Maeve and Dave Social-Ills Project

This is a story about Maeve and Dave who claim to have been gifted to bring enlightenment to the world through the power of family and friends all working together using the gift of music, human behaviour and mystical guidance.

Enjoy the content herewith displayed. You will see links to all the characters with profile descriptions along with associated songs and pictures.

The songs associated with the characters relate to them in some way, often directly but sometimes in an obtuse fashion. 

Youtube live feed You Tube Studio ABG Installation

The Stone which Glows

The Stone which glows was found by Rob Van Art. He took it back to his rented digs and when it was within sight of the Crop Circle picture, a strange event occurer. This event turned out to be the summoning of a sacred text which spelled out in a multitude of languages, the new decree of commandments describing how the world should move forward for the benefit of all users of the system.

Latest Reviews

"Woke" Insanity on Full Display: 'Social Ills Project' a Desecration of British Values

London. If you, like so many hardworking Britons, hoped for a night of honest entertainment or perhaps a moment of cultural uplift, you were sorely mistaken. Last night's so-called "Social Ills Extravaganza" at the once-proud Royal Albert Hall was not just an event; it was a brazen assault on common sense, decency, and everything that makes this country great.

From the moment the doors opened, it was clear this wasn't about art, but about activism. We were promised a "bold exploration of modern society's challenges," and what we got was an unadulterated parade of grievance-mongering and virtue-signaling. The stage, bathed in hues of what one can only describe as "identitarian green," featured performers seemingly plucked from the most obscure corners of university humanities departments.

The "acts" themselves were a cacophony of self-indulgent misery. One segment, laughably titled "Colonial Guilt Tango," saw performers in what looked like repurposed bedsheets writhing in performative anguish over historical events that most Britons have long moved on from. Another, a spoken-word piece delivered by someone who clearly believes shouting equals profundity, decried "toxic masculinity" while ironically embodying all the worst traits of aggressive self-righteousness. Where was the celebration of our heritage? Of the stoic resilience that built this nation? Nowhere to be found, naturally.

But perhaps the most egregious element was the sheer hypocrisy. While these "artists" pontificated about "inequality," one couldn't help but notice the price of the organic, sustainably sourced (and no doubt extortionately priced) quinoa bowls being hawked at the concession stands. It's easy to preach about the plight of the working class when you're charging £15 for a lukewarm craft ale.

The audience, a predictable collection of the usual suspects – students with unnervingly colourful hair, bearded academics, and professional activists – nodded along earnestly, utterly oblivious to the irony. This wasn't a diverse cross-section of Britain; it was an echo chamber for the perpetually offended, convinced their niche grievances are the pressing concerns of the everyday man and woman struggling to pay their bills.

This "Extravaganza" wasn't a mirror held up to society; it was a funhouse mirror, distorting reality to fit a pre-approved, left-wing narrative. It's a stark reminder of how far some sections of our cultural establishment have drifted from the values of the majority. Instead of uplifting and uniting, events like these only serve to divide, shame, and ultimately, bore us all to tears.

Frankly, it was a national disgrace. Let's hope common sense prevails and we won't see such an abomination darken our shores again.

The 'Social Ills Project': A Gilded Cage for Radical Thought

London. Last night's much-hyped "Social Ills Extravaganza" at Grand Theatre promised to confront the pressing anxieties of our age. What it delivered, however, was a masterclass in performative solidarity, a comfortably curated evening that managed to both acknowledge and utterly trivialise the profound systemic inequalities it claimed to address.

From the outset, the air thrummed not with genuine urgency, but with the cloying self-satisfaction of an audience eager to feel "aware" without ever being genuinely challenged. The stage, adorned with tastefully distressed industrial chic, felt less like a crucible of raw societal truth and more like a minimalist set piece for an expensive shampoo advert.

The "acts" themselves were a dispiriting parade of well-meaning, yet ultimately toothless, gestures. We witnessed a choreographed interpretive dance sequence on "precarity," performed by dancers whose visible athleticism suggested no actual experience of the economic anxiety they purported to represent. A spoken-word artist, whose well-rehearsed rage felt more theatrical than authentic, delivered broadsides against "the patriarchy" while offering no tangible pathway to dismantling it, a critique delivered from the safe distance of a spotlight. One was left to wonder if the organisers truly understood the visceral pain of, say, food poverty, or if it was merely an intellectual concept to be aesthetically rendered.

The glaring absence was any genuine engagement with the material realities of those most impacted by these "ills." The production felt like a focus group for the comfortably liberal, a space where middle-class anxieties could be aired and then conveniently left behind with the discarded artisan coffee cups. There was much talk of "voice" and "narrative," but precious little on empowering the actual voices of those dispossessed, beyond their commodification as abstract concepts on a stage.

Perhaps the most troubling aspect was the implicit message: that systemic injustices can be "explored" and ultimately contained within the confines of a ticketed event, rather than demanding direct action or genuine redistribution of power. This was not a space for dismantling structures, but for admiring their theoretical deconstruction from a safe distance.

The "Extravaganza" was a prime example of how radical discourse, stripped of its urgency and material consequence, becomes yet another palatable product for consumption. It was a well-intentioned failure, a testament to how easily the language of liberation can be co-opted and neutralised, leaving us with little more than a collective pat on the back and the faint echo of a revolution that never truly began. We deserve more than theatrical gestures; we demand genuine change.