Drone (June)

Shoegaze was a rock form. Guitarists with lank hair produced drone for hours. It was the drone of engines, the unquestioned moan groan of freeways. Abbottabad woke to helicopters in the night. Locals thought, oh just another drone. They’re endless. Until whatever happened finished off Osama Bin Liner. This June the Prime Minister and his phone friends at the Drones Club ordered (loaned?) six surveillance objects at cool billions, so they can spy on cool billions. It never ends. Drones, over every air space, film before, during and after, as the whole world’s locals submit unwillingly to constant low-level intrusion.

Drone (March)

March. Paris is troubled by unpiloted toy planes. We read this from the ease of our office computer chair, on the other side of the planet. Drones, that the French police cannot account for, hover near the Eiffel Tower and skiffle over the Élysée Palace. “I say, that’s a bit rich!” exclaims Wooster when Jeeves explains that these are unmanned aerial vehicles, not named after the club he (Bertie) visits increasingly since the latest Honoria Glossop mix-up. Do they carry cameras or bombs? Their maiden flight is their last, depending. Everyone else is too busy to notice. Especially, shoegaze guitarists.