CAPITALISM IS SOCIALISM (you just take shit for free instead)

"You can't give poor people stuff for free. They don't deserve it! They ought to work for it honestly like we do!" - said the whinging Capitalist, conveniently oblivious to the fact that his business was only able to get itself off the ground by scraping the cream off his workers wages, under the necessary guise of reinvestment.

Capitalism literally IS getting stuff for free, and using what you get for free to generate even more stuff for free - but you have to do it with charm and grace, otherwise it just looks like straight up theft. And looking like a thief is much worse than actually being a thief these days.

I think what the ruling class mean is that rather than poor people being given stuff for free, they ought to follow their master's example and just TAKE IT!

But then when I tried to take a £3 T-shirt off the rack at Primark they banged me up in a cell for the night and made it even harder for me to function in this world once I got out. Go figure...

I saw a man, who I later found out was homeless, embodying everything I despise about Capitalism's ability to thrive

I'm not at all au fait with how the world of busking works, but to me this is just plain wrong!

I was walking through Liverpool city centre, late again for an important appointment, and came across a humble looking busker standing noble and upright in the middle of the shopping precinct facing straight ahead, delivering his own takes on classic rock ballads over semi-professional backing tracks. Foreigner's 'I Want to Know What Love Is' was done justice by him and I was left utterly convinced he truly did want to know.

The man's outfit and demeanour however was disappointingly drab and uninspiring, and so no passersby had stopped to watch him, but his voice was electrifying and reverberated through Liverpool 1 with real majesty! Powerful. So much depth and feeling! I was moved, but didn't cry. 20 metres further on though, a guy who looked like he lived locally, wearing a suit in a colour which hurt my eyes and needed dry cleaning at least twice, was convincingly mouthing the words of the rock ballad man's powerful renditions into a cheap plastic microphone I refused to believe had ever worked.

The local looking man possessed an effortless charisma and compelling presence which was spellbinding scousers and tourists left, right and centre - hypnotizing them into believing that it was he who was performing hit after anthemic hit! The nerve of this pretender! This shameless thief was casually siphoning the honest rock ballad man's soul in broad daylight mere metres away from him, gladly accepting any loose change children thrust towards his money hat by their shy parents would chuck in. The poor rock ballad man could do nothing but soldier on through his set list, trying his best to appear indifferent to the mime artist's plunderous charms just an underarm throw to his right away.

Sickening.