Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 13 October 2019
Wordsmiths have berated him.
Politicians have debunked him.
He has been shamed, humiliated exposed and vilified.
There is no-one that does not have an opinion about him.
And yet the Prime Minister of this country is getting away with it.
Who cares whether it's Dominic Cummings, Gove or Francoise who are dipping their greasy fingers into all the pies, their finger dipping is happening, in plain sight, in front of our very eyes. And like a slow motion accident we stare in disbelief as the car smashes into the wall. Mouths agape, silently screaming, we witness the ghastly men of the old order dismantling our liberties. Taking away our freedom.
Even though thousands stand shoulder to shoulder chanting their disgust,
roaring their disapproval, still the weasley men of power continue to bamboozle and bluff their way into the history books.
The words of wise children, the speeches of wise elders, are ridiculed. Whether its climate change, back stops, borders or tariffs, our lonely little Island is being plundered and abused by robbers who could care less about any of it. As we teeter on the brink of isolation, there are those who gleefully await the crash, holding out their greedy little hands to catch the fluttering bank notes.
Finance, money, cash bonuses, off shore accounts, it all makes no never mind as the typhoons rage and the earth shudders to its core.
There is nothing I can say that hasn't already been said before, but as fear grips the soul I know I am not alone. That the winds of change are upon us and no matter what the blustering buffoons do, no matter how many bombs they drop, how many people they displace, how much land they destroy - there are scientists building green power houses, and children sewing seeds - for make no mistake the shoots of renewal have been planted and behind every blade of grass there is an angel willing it to grow.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 26 September 2019
There's a Boris truth.
There's my truth.
And there's THE truth.
There's a Trump truth.
There's my truth.
And there's THE truth.
There's the Media's truth.
There's my truth.
And there's THE truth.
It doesn't matter who utters it, whose mouth it comes out of, THE truth is THE truth and there is no negotiating with THE truth.
Still pundits will punt, commentators will commentate, and soon the frightful happens that somehow we can't identify the real truth anymore. Be that as it may on Shrove Tuesday back in 1601 a certain merchant named Shylock hung out of a Gondola, licking his Cornetto, and declaimed 'THE truth will out.'
The Jews believe it, Tom Cruise believes it, even educated Gnus believe it, so what the piggin Hell is going.
The wool is being pulled over our eyes by the so-called educated. We are being fleeced
by a bunch of self-entitled bully-boys using the tactics of a Windsor common room.
Clamour loud enough, bark, bellow and snarl and the underlings will crumble. Yap, yell and scream loud enough and the fearful will believe the ululations of the baying pack. We are witnessing an Eton mess. We are watching benches full of John Thomas', and Johnson's owning their lies, speaking their untruths until they transmutate into a very un-Godly truth. We are witnessing the tyranny of a group of toffs who have about as much understanding of desperation and loss as a Ferrari owning oil magnet.
We've been sold the lie that we must 'Get Out' at all costs. Ordinary people in Leicester quote it. OAP's in Grantham mutter it. The Barboured shoppers in Barnstable repeat it, speaking the truth as they've been tutored.
But the truth has changed, morphed into the rallying cry for a league of Faragians who want I know not what, and who display the empathy of a black widow spider as she bites off her mates Johnson after their first creepy consummation.
The rain rains, the ice melts, the earth cries out and still this Theatre of Blood plays out nightly before our very eyes. Those prestigididigitators are messing with our minds, juggling with out brains. But fear not because their slight off hand is beginning to wain, their chicanery is beginning to show, we're noticing their tricks, and soon THE TRUTH will be unequivocal, and the Emperors New Clothes will crumble and fall revealing their sweaty dirty underwear beneath.
Vive la Juge and Brenda Marjorie Hale, Baroness Hale of Richmond.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 22 September 2019
There are leaves on the lawn.
There are holes in the lawn.
There are apples on the lawn.
The lawn does not look like a lawn.
There's a dog in the house, in the garden, on the armchairs, on the settee.
There's a dog in the courgettes, in the horseradish root. Have you seen the size of a horseradish plant? Well the dog has dug an enormous hole to compliment it.
There's a dog on our bed.
There's a dog on the spare bed.
There's a dog wailing and whining and chewing and nipping.
There are marrow bones buried near the hedge.
There are toys that squeak.
Toys that pull.
Toys that trip.
There's an abundance of toys that are inappropriately strewn around the garden.
There's a life sized penguin - given by a neighbour - WHY? - lying near the peonies which the dog has flung.
Like a wild wolf on the Prairie there's a dog in East Sussex that tosses and throws a gigantic penguin into the swing set.
There's a dog in the house.
There's a dog on the green bean bag.
There's a dog on the purple bean bag.
There's a dog watching us watching the telly, our very own Gogglebox. She watches global demonstrations, Tom Watson outside Brighton Station, Tom Bradbury bemused whilst reading the news. She watches Owen Jones being shouted down by the daughter of a baron on Newsnight. She watches Corrie - for a little light relief - although the story lines at the moment are about as much fun as a night out with Reese-Mogg on an A&E ward.
She watches 'Strictly' and watches me wondering where the years have gone that even the thought of doing a fleckle is almost as exhausting as watching a fleckle being done.
There's a dog in the house that jumps on heads, licks faces, howls at the moon and gets in the way of serious drama.
There's a dog in the house that has taken over the entire living space.
There's a tupperware lunch box containing peanut and banana homemade dog biscuits, turmeric biscuits, sweet potato biscuits, all bought, and made by a woman with a stall at the Food Festival in Tunbridge Wells. Located in between jars of homemade chutney, bottles of home-brewed beer, German bratwurst, Indian curry, Thai noodles, marshmallows, face-painting, and a well stocked Prosecco bar there was this chirpy woman selling home-made doggie biscuits and bandanas. I bought a red one with stars on. Standing near by was a young woman slurping on a plastic glass of bubbles with her two year old lurcher called 'Scamp'. He was not nipping and biting and jumping and squealing. Scamp was refined and genteel. As indeed was it's owner.
Our dog reflects quite the peasants that we are.
When we shout at each other over the Brexit debacle, the appropriation of the wealth of our country, when we make irate calls to the council because of the ludicrous cost of the Poll Tax, when we scream at he who shall not be named, telling untruths in hospital corridors, the dog in the house bloddiwell joins in.
We have a dog in the house that is meant to make us feel younger, fitter, less lonely, more connected, healthier and sane. She's meant to do all those things but so far the old git and I have not slept in the same bed for 9 weeks, we've spent more on chicken wings and kibble than we have on smoked salmon and bagels. Since the arrival of the dog in the house tissues have been ripped by tiny milk teeth, floors have been piddled on, carpets have been widdled on, nerves have been frayed, rugs have been frayed, fleeces used as blankets, blankets used as beds, pullovers used as cushions, cushions used as chews, tassels on the floor, twigs in the armchair, paw prints on the piano, nose marks on the window, and so far her legs are longer than mine and she's only 16 bleeding weeks old.
I wanted to go to Brighton to protest over something or other, but the dog cannot travel that far yet. So despite viruses, and insomnia, dishevelled shirts and lack of planning, the dog in the house is here to stay. She'll grow saner and bigger and then we can take her along to more protests, for make no mistake there will be more protests, we've been fighting for a world for our kids and grandkids for years now but there's a new imperative where we're fighting for the planet and this idiot puppy that we want to see grow into a participating member of a peaceful society.
The banner will be made;
'Canines for Climate Change'.
'Lurchers against Liars'.
And
'You Can Teach Old Dogs New Tricks.'
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Posted by Jeni in | 28 August 2019
I studied the British Constitution at school, never concentrated, wasn't bothered, had about as much interest as learning how to plait raffia palm mats.
But now fifty four years down the line my interest has been sparked by an old Etonian bully masquerading as our First Minister, a clever, calculating, manipulative nincompoop, imbecile, jerk, lummox, moron, ninny, witling piece of shite that has been appointed, by a bunch of oleaginous sycophants, as the mouthpiece of this little island. Mr. Blobby striding down the corridors of power with his hands in pockets forever scratching his brains.
I want to swear and hurl missiles, I want to scream just inches away from his pomposity. I want to throw Shakespearean quotes at him, whilst standing over him and pricking him with a very sharp rapier screaming; You are a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality. I want to tug on his jacket, and curse at his use of high born connections, scold him as he persuades poor old Betty Windsor to scribble her consent to his unconstitutional shenanigans.
The arrogance, the presumption, the sheer unadulterated oneupmanship of the baby-kin with tousled hair and upper-crust friends. The Redwoods that tower disdainfully, the Reece-Snobs that shower us with supercilious contempt.
I didn't know I was so angry until a friend wrote a despairing note Will we survive this dictator, she asked. Is he a dictator or just a dick?
As we watch the Etonians sling their privilege around like they own the joint - which of course many of them do - we must remember that when the populace truly wakes up the old school will be given detention and shunted to the back of the class.
For make no mistake this is class warfare that has been refined with the help of Amazonian trillionaires and years of secret dinners.
But do not worry for there are many of us with the muscle to wield our sabres and our rattling will turn the likes of Jacob Reece Snob and John Redwank scuttling back under their rocks. For they are worse than any vermin with their puffed up insolence.
For the first shall be last and the meek shall inherit the earth.
I studied scripture at school, I was taught by a fascist called Mr. Mead who told me Hitler had not finished his job and that I deserved to be in a gas chamber. I picked up my pens and left the room, only then did my legs turn to jelly. He died prematurely - of course he did - rottenness will work from within, he was eaten away by a virulent disease.
The egotistical smug bastards will wither and die and the rainbow children will rise up.
But patience and determination are the watch words. Their certainty frightens me, their distortion of the truth is disturbing, their fumbling under the bedclothes with the likes of Trump, is nauseating, but I keep breathing - deeply - and reread this Cree Prophecy
When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 19 August 2019
I'm on Radio Sussex for one more week.
5.50 start. 6.20 leave. 7.08 Brighton. 7.30 Telly trail. 8.00 probable pre-record. 8.28 trail. 8.32 trail. 9.05 and we're off.
Last week we covered everything from Green living to Narcolepsy. A young 18-year-old by the name if Lewis Herzog, told us of his life and tribulations as a narcoleptic. He was eloquent, articulate, and in no way beaten by his condition. He's off to university on his own having fought for a drug that cost 2,000 pounds a bottle. For two years he had to convince his doctors that he was eligible for it. He won, because he is one of life's winners.
This morning we talked about the retirement age being increased to 75.
Ian Duncan-Spite - the 65-year-old pomposity who said he could live on 53 Pounds a week while pocketing more money than he deserves - and his think tank suggested that the country can not afford old people any more. The harder we work the fitter we become - says the corpulent business man who has pension schemes coming out of his anus - 'Lets get the untermenches working as hard as they can for 70 is the new 50' - well something like that said the ex-leader of the Conservative Party who deems disabled people only to be actually disabled when they are knocking on heavens door.
People telephoned and talked of being on pension credit because life had dealt them blows that made retirement a prospect only achievable by the likes of Ian Duncan-Smite.
I am lost for words when I think about the financial advisors, the bankers, the monied class that have as much compassion as Ian Duncan's scrotal sack.
Forgive me, even a scrotal sack, that swings to the right, has more compassion than Ian Duncan-Shiz.
Impartiality is the watch word at the British Broadcasting Corporation, and I am extremely grateful that I have the privilege of listening to people when they tell their stories, air their grievances, on a platform that is provided by speech radio. But sometimes it hurts that I am powerless to help. All I can do is give people the chance to talk.
So today we opened up a box of worms. A woman activist who has been tirelessly working for female equality for six years, discovered that the country was 28 Billion pounds in credit, our credit, your credit. 28 billion pounds that was in the coffers from the hard work that millions of us have paid into our National Insurance scheme. That money instead of being used to help the vulnerable, the old, the infirm, was used to pay off our national debt run up by whom?
It weren't me guv.
Yougov?
Not me guv.
So tomorrow I talk about ageism, bum implants and the buttstop. Feel free to talk to me.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 31 July 2019
Well it had to happen, after the Labrador died we only had cats, then Emmy decided to die in the spring. She lay in the garden her front paws crossed, a smile on her face, as stiff as a board. Her long life had come to an end.
And then we talked. We went to websites, we talked some more, and forgot about it. Then we talked again. I sat with my lap top looking at Malamutes in Leicester and Retrievers in Norfolk.. The old git found another website and wrote paragraphs on why we would be good parents.
And then out of nowhere, the 'oosbind started erecting gates and buying mesh and filling in gaps in the garden to make it puppy proof. Then three weeks ago a picture of a basket of puppies came up on his computer. 10 tiny Lurchers, all leggy and cute, were looking for homes, you could smell them biscuity puppies ten miles away.
Trevor was meant to check the garden, Sunday came and went and he didn't arrive, but Magaret did, and she said what a lovely home for a dog.
We'd been to the rescue place and seen the puppies, boys in one room, the little girlies in another. Climbing and crawling over each other, whining and sniffing. Each litter is named after a collective noun this load of Lurchers were named after biscuits. 'Jammie Dodger' had gone, 'Bourbon' had gone, 'Custard Cream' had been nabbed, we had to choose between 'Rich Tea' and 'Digestive'. We, well the old man, chose 'Digestive' cos she was calm and quiet, pretty with a white spot on her nose and little white socks and a white tip on the end of her tail.
After Margaret had given us the go ahead we drove through Withyham and Hartfield, down past the nursery and the new builds into the 'Last Chance' rescue place. Parked the car, opened the gate, walked past the goats and the two cats who couldn't be separated, as they'd been used as breeders for eight years and needed each others company and a loving home. Digestive was handed over to us, smelling of her siblings wee, she was stinky but sweet.
She trembled in my arms as we drove home.
Into the kitchen, she padded, this tiny, long legged thing, a miniature foal.
And so the training and the sleeping and the waking and the poohing and the vets and the change of diet and the biscuits and the shitting and the vets and the Kaolin and the change of biscuits and finally, after the Northern Gits patience and expertise, we have a quiet home. She has adopted his chair. She knows what she wants.
She has stopped with the defiling of the rugs and now prefers to leave her trail on every leaf in the garden.
She has learnt how to give up a paw, accept a treat and sit.
She knows how to ask to go out into the garden, and she settles down in her crate with her blanket and toys and one of his old shoes.
When he leaves the house she cries, when the dawter came the puppy leapt into her arms as if she were a veteran back from a three year tour of Afghanistan.
"It's all about the energy," said the dog whisperer.
She yawns and squeaks and nestles into your neck. She hates the car but the 'oosbind will train her by Sunday so that we can take her for her second inoculation.
We have joined the pet club to get reduced animal feed.
A lovely friend bought us a doggie sling and gave us toys that himself fills with food that she chases and nibbles till she gets the treat out of the hole.
I sit up all night
He sits up all night.
Although last night I watched a documentary and she was spark out by 2.00. I covered the crate with her blanket and shawl, and she curled up on top of his trainer.
A crate!!! They never had such a thing when we got Jackson in 1994, well they probably did but we didn't know about it.
She slept till 7.30 when the keeper got out of bed and soaked her biscuits.
She was born on May 23rd, and her name is Suki Sioux, she will be walking on a lead in four days and then we can knacker her enough so that we can go to sleep normally.
Suki Sioux, is vulnerable and feisty, she is spindly and smooth. There were those who wondered whether it was a good idea to get a puppy, at this time in our lives? "New life is good" said the dawter and her friends.
We're fecking exhausted.
We're turning down invites that are difficult and we've enlisted the help of neighbours.
Why we even cracked open a bottle of bubbly and designated them as surrogate parents. The neighbours on the other side are on holiday but when they get back the teenager will be in stroking and nuzzling and babysitting, should we need it.
The house is a tip, shoes, scarves, blankets, squeaky toys, slings, dog bowls, water bowls, biscuits and leads everywhere.
Of course it is lovely to have her, but blimey it aint 'alf hard work - I am told it will be worth it in the end. A dear friend, who is a patron of the Lurcher Society said they have sensitive stomachs but when you find the right diet they are fab. She texted me this after having a wild swim in a river in Portugal, having left her Lurcher in the hands of her son.
So it's nearly midnight, she's snoozing in the chair, the cottage is quiet, I'm starving and the old git is on the internet trying to buy a battery, not for the dog for the computer. Suki Sioux is chipped, clipped and now one of the family.
The dear old man is cutting up a 'reward' so that she can be enticed into the garden. He is in trainer mode, you know using that high pitched voice calling "Suki". I can hear him saying ''good girl, good dog." All praise and encouragement. Who would have thought that we would get so excited about a bitch having a wee.
She'll outlive us, but don't tell her that.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 17 July 2019
I had a dream, not as eloquent as Dr.M.L.Kings, but a dream nevertheless.
I dreamt that the Green Water People, Zuni's, Apache's and Sioux, Cherokee and Choctaw's, and many more, assembled on the White House Lawn. Thousands of Native Americans from the North, to the South from the East to the West, from the Great Plains to Chihuahua, all assembled on the White House lawn sitting atop their beautiful horses. Spanish Mustangs, Appaloosas and Pony's from the Praires, standing silently on the White House Lawn. The only movement - their manes in the breeze, the only sound hooves pawing the ground and an occasional blow of air from their velvety noses.
The indigenous people sat tall and still, their War bonnets and feathered headdresses a sea of colour. From Arizona to Wyoming, from Apalachee to Keweenay bay, the women held newly stitched flags with seven words embroidered on them.
The 45th President and his entourage of fawning sycophants peered out of the White House windows, holding their breath for the flags, waving in the wind, said simply
GET BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM
I had a dream.
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Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 11 July 2019
My dear bloggers
The end of a weeeeeeek, a long long weeeeeek.
Culminating in four hours at Drusilla's zoo.
On the radio I've talked to doctors, story consultants, an uninformed gay black-man who suggested that the two lesbians that got mugged on the bus brought it on themselves SCUSE ME!!!!
I talked to green festival makers and the green goddess talking about exercising for the over fifties - she is eighty and her exercise regime made me feel like a bloated Rubinesque life model without the old style of Italian Renaissance or Baroque aesthetics more like the before pictures from Slimming World.
But at Drusilla's today I stroked a chinchilla, a snake and an armadillo - its' belly felt like a rubber dingy. It clung to his keeper James, who has been at the zoo for 17 years - it made me cry, it's little face buried into James' right armpit.
I stared at a sloth, at snowy white owls, fed two camels and genuinely felt the weight of climate change since all the little animals were being rescued and conserved. I marvelled at the anteater who's tail looked like a feather duster and its nose like a hoover nozzle, he was just a very charming household appliance. I crouched down with North American beavers and fed them sweet potatoes, I allowed my arms to be clung on by black limas and was transfixed by the pink flamingoes who stand on one leg until they get tired then stand on the other. I was as close to a red panda as you can get without turning into bamboo - which by the way is what Panda means, an animal that eats bamboo.
I met the keepers who hand-reared the camels. Two delicious creatures from Mongolia displaying their summer coats a velvety, smooth Farrow and Ball greyish beige, when the winter sets in they grow a pile of fur that looks like Ian McShane's curly locks.
I cried at the monkeys who had lost their habitat, and the parrots that were sold for profit, or the animals that were poached. The animal known as man is a misguided idiot, and fracking proves it. I ate lunch with my step-daughter and grandaughter who came along and were given a fab day in Eastbourne.
It has been a wonderful experience, tomorrow I am to my cranial osteopath to be rebalanced
Today I decided to wear a bra and some knickers, trousers and a tee shirt. WHAT AN IDIOT. It was 23 degrees so now my body is indented with vicious elastic lines and a red waistband. Today of all days was dungaree weather. I got too responsible for me own good. I now have my sarong loosely slung around my pinched middle, and tomorrow I intend wearing nothing for as long as possible.
I do not like the idea of animals being locked away but at Drusilla's they care and coax, breed and heal. The helpers are so kind and the food is right healthy too.
I've done a lot of things in my little old life but today hurt my heart. The fact that we need zoos in the East Sussex countryside to help Madagascan Lima's stay alive says it all.
Daddy Attenborough says he is optimistic because the young are getting it. I think all of us should be concerned, all of us should be prepared to lay off meat, throw the fish back in the sea, cradle butterflies and throw as many bee bombs around as we can so that our little island is covered in poppies and cornflowers, caterpillars and dormice.
I have been humbled by the keepers at Drusilla's, their kindness, generosity and sense of humour.
May the frackers fail and may the frackers fighters be supported by all and sundry.
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