Sock it to ’em

Three handfuls of Epsom salts, a squirt of Badedas and Radio 4. At 7.30 this morning I climbed into the bath and pondered on the end of the world as we know it.
By midnight on Friday we will be out of the EU. Speculation abounds; queues, stockpiling, hoarding, lack of medicine, lack of bananas, lack of unity. Our little Island will bob about on its ownsome whilst the very floral Widdecombe will wave her Union Jack flag and jump about excitedly hoping to catch the eye of the ignoble Nige. Who, according to fact check, has never been a member of the National Front but does count Jim Davidson as a friend, so thats alright then.
As I lay in the bath my skin shrivelled as item after item revealed the state of our little blue planet. Netanyahu and his corruption. Trump and his lying. Grenfell and it’s shame. The money grubbing bustards who are prepared to destroy woodland and communities so that a high speed train can fill the pockets of some to the the detriment of others. As I sponged my feet I was aware that the news was dominated by men. Men who made all the decisions. Laws made by men. Wars made by men. Economics made by men. African men. Indian men. Chinese men. Italian men. Belgian men. British men. Australian men. Russian men all hell bent on growing their egos. Yes I know there are some women in amongst them BUT most of the wankery in the world is done by the male of the species. As I towelled myself dry I could feel my temperature rising at the powerlessness that most women face. Not all men are arseholes – of course they’re not – but the men in power are thoughtless, reckless, witless and spineless.
I walked through China town today to buy baby aubergines, mushrooms, spinach. a bag of rice and an onion the size of my head. It was practically empty, that’s Gerrard Street not my head, the people that were there were wearing flu protection masks. I sneezed and panicked that I had contracted the Coronavirus from the geezer pulling the trolly into the New Loon Moon supermarket. Then I wondered whether the virus had been manmade by a scientist somewhere that wanted to silence the Chinese, or whether it had been man made by a government somewhere to reduce the population. Or whether a man somewhere had been instructed to destabilise the world so that the men in suits can get on with destroying the planet with impunity.
Conspiracy theories abound, whilst all I’m trying to do is live my little life with a modicum of human kindness. I don’t hate men per se, but I do despise the breed of manboys that are now holding the reigns.
Expending energy on designing new weapons, investing in guns and bombs and military prowess as the planet dies, pitting tribe against tribe, revelling in jingoistic back slapping as the ice melts, mankind making decisions on behalf of womankind as babies and children sink into the mud of the refugee camps designed by men who insult humanity.
I struggled through the door with my Chinese shopping bags wondering whether it would be better if women did run the world. But had to concede that it was a woman who changed the face of Britain, a woman who didn’t believe in society who sowed the seed of individualism and ended up crying in the back of a Limo as a posse of men shafted her.
So gender doesn’t matter when it comes to it does it? Although if men gave birth, if men made life then I wonder whether they would be quite so cavalier in taking it away.
I’ve smothered the baby aubergines in a tamarind sauce, prepared the mushrooms in a creamy vegan concoction, soaked the rice, sorted the spinach and stored the giant onion. As the six o’clock news played out I learned that the BBC are about to cut more journalists jobs, Alistair Stewart is leaving ITV because of an insensitive post, Motormouth Hopkins has been taken off Twitter and Fern Britten has split from her husband of twenty years as Phil doesn’t like her Tatts. I laid down my chopper and turned off the telly.
Just before I left London my feet were freezing so I went into a tiny boutique in Great Poulteney Street. The Syrian owner showed me a pair of hand knitted designer sox that had the Anglo Saxon ‘C’ word woven into the elasticated top.
“How much?” I asked
“Thirty pounds”
“What?” I gulped. “Thirty pounds for a pair of socks?”
“You’re lucky.” said the Italian Brazilian co-owner. “They are in the sale – they were originally 90 pounds.”
I was so outraged I bought them.
Look it may be 15 quid a foot, but then I thought when it all gets too much I only need to hitch up my dungarees, show a leg and let the sock do the talking.