So Bolsonaro has had hiccups for ten days, they have hospitalised the father of the rain forest waiting to cut him open. His inability to speak for a fortnight may just save an inch or two of the Amazon. Seeing the bloated Brazilian immobilised on a gurney felt like some kind of retribution.
Not to be wicked but wouldn’t it be nice if all the cold-blooded politicians came down with ailments, not that I’m wishing them dead – but what a joyous relief it would be if The Taliban – the whole shit and shebang of them – came down with severe Piles. Swollen, haemorrhoids that immobilised them for days and only intelligent, independent women were there to nurse them.
‘Stick your chauvinistic bullshit up your arse.’ you would hear them sigh, as they literally shoved their fundamentals back into their itchy Talibanuses.
Not to be mean but if the The Home Secretary were to get a bad dose of nits – I mean really bad like a head full of blisters with loadsa little white eggs laid in her eyelashes. I’m tellin’ you feelin’ lousy for a couple of weeks would be punishment enough for makin’ everybody else feel fuckin’ lousy all the time – wouldn’t we get a modicum of peace whilst Ms Priki the woman with no endins’, was made to reflect.
And then hay fever, so wretched for many, would be a terrific way to shut the Johnson up. What with all that sneezing and wheezing, coughing and spluttering, what a marvellous way to cut short his time at the podium as he mops up the dripping mucus around his snotty nose.
Ok I know this is childish, but sometimes, just sometimes, saying the unsayable is truly cathartic. Don’t tell me you haven’t shouted ‘Fuck off’ at the monumentally sanctimonious Jacob Rees Gobb. Or thrown a wet flannel at the telly when Gove starts a prattle. I cannot believe you haven’t hurled ‘You cannot be fucking serious’ at Grant Schnapps when he utters yet another bilge filled sentence.
My mother would scream ‘A fayer aoyf zey’ – an ancient Yiddish curse – which literally means ‘A fire on them’.
Expletives help us handle suffering.
‘Past research has demonstrated that repeating a swear word helped people tolerate physical pain. It even helped decrease the social pain of being excluded.’
Well, fuck me if I don’t feel excluded every fucking day, what with a mask mask here, and a mask mask there, here a mask, there a mask, everywhere a mask mask. Well it looks like the big mouths masquerading as people who apparently give a fuck, are leading us towards yet another lock down.
Ibiza and Minorca, Mallorca and Formentera have now turned amber so now all those poor tossers who spent their last sovereign on dreaming of a pint on the Costa Del Sol are now singing the Balearic blues. Hundreds of pounds to get back into their own country – quarantining without sick pay, and worst of all, all that white Anglo Saxon skin remaining as white as it was before March 23rd 2020.
We are living in suspended animation. Poppy Pee Wee mentioned that I hadn’t talked about the Covid thing. Well what’s there to say? I don’t know who to trust. The Queen asked me to take the needle to help the nation. Dolly Parton sung ‘Vaccine. Vaccine’ to the tune of ‘Jolene, Jolene’, so I went and had me two jabs. Now I’m told that I am not as well protected as I should be. I mask up in the supermarket, I don’t snog my neighbours and I stay away from football matches. I have paper masks in the glove compartment of my car, I have cloth masks in the drawer, I have more paper masks in the boot of my car and trendy masks stuffed into every pocket of every thing I wear. I don’t sing in a choir and I’ve stopped going to the gym. I do what I’m told until I don’t and now I don’t know what to do again because those at the top keep changing the bleeding rules. I have no intention of going on holiday on an airplane – green or no green – and if I do want a day out on the beach I will sit as far away as possible from the family of squealing children who are spraying their toddler germs all over the place.
I am sick of the news, I am tired of the papers. ‘The Mail’ is getting ever more right wing and ‘The Guardians’ print is too small for my ageing eyes. Look, I am a woman of uncertain credentials, I want to live at least another twenty years, in a world where the rivers run clean and the forests grow strong where the crumbling leaders have been replaced with young peeps who understand that throwing litter in a bin is a common courtesy and that if we treat our living spaces like shit then we deserve to perish. I want to replace the fear of raging fires and flooding with a decent jet-stream and seasonal fruit. I do not want 50 mile an hour winds to rip up my curly kale and I do not want my leaders to lie through their teeth.
Although, just saying, wouldn’t it be grand if all those lying bastards were struck down with abscesses and gingivitis, overly sensitive cavities and raging toothaches. Ooooh! Wouldn’t it be ironic if all the dentists were closed and the only relief for those toothless politicians would be to rub their gums with clove oil then shut the fuck up.