I don’t know about you but I dont know what day it is. April is nearly in the middle and my head is full of easter eggs, missed birthdays and Putin.
I try not to think about his disgusting antics, I try not to think about Rwanda and our racist government, I try not to think about the cost of living crisis but I fail.
I sit in the garden and meditate, which keeps me on the straight and narrow, but then I have to rebook the plumber YET AGAIN, I’m aware that my voice will be recorded so instead of saying, ‘Listen you fucking arseholes this stop cock saga has gone on long enough and you can whistle for your money’ I say ‘Of course I’ll hold the line Sharon/Louise/Deirdre. Instead of saying ‘Who the fuck has trained your inane staff who can’t string one fucking word together and don’t read the notes’ I say ‘Yes of course I’ll hold – no problem.’ When in fact there is a problem. A great big cancerous problem of our society breaking down before our very eyes.
This morning Luke came. Shook his head at the blue pipe, not a black or copper pipe, but a blue pipe, sighed that he didn’t have a 25mm pipe but a 20mm pipe and that as it was Good Friday he couldn’t get the parts and since he he doesn’t carry the blue pipe, nor black nor copper, on the van it will now have to be May 2nd before they can fix the fucking stop cock.
So I say ‘That’s ok Luke, thank you for coming’ when all I really want to say is ‘Listen you fucking bottom feeder I couldn’t give a monkey’s about what colour the pipe is just get the fucking thing fixed’
Then I throw my eyes to heaven and say ‘Thank you for coming Luke’ when what I really want to say is ‘Fuck off Luke I never want to see you or your red van ever again.’
We haven’t had an away day for a bit due to waiting in for stop cocks and weather and a stinking cold and everybody telling me it was a version of covid. However, yesterday we banked Hastings and all had a Tuina massage instead.
Should you want to experience the delight that is David James here are his details.
[email protected] – 0796 898 9750
David is 6.00ft, wears glasses and has salt and pepper hair. He lives in Wappng and drives down to East Sussex to do us.
Tuina is an ancient Chinese form of healing. It is administered whilst you are fully clothed, whilst lying underneath a white sheet David lays his hands on you and presses on key points. The body is stimulated, and you can feel the release. The circulation increases and the tension flies out of the window. David works your head, ears, toes, it’s like being a ball of dough that is stretched and pulled like the perfect apfel strudle. Let me tell you an away day in Hastings is good but a roll around under David’s fingers is gooder.
David came with his good lady wife so we ate a mushroom omelette – over which I grated vintage cheddar and finished off under the grill so that it swelled to the size of a soufflé. I made a crunchy green salad and slapped some fancy-schmancy bread on the table. The meal was completed with two yogurts made with raw milk, one strawberry the other raspberry. It was lovely.
We sat in the garden and talked about Wim Hof – The Iceman, and them walking on hot coals. The old git and I prefer to sit in front of hot coals rather than walking on them.
We talked about the power of the mind and choices.
For life is indeed about choices isn’t it?
At the moment we are all victims of the choices made by selfish, greedy, dispassionate bastards: the Russian president and his unconscionable actions; his inexplicable need to destroy lives, buildings, and history; his immoral choices that enables him to take away lives, just as he did in Afghanistan; his unutterably evil supporters who do his dirty work; his reign of bloody terror.
When I was a kid Russia moved into Czechoslovakia. I was 7. I can remember my mother tearing up her communist party card and my father rowing with her. He applauded the Stalinist actions of a country that needs bloody territory to validate who they are.
Our Prime Minister, he of the entitled lies and cowardly supporters, now wants to send refugees over to Rwanda. That Shiti Patel woman, who is more racist than she should be, are signing bits of paper to mangle the lives of thousands. The pair of them should be shipped out to Rwanda, with their children and left in a hotel, given meagre rations then made to experience the very degradation that they are metering out to others. Choices eh?
Liars, nasty, thoughtless, heartless people. Entitled bastards who don’t give a shit about anybody but their own.
And that Rishi Sunakkunt and his billionaire wife, I am breathless at their excruciating hypocrisy.
And Party gate and petrol prices and water and gas and electric prices – and so it goes on and on.
There has to be a change. Different choices. As it stands, neither you nor I can see where this change is coming from. The left, the right, the inbetweenies? The likes of Marie Le Penis or the tawdry Nadine Dorries who are adding their twisted mewling.
I am speechless at the bilge we are swimming in, the flotsam and jetsam that is swilling around our little Island. None of us want to talk about it anymore it’s too, too horrible.
None of us can find solutions YET, the shitbags in power have pulled the wool over our eyes and filled our ears with shitspeak.
And should you be LGBTQ or a woman, and should you be poor and non white, and should you be old or young or a creative, who the fuck is shouting out for you? And should you be broken and Ukrainian, who can you turn to? Who can you trust – who are making choices on your behalf?
Ineffectual politicians making frightening choices. Ineffectual leaders. Reprehensible public school boys who are selling the tuck, making a buck and then blaming everybody else when the coffers are empty.
I am not articulate about this I am too angry. Words are not enough to describe the breakdown of our society. The fall of the Roman Empire was bad but this collapse of Capitalism is worse. The haves and have nots, the entitled, the them and us,
the closing down of free speech, the dissembling rhetoric that leaves us all open mouthed.
I know I am not alone with any of this – and my tumultuous rage makes it hard for me to even think about solutions at the moment.
I hate Putin. I hate the bloated son of sickening Stanley and the wife of the bloated son. I hate this government who have led us for years and years and years and blame everything and everybody around them for their chaos. My mother wouldn’t allow me to use the word hate. But I do hate them however well I was brought up.
I hate them enough for the old git to hang up a punchbag for me. I’ve bought the gloves so I can go down to the cellar and punch the living daylights out of every one of them. One punch for Boris, two punches for Vladimir, a thousand punches for the Quizlings who hold them in esteem and support their vicious choices.
They are a disgusting band of lying twats.
Thank God for Davids Tuina, otherwise, trust me, I would be curled up in a corner sticking pins in a shabby rag doll with messed up hair and ill-fitting trousers.
Hastings next week? I hope so.