing on a semi-permanent order.

The temporary restraining order worked. He didn't return.

But for some stalking victims, the situation isn't so cut and dry. What is harassment to one person may be a mere annoyance to another. California was the first state to enact a civil harassment statute in 1978 (and the first to pass a stalking law in 1990), but the statute's language reveals the slippery nature of trying to define "harassment":

A person who has suffered harassment... may seek a temporary restraining order and an injunction prohibiting harassment... "Harassment" is unlawful violence, a credible threat of violence, or a knowing and willful course of conduct directed at a specific person that seriously alarms, annoys, or harasses the person, and that serves no legitimate purpose.

The statute goes on,

The course of conduct must be such as would cause a reasonable person to suffer substantial emotional distress, and must actually cause substantial emotional distress to the petitioner.

So you can't just be annoyed by your harasser—you have to be seriously annoyed.

The rest of the country followed suit, and civil harassment and stalking are now punishable crimes in all 50 states, and are grounds for a restraining order. Using data from five states, professor Aaron Caplan of Loyola Law School estimates that 219,700 petitions for civil harassment orders are filed in the United States every year (and remember, this is just one of four types of restraining orders). Caplan also projects, based on data available from Washington State, that about 330,000 civil harassment restraining orders are in effect at this very moment nationwide.

While many of these orders protect vulnerable people, and women in particular, this statute been used against protestors, activists, and others with controversial opinions. Caplan notes that in one small North Dakota town, the mayor successfully obtained a restraining order against an activist simply for being a vocal critic of the critic, and for staring at the mayor with "little beady eyes." Other attempts have been made to halt free speech via restraining order, like a case I witnessed in a courtroom where someone asked the court to "stop her talking about me."

Watch: The Mexican state where citizens took the law into their own hands

On the hearing date for my restraining order, Judge Carol Boas-Goodson had to inform one plaintiff that she was not entitled to stop the grandmother of her children from photographing them, or from "saying mean things about" her. The woman stormed out, keychains jangling as she left.

Boas-Goodson struck me as a confident figure with an unusual combination of tenderness and pragmatism, poking holes in stories while showing sensitivity to plaintiffs and defendants alike. As it turns out, she is practically the only judge in the Los Angeles Superior Court system who hears restraining orders, giving her unusual power as well as unprecedented expertise.

While we would like to think that no one would bring a restraining order against someone they don't truly fear, the system can be used to manipulate.

I sat with my mouth agape as one woman explained that the defendant had barged into her apartment, pretending to be a police officer, and demanded to take her children. I was sure Boas-Goodson would grant protection to this woman who pleaded, "I am afraid for my life, and my children's lives" in broken English. Her attorney, acting also as interpreter, nervously wiped her nose and threw her hands up exasperatedly at the judge. You can't possibly turn her away, the gesture seemed to say.

Then the defendant explained his side of the story. He had banged on the door, he had asked to see the children but, he said, he had never claimed to be an officer. Perhaps it was a language barrier problem, he suggested, as the defense balked. Whatever the case, he was scheduled for a hearing for impersonating an officer. The plaintiff wanted protection until then. Boas-Goodson, pursing her lips in apology, closed the folder. "This will be solved in court," she said. "The petition is denied."

So either an innocent man was saved from a tarnished record and estrangement from his children, or a mother in danger was denied protection. I didn't envy Boas-Goodson's job.

And that is the great challenge of cases like this: While we would like to think that no one would bring a restraining order against someone they don't truly fear, the system can be manipulated. Restraining orders can be used maliciously as a means of keeping someone away from their children, home, or workplace, and they can affect someone's chances of getting a job, since they appear as part of your criminal record.

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Photo via Flickr user Tim Pierce

One case I saw involved two women who were attempting to get a restraining order against each other. They had dated the same man, and both had the same story: "She attacked me in the subway, and I'm afraid for my life."

"This is what we call ' mutual combat,'" the judge said, referring to California laws regarding two people who fight without there being an obvious aggressor. But the women disagreed. Both of them were certain that it wasn't mutual and that the other one had attacked them.

The judge did the only thing I could imagine doing in that situation: She denied the order to both parties, and told them to just stay away from each other. Maybe that was the last day they crossed paths. Or maybe one of them really did attack the other and got off scot-free.

Still, other cases gave me some hope for the restraining order process.

Marie met George seven years ago in an acting class. She was 23, he was 30, and "the opposite of my type," she told me. He was balding, chubby, and short, a full eight inches shorter than her. But he was also charming, funny, and engaging, and Marie found herself interested in him despite herself. Within weeks, they were dating. George had been down on his luck, so Marie leant him money and her car while he attempted to get back on his feet. But he never did.

"He started leeching off me and being very needy and clingy," she explained to me.

When Marie told George it was over, he "took it really badly."

"I was terrified," Marie told me. "But at least my cats were fine."

"Read this book before you break up with me," Marie remembers him saying, as he handed her Johnny Cash's autobiography. Johnny Cash, whose notoriously bad relationships with women had been documented two years earlier in the Oscar-winning biopic Walk the Line, was George's idol. That's when Marie knew she was in trouble.

"I told him, 'I'm not going to do this anymore, under any circumstances,'" she said. Then she went out to a movie with friends and tried to forget him. When she left the theatre, her phone was bursting with text messages. They were all from George.

"Your car is gone."

"You'll never see it again."

"I'm not sure if you'll ever see your cats again, either."

Marie rushed home and found her apartment door wide open, her belongings strewn about, and her car missing. George had driven her car a block away and parked it, perhaps after having second thoughts about his career as a thief, or maybe just wanting to send a message: I have control of your life. She had never given him her keys.

"I was terrified," Marie told me, "but at least my cats were fine."

When she called the police, they found George and arrested him, but she still couldn't sleep. She had her locks changed and a friend stayed over that night.

When Marie got to court to fight for a restraining order, George stood to give his defense.

"It was half Hamlet, half Law & Order," she said. He recounted his relationship with Marie professed his undying love.

"You really don't need to do this," Marie remembers the judge saying. Everyone sat in uncomfortable embarrassment for the failed Johnny Cash, who wouldn't rest until he had declared his devotion to his personal June Carter.

The judge granted the restraining order immediately. George kept away for a month.

On the day of Marie's college graduation, as she was walking to her car, she spotted George outside her apartment. She called 9-1-1, and he fled. Without evidence of his being there, the officers couldn't arrest him. But Marie couldn't live in fear anymore. She decided to move to a nearby city.

Marie finally felt safe. A year later, a package arrived on her doorstep. Inside were gifts from George: a book she had wanted to read, a scarf, sentimental knickknacks from their time together. Marie was touched, and when he called again, she answered. She said she forgave him, and that she would try to be his friend.

"Now, remember, I was 24!" she told me as she recounted the story, mortified in retrospect at her own naiveté. "I just thought he could move on, and I could move on, if I forgave him."

But the attention only escalated. George began calling and asking for money again, and demanding she date him. He said he had her name tattooed on his forearm. When he showed up at her apartment again, Marie told him he had to go. So George climbed on the roof and threatened to jump.

Marie called 9-1-1 and drove away, her cell phone buzzing with calls from George. She didn't answer, and when she retrieved her voicemail messages, she heard a single word:

"Goodbye."

Then she says she heard the sound of wind rushing, and the phone smashing to the ground.

If you're too hard to find, you can't be served with a restraining order. Avoid being served, and the order is invalid.

While most think of a restraining order as a single prohibition mandated by a judge, it is actually only valid if two things happen: The judge grants it, and the restrained person knows about it.

Because restraining order cases can be heard without the defendant being present (in fact, in half of the cases I saw in court, the defendant chose not to appear), the petitioner is responsible for ensuring that the paperwork is delivered to the defendant so that he or she knows that the order is in place. However, the petitioner is the only person who may not deliver the order, so most petitioners turn to law enforcement to serve it. On their end, officers typically makes three attempts before pocketing the fee and returning the order to the petitioner.

This gives defendants a clever loophole: If you're too hard to find, you can't be served. Avoid being served, and the order is invalid. If your harasser or stalker happens to be homeless, or tends to be hard to find, he or she can use their very absence as another threat.

The day the restraining order ended, George was back on her street, sitting in his car.

When I told the officer handling my case that I had obtained a three-year restraining order but that I couldn't get it to my stalker, Mason, because he has no home address, the cop leveled with me.

"Well, let's be realistic," he said. "He's not coming by now, right? So if he does come by, you can call 9-1-1, and they can serve him then."

"But he won't be arrested," I said.

"That's right," he said.

As I sat with my new restraining order—one copy for me, and one copy for the stalker who may never receive it—I wondered about his mental health. Is he a deeply troubled mentally ill person who stumbled into my apartment, was arrested, and then fixated on me, the woman who sent him to jail? A drug user, unable to get help, who regularly thinks he's being chased? Or someone more sinister?

Marie's stalker, George, didn't kill himself. He threw his cell phone and then climbed down from her roof and walked away. But Marie did have to get a second restraining order against him. The day that order expired, George was back on her street, sitting in his car. She ignored him. So far, he hasn't come back.

Both copies of my restraining order are sitting in my desk, just in case.

Follow Carrie Poppy on Twitter.

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Staring into a halcyon future. Photo by Bob Foster

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

What keeps you awake at night says a lot about your social status. Some struggle to get enough shut-eye because their minds are focused on work, money troubles, because they are anxious about a failing relationship or a big ambition that remains unfulfilled. More often, and more easily solved, it's simply because of that venti Starbucks Americano you had at 8 PM combined with your compulsion to watch YouTube videos at quarter past two in the morning.

But while you and I watch a smorgasbord of videos on the world's most poisonous snakes and cuddly puppies until our eyeballs feel like someone has glazed them in salt, Johann Rupert, the billionaire CEO of the company which owns luxury brands such as Cartier, MontBlanc and Chloe, tosses and turns in his bed made of bank notes. He is unable to put his weary mind to rest as he contemplates technological unemployment, the rise of the machines, and a coming social revolution.

Starring at the Financial Times "Business of Luxury Summit" in Monaco, the South African tycoon spoke of a coming wave of unrest whose causes are technological and whose grievances—a crumbling middle class in the Global North and high growth that works for very few in the Global South—won't be solved by politics as usual. "That's what keeps me awake at night," he said.

Adopting the language of social movements to have emerged in the aftermath of the global financial crisis, Rupert spoke of how, "We cannot have 0.1 percent of 0.1 percent taking all the spoils... It is unfair and it is not sustainable." Rupert's conclusion was both enigmatic and ominous and he ended on a rather gloomy note for such a glitzy event: "We're in for a huge change in society... Get used to it. Be prepared." Even CEOs of luxury brand conglomerates, it turns out, don't see much of a future for a world of Mad Max capitalism alongside global elites whose lives look like a Rich Gang video.

Yet Rupert's misgivings make sense given his background. As someone whose personal fortune has been amassed in the luxury goods sector, his primary concern is how rising inequality could eventually lead to declining demand for the sunglasses, handbags, and jewelry that his brands are renowned for around the world. While the global elite is happy to flaunt its wealth for now, they'll be less keen driving their Lamborghinis around if the streets are filled with angry have-nots looking to heckle the nearest have-everything. Luxury product merchants could be in trouble.

In that respect, the recent victory of anti-eviction activist and ex-squatter Ada Colau in the race to become the Mayor of Barcelona is a sign of things to come. It is politicians like Colau, the Greek Prime Minister Alex Tsipras, and Pablo Iglesias, the leader of a radical-left party that could form Spain's next government, who are the leading edge of something which Rupert fears is much, much bigger.

Perhaps most interesting is that Rupert's analysis about our post-crash world is less about greed and "nasty bankers" stealing all the money, and more a structural take on how automation, information technology, robotics, and artificial intelligence represent a significant challenge to capitalism. These factors could create jobless growth and the paradox of an ever-greater number of products—manufactured ever more efficiently—but with rising unemployment and underemployment, falling real wages, and stagnant living standards.

Touching upon all of that, and more besides, Rupert asked how "society [is] going to cope with structural unemployment" which he claims will be accompanied by "envy, hatred and social warfare... It will affect us." That "us" refers to the array of oligarchs, billionaires, and chief executives Rupert was speaking to.

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George Osborne. Photo by Flickr user altogetherfool

But while over the weekend a luxury goods magnate was eager to square up to the biggest challenges of our age, the chancellor of the exchequer remains in a fantasy world. On Wednesday night George Osborne spoke of how he wanted Britain to adopt a "new settlement," only running budget deficits under extraordinary circumstances.

Given that Britain's budget deficit—how much more the government spends than it earns through tax revenue—currently stands at over £90 billion ($140 billion), Osborne's claim to only ever run surpluses in the future is absurd. This is the man who promised to eliminate the deficit by this year after moving into Number 11 half a decade ago; his government has completely failed to do that with the deficit still almost two-thirds what it was when he took office. That fact is barely discussed by much of the mainstream media, which is all the more strange because it's the biggest political flop since Tony Blair being Middle East Peace Envoy.

Osborne's newly stated desire for Britain to only run surpluses sounds like a debt-addled Essex-boy estate agent getting the gear in off his third credit card but outlining his plan to get an ISA, pension plan, and premium bonds this time next year. Would you take that guy seriously?

Treasury figures show that over the last half-a-century only seven years have produced a budget surplus. While British governments were expected to balance the books in the 19th century—as well as the first three decades of the last one—that stopped when Britain left the gold standard in 1931. Balancing the books simply isn't as big a deal as Osborne is suggesting.

In fact, this is all quite hypocritical. While Margaret Thatcher is the political heroine of both the Prime Minister and his Chancellor—the ideological spirit animal of George's plan—it will probably come as a surprise to many that the "Iron Lady" ran fewer budget surpluses—just two—than Brown and Blair. Indeed Maggie T's time in office was marked by deficits higher than anything under Labour before the crash, something nobody, including Labour themselves, seem capable of mentioning. Nevertheless, Osborne's vision for a surplus means more Thatcher-esque austerity. For you and me that means bad services and crap jobs.

In all honesty what the Chancellor is now suggesting is completely at odds with how modern economies work and it is difficult to understand what he really means by the "extenuating circumstances" under which deficits would be permitted. Surely a financial crisis where we were literally hours from the "collapse of our economic and political system as we know it" would count? Well, that was the situation in 2008. Without running large deficits after the last crisis, the economy would have fallen off a cliff just like the US did after 1929.

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While Rupert's vision is that of a dystopian, socially fragmented future, Osborne's ambition is to return to the economics of the Victorians. The former see a world whose politics are increasingly incapable of resolving the problems of its time, while the latter pines for the ways of the steam age.

But we live in a world not of steam, but of silicon, solar, and synthetic biology. Yes, technology challenges existing business models and maybe even capitalism as we know it. The solution isn't economically illiterate nostalgia or wringing your hands about inevitable social unrest. Rather seeing "structural unemployment"—as Rupert calls it—as a threat, we should take it as an opportunity to build a society where we can have much more and work much less.

That would mean the shift to an economic system where the fruits of the most powerful technologies humans have invented are shared more equally among us. If we embraced work-saving technologies rather than feared them, and organized our society around their potential, it could mean being able to live a good life with a ten-hour working week. The alternative looks more like ten hours of minimum-wage work and spending the rest of your time worrying about making rent.

Rupert's losing sleep over it, but robots and computers doing the hard graft could mean respite from the over-worked fatigue that's hijacked our world. You look after your nan a lot more, spend more time in bed with your partner and ride a driverless tesla motorcycle while listening to a music that you don't pay for and has no adverts.

That is the political adventure of our lifetime—I call it fully automated luxury communism. Cartier for everyone, MontBlanc for the masses and Chloe for all. That a luxury goods magnate has a better handle on the future of capitalism than our Chancellor illustrates the idiocy of those who presently govern us. If we want something else, something better, we are going to have to come up with it ourselves.

Follow Aaron on Twitter.

Until recently, former Florida Governor Jeb Bush looked like the Republican Establishment's ace-in-the-hole choice for its 2016 presidential nomination—a throwback to the party pre–Tea Party heyday, when conservatives still believed in things like wiretaps and public schools and Sarah Palin was just a folksy babe from Alaska. Should the other lesser-known 2016 tryhards prove to be nothing more than the controversies they generated, the Republican Establishment would still have Jeb in the wings, safe in the knowledge that he has the name-recognition and political chops to be trotted out against Hillary Clinton at any time.

But with just a few days to go before Bush officially kicks off his campaign, the idea that he is the obvious Not Crazy Option for the GOP seems to have faded. A Washington Post headline announced Thursday that Bush's "Campaign Ran Off Course Before It Even Began." And a close reading of Bush's 1995 book Profiles in Character reveals that he's not quite the cozy centrist everyone seemed to think he was. Like an episode of Veep—in fact, there's an episode of Veep just like this—Bush now must answer for the strange things he and his co-writer put down way back when, including, as the Huffington Post's Laura Bassett pointed out, support for the idea of publicly shaming unwed mothers in the interest of public morality. You know, like they did in the Scarlet Letter.

"Infamous shotgun weddings and Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter are reminders that public condemnation of irresponsible sexual behavior has strong historical roots," Bush wrote, in a chapter called "The Restoration of Shame," which, among other things argues that a "sense of ridicule" would shame unmarried women into keeping their legs crossed.

Astonishingly, Bush has stood by that idea this week, telling reporters in Poland Thursday that being a single mom "hurts the prospects, limits the possibilities of young people being able to live lives of purpose and meaning," and defending his support of Florida's so-called Scarlet Letter Law, which, unbelievably, required single mothers who did not know their child's paternity to publish their sexual histories in the newspapers before putting the baby up for adoption. (The law has since been repealed.)

Bush also encouraged people to read the book. So we did. And unwed-mother shaming isn't the only alarming thing in there.

Let's start with his thoughts on divorce, a word that appears approximately 20 times in in Profiles in Character . Bush's general thesis is that divorce is one of a litany of social problems, including, as he lists on page 25, "out of wedlock births, domestic violence, material gratification, and excessive litigation," causing our "social structure [to buckle]."

Putting out of wedlock births in the same category as domestic violence—and excessive litigation?—is pretty weird, but it's hardly the first time a conservative politician's made that comparison. But things quickly devolve from there.

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"Since 1960, the total number of divorces have increased by 322 percent. And since 1966, the number of children in Florida relying on Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) benefits, the primary component of welfare, has jumped 333 percent," Bush writes. A few pages later, he adds:

During this time, government has assumed more and more responsibility for the welfare of our children and families. Social legislation in this area has included welfare, no-fault divorce, child protective services, the juvenile justice system, centralized education, government programs for child support, foster care and adoption. Yet the institutions that have evolved from this social legislation have presided over an increasing number of divorces and out of wedlock births. They have watched as AFDC benefits have become an attractive alternative to marriage.

To sum up, Bush is arguing here that welfare has become an "attractive alternative to marriage," and that, as a result, the moral and economic fabric of society is eroding. This sets up a very strange approach toward divorce, which Bush lays out a little later:

In the 1970s, the no-fault divorce reform movement swept through the country. No-fault divorce abolished defenses to divorce and liberalized the grounds for dissolution of a marriage. But no-fault divorce quickly became a tool for those who used the law not to escape physical or mental cruelty but to pursue career dreams and trade in their wives for something more appealing.

So in Jeb Bush's world, people opt out of marriage to either a) pursue welfare benefits, or b) chase career dreams. Clearly, these two motivations are diametrically opposed, which speaks to a broader inconsistency that seems to pervade Bush's thinking about society and social structures. On the one hand, government is coddling and grotesque, spoiling citizens into sin and waste; on the other, people keep falling victim to their own desires and greed, and need government policy to protect them. Despite occasional lip service, issues like domestic violence and marital unhappiness are treated mostly as afterthoughts. And later, on page 106, Bush takes the concept to its extreme, blaming separation and divorce for rising rates of teen suicide.

Elsewhere in the book, Bush carries over his issues with "no fault" judgment into his consideration of criminal justice, turning the argument previously used to harangue divorcees on to America's enfeebled court system.

"No fault is a concept that has also permeated our criminal justice system," he writes. "Over the last three decades, the courts have permitted a number of no-fault defenses, such as insanity and sexual abuse, raised in the trial of the Menendez brothers. Now any criminal defendant can arm himself with an excuse from his past to exonerate a crime."

The idea that "any criminal defendant" would have a readymade excuse at hand seems to sharply contradict the number of criminal defendants who end up in jail—a rising tide that was already well into its upswing by the time Bush wrote his book. Back then, though, the Florida governor chalked up prosecutorial weakness to America's national victim complex.

This victimization is reaching absurd levels. Look at how many criminals are the victims. Prisoner lawsuits are clogging our judicial system. We even consider a criminal's background before passing judgment. Was he abused? Was he poor? Were his parents drug addicts? Did he have an abnormal upbringing? All unfortunate circumstances, but no excuse for criminal behavior.

If you're wondering whether Bush takes this victim-blaming to its natural extension, I'll go ahead and spoil it for you: He does.

People have gradually learned that being a victim gives rise to certain entitlements, benefits and preferences in society. These entitlements are bestowed with little or no corresponding responsibilities. The surest way to get something in today's society is to elevate one's status to that of the oppressed. Many of the modern victim movements, the gay rights movement, the feminist movement, the black empowerment movement and other movements based on social status or race have attempted to get people to view themselves as part of a smaller group deserving of something from society rather than viewing themselves as an integral part of a society in which they strive to make a contribution to the whole.

Bush goes on to enlist Martin Luther King, Jr. as sympathetic to his way of thinking, arguing that the civil rights leader envisioned a society in which people were judged "by the content of their character and not by the color of their skin — or sexual preference or gender or ethnicity." It's an impressively complete misreading of Dr. King's life and philosophy. In Bush's mind, the goal of feminism, gay rights, and racial justice movements—three of the most pivotal civil-rights fights in US history—is not equality, but special treatment and "benefits."

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Whether any of this will be enough to convince the Republican Establishment that Jeb Bush may not be their safest presidential option remains to be seen. But it could certainly start dissuading those mythical moderates of the notion that the younger Bush scion is the sane centrist they've been waiting for.

Follow Kevin Lincoln on Twitter.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

St. John Street, Finsbury, 4:45 AM. Not first light. Maybe third. The crack of dawn, plus some thigh and midriff. It's not unlike me to be awake at this time, but I'm generally walking in the opposite direction, if "walking" isn't too fancy a term for stumbling about after a heavy night in Fabric.

Like a lot of night owls, I generally require some persuasion to play the early bird, but getting up this morning was easy. I'm on my way to Smithfield, where I'm told I can do something I can't do anywhere else in London... a pub crawl before opening time. Yes, my plan is to sink my first drink at 6:00 AM and order my last at 10:55 AM, when I shall call it a... day.

At a little past six, dim lights come on at the Hope, in Cowcross Street, a bow-fronted Victorian rebuild of a boozer dating back to 1790. It sits side-on to the central arcade separating the two wings of the Grade II–listed meat market, which trades from 2 AM to 8 AM, Monday to Friday. The pubs round here owe their early licenses to the market, historically at least, but only a handful use them now.

I am joined at a picnic bench outside the pub by Gary, who's been listening at the door for ten minutes, unlocking it with his mind. Gesturing expansively, he welcomes me to his old stomping ground—he was a "shop boy" at the market when he was 17—like it's his front room. He confides in a bad-news voice that he's been up all night and fancied "a change, some civilization." We embrace Hope and enter there. It's dark. Shadows lie in jumble-sale heaps in the corners. It's womb-like, so long as you keep in mind that not all pregnancies go well. We settle in. It takes a pint of dishwater Kronenbourg to unglue Gary's lips, and for color—a furtive green—to return to his eyes. And he's a hard man to read: He jokes when he wants sympathy, and labors too hard for laughs. I stop trying to read him. When he says with a comic whistle that he hasn't worked in 15 years, I congratulate him on his early retirement. He almost wets himself. "Cheers, Joe, this beats a four-pack in the park."

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The Hope fills up at 6:30. A dozen Crossrail workers take up three tables and a couple of spots at the bar. One local boy, half a dozen northerners, a Glaswegian, a Swede, a Pole, and a couple of Hungarians. Their specialty: reinforced concrete. From their intake it's hard to separate the ones coming off a shift from the ones due on. But they want the camera pointed elsewhere anyway. "You can take the back of my head if it helps," the Glaswegian offers. "Your best side? I'm honored."

Crossrail trains are scheduled to start running in 2018. And Farringdon station, an underarm stone's throw from here, is the heart and soul of the project: a Crossrail/Thameslink/Underground "interchange" from which you'll be able to catch direct trains to three airports. The future is coming, and if it's anything like London's recent past, that might not be the best news for Smithfield's little eccentricities.

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"Serious money's moving in already. And money does not want drunks singing in the streets while most people are trying to get to work, even if those drunks have already put in a day's work," says Colm, 29, an outreach worker for the homeless charity St. Mungo's Broadway, who has dropped in for a whiskey ("that's one whiskey") having spent the past ten hours checking on known haunts of rough sleepers. "Homelessness is as bad as I've known it. It's going to get worse when the Tories lower the benefits cap by three grand (to £23,000, or $36,000, a year—a measure announced by the Queen in her speech to Parliament a fortnight ago). Every day I see the result of people being forced out of where they used to live. But I see the result of this, too." He raises his tumbler with an exaggerated grimace.

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Dawn punters

Where some are being displaced, others are being invited. Last year, overriding objections from Islington and Camden councils, Boris Johnson gave his approval to the newly privatized Royal Mail's proposal for a 681-unit luxury development in the grounds of its Mount Pleasant sorting office a mile or so away. The words "surely there will come a time when nobody will want to move into flats that everything interesting in their postcode was bulldozed to make room for" have assumed mantra-like proportions for me.

The mood is bullishly optimistic and the gender split about equal at the Fox & Anchor, in Charterhouse Street, a Young's pub and boutique hotel, which opens at 7 AM to Smithfield's white-collar punters. In the main bar, a Dickensian wet dream of etched glass and brass, a party from Goldman Sachs—commodities researchers and analysts—are unobtrusively celebrating an un-trumpeted success with Guinness and several plates of the Fox's signature breakfast, "the City boy"; while in the three paneled "snugs" at the rear Crossrail executives admire their manicures over white wine spritzers. I step outside with the pub's new manager to make the right noises about its art nouveau facade by the ceramic designer WJ Neatby. Lee, who's been in the job a week, is the glass that's overflowing to the Hope's half-empty. "Early opening will continue. We're helping change the perception of who works nights, and our customers are not troublemakers. We get doctors from St. Bart's, barristers, and judges."

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Non-boozing butchers at Smithfield Market, which trades between 2 AM and 8 AM

Four pints and a couple of shots down, I gather myself in Smiths of Smithfield, a four-story cafe-cocktail bar-restaurant whose ground floor serves breakfasts from seven, and alcohol from eight. I need to eat. To drop anchor for a bit. To stop myself bobbing away in a sea of booze, like a bottle I've forgotten to put a message in. I stand at the long, pewter-topped bar, nursing a pint of Celia, a gluten-free Czech lager, in a way that would get me deregistered. I notice in a reflective surface—a tap, a window—hat I'm alone, and I look a million dollars in IOUs, so I decide to sit down where the coffee is strong and polished-looking people are making points with their cutlery, excellent points about the merits of sobriety. I ask for a vat of Americano, an eggs benedict and a Tom Collins (for variety's sake). At the neighboring table, a couple of meat market foremen in spotless white coats sniffily appraise my state. "When did you start? Yesterday? Don't know many of our lot that use the pubs now. Most of them have to drive. Looks like you've had their share for them, anyway."

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I'm out of luck at St Bart's Brewery, in West Smithfield, which, in defiance of its website, started opening at 11 AM last week. And I'm out of composure at the Bird of Smithfield, in Smithfield Street, whose vibe—which befits a place that promises "dining experiences"—is stultifyingly picky. So I head for the Sir John Oldcastle, a Wetherspoon in Farringdon Road named for the former friend of Henry V on whom Shakespeare part-modeled the fabulous soak Sir John Falstaff. Wetherspoon pubs have been serving alcohol from 9 AM for the past ten years.

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I buy a half, for holding purposes, and catch up with a group of croupiers I nodded at in the Hope three hours ago. They've come from the Grosvenor Casino in Russell Square. Talk turns to the myth of London as a 24-hour city. "It's insane that we have to go to Smithfield for a drink," says Becky, a twentysomething Mancunian who reckons dealing poker has made her an expert in bullshit on and off the table. "Loads of people work at night, and our job is to make sure everyone else has a good time. But when we finish, that's it, there's nothing for us to do. Think of the poor cleaners, couriers, hotel staff, shop-fitters, doormen, those rickshaw drivers. The service industry gets rubbish service! I've never talked to a butcher in the Hope, but the ones in the market go on about how we should buy them a drink because they made it possible for us to buy ourselves one. That is bullshit."

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Another butcher who wasn't drinking at the time this photograph was taken, but who was wearing animal blood like an extra layer of clothing

Re-entering the outside world, I'm grateful for some wind and wet. The weather has been going through its box of tricks. A light rain from a thin cowl of cloud is giving the puddles dimples. Perfect pre-hangover conditions. It's clever stuff, weather.

I'm left with a book title. London: A Tale of Two Johnsons. There's Samuel, with his belief that a man who's tired of the city is tired of life; and there's Boris, whose city is a recipe for exhaustion. It's been a sobering drink in some respects, though I suspect it'll take a week to sleep it off.

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