Let it all out, G.B.

I’ll be honest with you; I’m not in a good mood. My usual optimism (?) has been spread far too thin recently and today I feel like I’ve been tipped over the edge. The last month or so has been a string of unfortunate events: car problems, work problems, boiler problems (and therefore money problems) and so on, and today it’s felt like the weather has stopped working and we’ve been shrouded in a dark flug of dampness. A day long solar eclipse, with moisture. And then there’s the news – the source of so much of my bile and the vent for an overactive spleen. Yes. Let’s take it out on the news, just for the exercise. Just for an exorcism of frustration. There may be swearing.
Brexit. I feel I speak for a nation when I say I’m sick to the back fucking teeth of Brexit. I feel for Theresa May. Genuinely. I’m in the camp that thinks she’s doing alright. She’s doing what she became Prime Minister to do. I can’t help thinking that if she knew she’d be under this much fire she wouldn’t have bothered applying for the job, but let’s not forget that 2 years ago she seemed like the only credible option. More worrying, actually terrifying, is that right now, today, she still feels like the only credible option. Johnson? Gove? Corbyn? Fuck that lot. Parliament seems to be filled with a weasely bunch of sniping, back-stabbing, undermining, truculent, morally and judgementally misguided, thoroughly self-serving turdbags and I can tell you that not one of them could be doing a better job than May is right now. That doesn’t mean she’s doing even remotely well, she’s just doing a shit job less badly than anyone else could. Whilst surrounded by motherfuckers. How she still gets up in the morning is a mystery. Captain Oates would be ashamed of himself in the face of such perseverance. People say if we don’t sort Brexit out properly then Parliament will lose all credibility. I think it’s far too late to worry about that now.
Womb transplant. Yes, womb transplant. Doctors in Brazil have revealed that a woman has given birth to a healthy (by that they mean living) baby from a woman transplanted from a dead someone to a living someone else (that’s how it works apparently). There is a level of awe in which I gaze at the power of modern science, awe that will be multiplied many times when they start having to replace my vital organs. However, these doctors say it is the first step in providing more recycled wombs to families that desperately want a baby and that’s surely a good thing? Is it fuckery. The last thing we need right now is more babies plopping out. The last thing we need is more ways to generate more bodies to suck the life out of this wheezing, asthmatic planet that we’re still busy tinkering with. How much money went into reaching the point of a successful womb transplant? How many better causes could it have been spent on? The answer to both those questions is lots.
Nigel Farage quits UKIP. You might think that’s good news but, incredibly, it’s not. You see Nigel Farage somehow managed to be the face of an acceptable UKIP, if that’s possible. A UKIP that was still essentially a bunch of daft racists but at least attempted to erect a gossamer thin veneer of respectability over this and in doing so won the votes of rather a lot of other daft racists in disguise. Of course, Farage should be dragged through gorilla shit naked for eternity for the whole Brexit disaster but then, frankly, so should almost everyone who voted for Brexit in the first place. Anyway, Farage has quit because UKIP has taken a serious downturn since their ‘glory days’. That stained, awkward veneer has been ripped down to such an extent that their now leader Gerard ‘#1’ Batten has employed the former English Defence League leader Tommy ‘#2’ Robinson as an advisor. Sorry, I meant ‘advisor’. This is like Gary Glitter employing the ghost of Jimmy Saville to help ween him off the kiddies. Robinson will ‘advise’ Batten on such topics as Muslim grooming gangs and, rather vaguely, prisons (food in; rehabilitation in; drugs in; violence in; Muslims in; showers in???). Now there’s a cosy Sunday roast dinner for all the family to enjoy. Batten has likened Robinson to a moral campaigner in the mould of Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. That’s right. That’s what he said.
Let’s finish on a lighter note and discuss Katie Price, an individual for whom the lofty aim of being pointless seems even loftier and aimless by the day. Once blessed with a £40 million fortune she has now narrowly avoided being made bankrupt, provided she makes an agreement with her creditors sharpish. It is not known what kind of agreement she has in mind. A flash of her legendary jugs? A free hardback set of her complete written works: from steamy clamboilers and Barbie doll bollocks to radiant self-help tomes; pages and pages of sage advice covering the gamut of hot topics in her life from A (anal) to B (botox)? Some free horse riding lessons with both Katie and Horse………….. (insert ludicrous name as appropriate) dressed up to the hilt in matching pink lace outfits and laughable, kilo heavy diamante tiaras? Or perhaps keep it simple and send a free sample of any one selection from her top selling perfume range? Simply mix 1 part concentrate with 50 parts water and you have an industrial strength disinfectant that could keep the floor of a Sudanese prison bacteria free for weeks. Wouldn’t smell so good though. In conclusion: I don’t much care. Why should anyone? It isn’t news of any kind. Poor, silly girl, coming across all special for so long. Besides, better to have had £40 million quid and lost it than to not have had it in the first place. And every penny scratched together from other peoples’ stupidity. Christ knows what crap she must have spent it on. Think of all those Brazilian womb transplants it could have paid for.
I feel marginally better. Roll on Christmas.
G B Hewitt. 05.12.2018