Professionalised.

‘Professionalised’ It’s my offering as a novel and necessary addition to the Oxford English Dictionary, though I’m thinking a ‘z’ might add a better derisory bite. It stems from the Ashya case, but aren’t we all to some degree professionaized by walking through an office door and taking an income from it. Even as a toy designer, the most benign of professions, I slanted myself to the creation of young rabid consumers to pay my wages. Whether it be self protection, self advancement, self comfort or profit we wear the mores of our profession like a blinkering coat, and as an adjunct to it a scarf of justifications, of necessary rules, restraints and behaviours. I have on occasion opined a fourth way, the third already taken by some airy-fairy political bollocks, and the first two being capitalist slavery and Bolshevik mindless equality, i.e. slavery. This fourth way is, in a phrase, “Do what you like for nothing.” It is in fact a secret Conservative policy who, having given up on productive industry, the welfare state and effective government, are leaving us in the hands of unpaid charity workers. I realise it’s hard to accept the Conservatives as radical progressives but the facts speak for themselves. High unemployment, zero hours contracts, internships and the growing reliance on charities all point to paid employment becoming a thing of the past. Thatcher didn’t do it for the money she loved it and she’d want us to do what we love too. Screw that immoral screen-watching job in the city and become a postman, or conversely, if your feet aren’t up to it any longer, take an accounting qualification. If teachers love the kids but hate the education system do it the way you want for nothing or become a farmer. We all want to contribute for the sake of our own self worth and the rise in mental ill health, depression and suicide stem from the current payment system stopping us contributing that worth in a misguided effort to ‘earn a living’ instead of ‘creating a life.’ So vote Conservative and watch the edifice crumble, we’ll all love it on the scrap heap together. And when some billionaire comes round offering us money for a loaf and some sprouts we can tell them to fuck off.