Hurrah for Harris

I read in the magazine ‘What Doctor’s Don’t Tell You’ that filter coffee is better for diabetics than a cafetier or the Old Git’s fancy machine. So I bought a funnel on line, a pack of filters and a permanent gauzy type thing from Jeremy’s Kitchen Shop. The result is a delicious, mellow cup of coffee that can be taken black because the bitterness has gone. I’m sitting at the kitchen table having just got in from buying bottled water – a burst main somewhere so we are waterless and in weather like this – sipping on a Blue Mountain blend. I will retire outside and sit under the apple trees and read my ‘Mastering Diabetes.’ book, although, to be honest, I am finding reading tricky at the moment – my mind wanders and should my eye lids droop I’m off to the land of nod in seconds.
Take last night. I had driven to London to have acupuncture. The dawter’s been using my car so my seat was too low, the back too supine and the mirrors awry. I tried lowering the seat with some success but I couldn’t, for love nor money, adjust the back. My legs are half the size of any normal person so I had to perch on the edge of the seat, and refrain from leaning backwards as I wouldn’t have reached the pedals at all. So there I am in my open topped jalopy in 97degrees of sweltering heat, driving through Clapham and Crystal Palace, down the M25 and up the A26, 42 miles one way and 43 the other ( G0 FIGURE as they say in New York), sucking on raspberries. I found a cap behind the seat which says ‘Piss Off’, highly appropriate for my frame of mind at the moment. Driving as fast as was legal without blowing my cap off, I arrived home so hot and sweaty I felt like a Kwala Lumpan hash-slinger in Petaling Street Market and, before you could say, “pass me my smelling salts,” I was out like a light.
After a supper of cold bites I watched ‘Line of Duty’ with the ‘oosbind then sat alone catching up on the United States of Mayhem as the 45th Dissembler curled my lips into a tight squeezed lemon of a mouth, I could feel myself reaching for a fag, only I don’t smoke, or a stiff whiskey sour, only I don’t drink, or even a brick, only I’m told violence is not the answer. So when Biden announced ‘Nasty’ Kamala Harris as his running mate I could feel the Orange Buffoon’s left bollock get sucked up into his groin in a rush of total panic, his balls, like half the Senate, deserting him. I could see Blubbermouth pacing around the Oval Office until his wayward testicle eventually dropped back into his scrotal
sack. Oh, how the sight of an intelligent black woman – with a brain – who is utterly un-phased by his wicked, lying ways, must be scaring him shitless. Let’s hope so.
Allan Lichtman, who has predicted the correct election results in the States since 1984, has announced that Biden will win and Trump will lose, I’m holding onto Allan’s forecast because I want to. Better to believe in a positive outcome than wallow in the misery of dreadful possibilities.
I am an optimist with realistic tendencies which means I’m observing what’s happening on our little sceptred isle with some sceptisim. No work, no jobs, no money. No leadership, no truth, no common sense. Just a handful of corporate dabblers who are making deals behind our backs. Who is going to pay for this chaos I wonder? It certainly won’t be the likes of The Rt Hon Boris Johnson MP …The Rt Hon Rishi Sunak MP …The Rt Hon Dominic Raab MP …The Rt Hon Priti Patel MP …The Rt Hon Michael Gove MP …The Rt Hon Robert Buckland QC MP …The Rt Hon Ben Wallace MP… The Rt Hon Matt Hancock MP….or the reptilian Demonic Cumbag. It’s the same the whole world over, it’s the poor what gets the blame, it’s the rich what gets the pleasure, ain’t it all a bloomin’ shame?
But let us not despair, as long as we have beating hearts and a direct line to compassion the greedy overlords will find themselves on the sharp end of dissent and the revolting peasants will deliver a return to truth, justice and love.