Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells

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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Ian Duncan't Spliff

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.


Not me guv.

So tomorrow I talk about ageism, bum implants and the buttstop. Feel free to talk to me.

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Suki Sioux

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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Donalds Dilemma.

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


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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June brings tulips, lilies roses......

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 1 July 2019

June happened in the blinking of an eye. We watched the honey bees slurp the nectar out of all the blue flowers and counted the worm holes in the lawn. I planted up radishes, rocket, spinach and two tomato plants, refugees from Devon.

There were birthdays galore; surrogate sons, nephews, granddaughters, godchildren, brothers. They all got cards which I bought from the little shop in the village. I buy them en masse. Write them up, leave them on the dresser beside the succulents then post them in chronological order. July is even more packed; the 2nd is my oldest boy friend from college, 3rd the man that changed my life who doesn't talk to me any more, 4th one of my favourite bosses, 5th two of my dearest girlfriends, 7th my wonderful German acupuncturist, 9th an actor, 12th a musical director who introduced me to Billy Holiday and told me to stand still when I sung, and then a respite before the onslaught of August.

So in between my visits to the Post Office we drove to Devon, then Cornwall, back to Devon again then on to Goudhurst. Our first Devonian stop off was in an American diner where they served hamburgers to a soundtrack of Buddy Holly against a backdrop of black and white photos of the Rat Pack. We arrived in the garden of an artist who paints delicious water colours and remembers the past. She sways with music and bemoans the arthritis in her spine, she has a new telly from her son that's big enough to see without my Varifocals and a big bed with a soft mattress where we slept under cool cotton sheets. We left Devon after a breakfast of soft wholemeal bread, home made marmalade and cherished hugs. On Midsummers day we drove past Stonehenge, as the sun moved up in the sky and the crowds built up. We sped past them arriving at the Eden project by noon.

The car-parks have fruit names, we backed into a space in Plum 2, then walked down the winding path to the Biodomes. A sound check for Nile Rogers echoed through the potato plots and herby crops. The Rain Forest biome was hot and steamy. The higher we got the the warmer it became - over a swinging bridge into the canopy, and a moment of standing over jets that pumped out 'clouds' of cool water. A group of Philippine women had travelled from California to their forest in the middle of Cornwall. They talked of flowers and traditions back home and giggled over their homeland being brought to the English West Country. We drunk Baobab juice and had lunch in the Mediterranean biome. Sitting next to a sign that told us not to feed the birds that hopped between the tables. The old git put crumbs on his shoulder until I scolded him....

We took the land train, open carriages pulled by a tractor, then the bus to Plum 2. We drove to a delicious hotel run by an Italian Basil Fawlty. We paid an extra tenner for a room bigger than our cottage with a carpeted bathroom and windows that opened into Virginia Creeper. We went out for dinner in the highest pub in Cornwall, back to some telly then slumbered in a bed the size of Dartmoor. Breakfast was continental unless we added eggs and bacon which cost extra.

The sat-nav took us to Bigbury-by-the-sea back in Devon, where the parking machines were broke, the cash machines non-existent, and the locals unwilling to help. So we drove off to our second lot of Devon friends. Through high hedges and into a village 7 miles from Totnes, we ate nibbles under an umbrella in the garden, then home made curry in the kitchen and then set about playing Bananagrams all night. Four adults cheating and screaming - dodging death.

After a barnstorming breakfast of bacon between fresh sour dough bread we opened the Bananagram bag and shouted at each other until we left to visit the first Devonians' art exhibition in Totnes, back to her partners house which strained under mountains of objet d'art, a very loud stereo system and magnificent potted plants. We ate scones with jam and cream put on simultaneously thus bypassing the argument of what comes first the dairy or the conserve. Then at four thirty we slipped out of the West Country and arrived in Goudhurst at 9.30, collecting the daughter from her godmother and arrived home in time for some herbal tea and a family chat.

Today me and him hooked up with the grandchildren and their mother for a casting in London. Lots of noisy actors all looking like grans and grandpas, with well groomed hair and pretty children, and us looking as scruffy as you like. We left having improvised in front of the camera for a job that nobody has a clue about. We had tea in Soho then raced each other home. We got the 5.58 from Charing Cross, they caught the 5.57 from Victoria. They put the key in the lock as we put the key in our lock. And so today finished with a draw.

We have had a perfect bustling June, even though the leaders of the free world are playing silly buggers. I think Stormzy should be Prime Minister, Sir David Attenborough King and Leila Parker should be made queen of everything because she lives next door, is a wonderful mother has created an amazing charity 'Baby 2 BaBy' for families without and is part of the younger generation who care. Oh that bungling Boris and hopping Hunt really cared but enough like my delicious neighbour. It's July now, a new moon tomorrow and new beginnings.

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Cast not a clout till May

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 15 June 2019

I take great exception at having a new Prime Minister foisted upon me again.

I cannot believe that I will be governed by a politician that is taken from the list of rent-a-twat.

If I try and recall them it is with a sinking heart. I mean look at who they are, look who is going to represent us. I say us, for there are those amongst us who will be drooling into their daily expresso as they chow down on their devilled kidneys, who are positively fired up by this leadership contest. Those who are positively in thrall to the likes of Jeremy Runt, sorry I spelt his name wrong, Dominic Raaaaaab, Michael Hove Actually, the rabid Sajid Javid, Rory, the love child of the Adams Family and Boris Trump.

Their combined wealth could rebuild Corby, Port Talbot and the entire South Bank of Teeside. They have as much interest in my wellbeing as a Lorraine Kelly has in an Esther Oy Vey.

The Conservative party, our very own GOP, does not represent me, or indeed millions of others like me, and yet they cling onto power like a rat clinging on with their whiskers. For nine years the United Kingdom has been on a slippery slope of polarisation. For nearly a decade we have been part of the growing divide. When once seven per cent of the population owned eighty-four percent of the wealth the figure is now one-ninety six. Just one percent of the idle rich demonstrating their power over the rest of us serfs. They could care less about my bus service being cut, about my high street dwindling, about my hospital closing. They could give a monkeys about my oak trees dying, about my trains stalling about my graveyard crumbling. They really really say they care, they really do, but if actions speak louder than words then I must have blinked and missed it. We are witnessing The Great British Fake Off, where the lies are so glittery, so garish, so spangly that the poor old truth is standing in the shadows. In 1949 George Orwell described a nightmarish future in his dystopian novel '1984', he wrote 'In a time of universal deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act.'

So as the old order huddles in corners, baring it's teeth, they growl as they are quietly terrified of the articulate young 'uns who are sprouting up like grass through concrete. I declare my deep respect for those that silence my cynicism, that shout down my tired old moans, I love that Stormzy and Akala and Greta and the placard carrying members of the newly formed Extinction Rebels, stick their fingers up to the so-called elite. I applaud their courage. For make no mistake, when the bookies stop their speculating, whoever gets in we will be left with a Prime Minister who does not want to change anything, other than their own status.

I don't understand the workings of proportional representation and I don't understand the confusion about democracy, all I do know is that if people hold the power then whoever the new PM is they had better watch out because I, for one, want my voice heard, and the voices of the young ring louder and sweeter than the xenophobic croaking of the frightened crusties.

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Hello June

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 1 June 2019

May came and went, and I'm not just talking about the month.

My brother got married, we had our wedding anniversary and a pile of birthdays to celebrate - seven Taurus's in a row. Some got cards, some got texts, a good many phone calls were made.

We had German friends staying for a week, young friends visiting from Bali, new friends sleeping all over the house.

I cooked vegan feasts, vegetarian breakfasts and plant based dinners. I walked a lot and cooked some more.

And so now it's June.

The sage has purple flowers for the first time ever. Blue, pink and raspberry coloured aquilegia have self seeded all over the garden. The strawberries are flowering, the jasmine is throwing out new leaves and the comfrey has gone flaming mad. The bees love it; the butterflies have been fluttering by the daisies and buttercups and tomorrow I'm planting my bee-bomb- a wonderful bag of wild flowers to encourage even more bees, potting on lupins and geraniums ( gifts from friends ) and awaiting my delphiniums top arrive in the post.

In go the spinach and rocket, in go the beans and courgettes, in go the radishes and lettuces. I'm conscious that I'm getting glimpses of the light at the end of the tunnel, so I'm trying not to waste my time.

I've had new photos taken, I've had meetings with old allies and ideas a plenty. I'm developing my first novel and have finally got into my routine of meditation and exercising before I can tell myself not to. Tricking myself as I wake up. Throwing out the yoga mat before the other voice interferes and tells me to go downstairs and wait till tomorrow.

Today I mowed the lawn, gives me time to think, instant gratification as the grass looks so neat and tidy in an instant. And as the sun shone my shoulders turned brown.

This evening I tided my cupboard in the attic and found all the letters from the old git from the 70's. Hand written, in blue ink. He sent me homegrown leeks, which we later discovered was a fancy french love token. Forty two years down the line we argue regularly, snap more readily, laugh and hold hands a lot. We prefer to be with each other as opposed to being without, sometimes I shake him when he's sleeping just to make sure he hasn't died mid dream. We should plan for our future, but we don't. We should be thinking about money in the bank, but we don't, we should be doing all sorts of bucket list things, but we don't, which is why our garden is now looking like an entry for Hampton and Chelsea flower shows.

We should be doing all sorts of grown up things but to tell you the truth neither of us can be bothered. He stands end eats breakfast whilst I make my celery juice. We wander through a sunny French market and enjoy the fact that we can stay up till ever so late because we haven't got any mad dead lines. Tis true that you never retire in our business but winding down is inevitable, as is ageing. Sometimes I want to scream at my missed opportunities but it is what it is.

Last week my hygienist said to me "It wasn't any kind of stalking, but I looked you up on Google, what an interesting life you've had."

"Itsch not o'er gyet." I attempted to say , as i dribbled into my bib. And it isn't.

So happy June everybody and let not Trump destroy our humour.

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