Those behind this effort know each other from alternative media and street mobilisations, from raves, gigs and the football terraces, or by just living in the village that is Dublin. We range from people raising their families in the city, to community and political activists, to artists, messers and mischief-makers.
Welcome rabblers to our third issue and boy is it a good ‘un. this time round the rabble collective is
getting stuck into the great enclosure debate. Whether that be the privatization of the homeless services in Dublin city, the struggle for decent public housing in the north inner city or Sheriff Sherlock’s recent legislative moves against the free culture we’ve created for ourselves on the internet.
The all-night editorial session, fuelled by coffee and nicotine with crackling vinyl in the background could be from anytime in the last 50 years. The ticky-tacky keysounds of macbooks belies the era, however.
While we sit here flicking from tab to tab, signing off on one pdf after another, we find ourselves writing about the same afflictions this country has been cursed with for all those decades.
In September rabble turned one. We’re just about getting the hang of things as our team of reprobates grows. The late night work sessions are still there, but they contain less of the nicotine and coffee fuelled last minute content generation
than before. The standard of our content, both word and image gets better and better. We’re confident that rabble is growing into one of the freshest print publications Ireland has seen in years.
This issue of rabble was brought to you by the 260 people who donated to our fund:it campaign. Their faith in this project will help to keep it running for another year. During which time RTE will continue to inanely forecast green shoots while letting the shower who got us into this mess, their good time buddies and drinking partners go unchallenged. Just as the folks who supported our fundit gave us hope, rabble set out to give you hope in these challenging times. But it is difficult not to be bitter writing this editorial in another country, chasing the type of paid employment that couldn’t be secured in three years of hunting in Ireland.
So here it is, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, and we’ve just about managed to scrape it in on time… Or at least in time for our heartless Christmas jibes to make any sense before December 2014. Yep, 2013 is almost over and the country is still shit and everyone is still leaving. Although we heard on the radio today that everything’s going to be fine now that the bail-out program is over and done with. *snigger* if you believe that you’ll believe that the sign-language translator at Nelson Mandela’s funeral was actually transmitting messages from the voices in his head and that rich people’s blood doesn’t actually consist of black bile.
Bring da ruckus. It’s been a heavy few months since our last issue. Taboos are tumbling in this sceptered isle. Austerity is on the rise and we’re finding our voice, losing our fear and fighting back. Every day another scandal, every day another revelation. The old world, their status quo isn’t safe anymore. The cross-wielding, women-hating pro-life goons, the blue bottles laying their bugs in GSOC, the ministers leaking confidential reports and their lickspittles in those organs of dissemination that pass for media – youse are all in our sights and we’re not backing down.
In May 2013 we passed around the digital hat and launched a crowdfunding campaign to scrape in enough coin to publish four more issues of rabble. This is the last of those issues and we’d like to say thank you. We’re not done yet though… That’s four issues, each 32 pages long and crammed with art, hard-hitting writing and a modicum of craic. When we fi rst set out with rabble we threw together a list of things that we aimed to do. There was quite consciously a bang of manifesto off the whole thing. Honestly, we thought we’d cause a bit of a stir and disappear. Not so.
As we sit here scratching our heads in bewilderment at the fact that we managed to make ten of these ridiculous fucking things, when we never even knew if #rabble1 would get past our late-night, round-table, mashbag discussions, this fucking madhouse of a country becomes increasingly unpredictable, leaving us to wonder if, just maybe, it is all still to play for… shit’s gone wonky, there’s no doubt. Chunks of land, public services and marginalised people, even work and public transport are packaged off to slimy twenty-headed hydras in heat, looking to hump anything that smells remotely like a “business investment”.
“Th’ whole worl’s in a terrible state o’ chassis.” captain boyle’s words resonate today as much as they did in 1924 on the abbey stage. Bodies of refugees washing up on Europe’s southern shores. Fighter jets in deadly dogfights over southern skies. Ireland’s soldiers are gearing up for deployment in Mali, or is it Lebanon? Shannon airport has more tonnes of ammo passing through it than calories in an Indian takeaway. Every week we seem to be burying more victims of our careless system; the homeless, the travellers, the asylum seekers; or repatriating the bodies of exiles, the emigrants, our dearly departed.
Howdy folks. rabble’s back with that fresh smelling printy edition just in time for summer. Since you last caught up with us there’s been a general election, a month of haranguing over the formation of the next government, the accelerated growth of an unprecedented homeless crisis, more policing scandals, and the possibility of so much more labour unrest that 2016 already has more than a whiff of 1913 about it.
With a font selection that would make the collective attendance at offset swallow their goodie bags as a quick route to suicide and a colour schema that would give your granny a seizure – that’s right thugs, we are back in the game yo! rabble 13 is finally here. The reason you have another fresh and free rabble in your grubby paw is because we’ve found it the most effective way of keeping a real relationship going with our readers. It might cost us our sanity and a pretty penny, it may produce more sleepless nights than a 4 day coke bender, not to mention the pit of endless procrastination and despair it provokes. And yes, it might be as irregular as the number 11 but here it bloody well is.