Morning Mugs,
We are not the Mother of all Parliaments, or if we are then we are a bat-shit crazy, alcohol riddled version of one. The one where Mum drinks a couple of bottles of wine, then a few gins and then decides the future direction of the family. Whilst physically and verbally abusing the family and telling them just how much they've ruined her life. All happening whilst Dad sits in the corner on the fence, quietly smoking his pipe and trying to reason in gentle tones but getting shouted down at every turn. Downtrodden and browbeaten into servility and his supine version of the quiet life.
This week an unelected faux-PM used words like 'surrender' and 'betrayal' to describe Brexit and the 16.1m who voted Remain. Yes, 16.1m people are being told to shut the fuck up and back off. So that a Brexit can be forced through with no deal, impacting a huge number of the terminally stupid who voted us out.
And once done, then we'll be told to unite, to be a United Kingdom again. Scotland will be told they're better off in one union but not the other. It isn't a Union, Scotland will be ruled by England. They will be Vichy Scotland. In effect they already are and have been for centuries. I really hope they get their collective senses together and decide to leave. The idea they can't survive without England is laughable. After that I think (and hope) that the people of Northern Ireland (NI) also come to their senses and decide that England will do fuck all for them, and that England doesn't have the money post-brexit to give them what they received from the EU. A unified Ireland would regenerate NI and it's people.
And then Wales. Wales voted to stay so as far as I'm concerned it can continue as an annexe to England. When I see the closures of plants and businesses across Wales I genuinely think why the fuck should I, as an Englishman bail them out? You reap what you sow etc.....
Please note I am also Irish as due to a great fortune my Mum was Irish and therefore one of my greatest treasures is my Irish passport. The best of both worlds, except that one half of those worlds is collapsing in a hurricane of piss, bile and vitriol. One half has become racist, bigoted, homophobic, and is lurching inexorably to becoming a far right state. When that is complete then I'm off to Ireland (or maybe France) and by hook or by crook my family will be given every chance to come with me.
By rights, London which generates huge amounts of wealth for the UK, more than any other economic area, would have great case to declare independence. It could take control of the money it generates. It could get itself ready to put border controls around it and London would be an independent country. It would still be more populous than Wales, NI and Scotland.
United Kingdom? It will never be unified again. It remains England versus the rest. Scotland versus England. NI versus England. North versus South. Young versus Old. Left versus Right. Family versus Family. And as we can see from the family of the faux-PM we have, it has even pitched brother versus brother and sister versus brother.
Leave versus Remain will never ever disappear. The country is fractured, shattered beyond repair to the point that even if Russia invaded then it would be welcomed by many. Even a war wouldn't heal the wounds.
It's fucked. Even a Peoples Vote won't repair the damage. It's the equivalent of being on a sinking ship where 52% of the people voted to sink it and don't care that it's sinking as long as the ship is no longer in the harbour.
Later Mugs, GJ
Friday 27 September 2019
Tuesday 24 September 2019
How's Your Day Going?
Morning Mugs,
I woke up this morning to torrential rain. Persistent rain. Not fucking 'showers' as the Met Office like to call rain these days, even if it's being going fo 3 hours. Pricks.
I decided it might be best to try and walk Bertie early. My strategy was to wear a pair of shorts and boat shoes with no socks. This would limit any trouser/sock/trainer soaking issues. yes I do have proper walking boots but they take a long to put on as it takes to walk Bertie and I don't have time to faff about...proper walking boots for proper walks!
Then with wax jacket and cap on we walked into the rain. We normally walk to a local secure field for dog walkers but due to the sheer heavy rain I decided a walk to the bottom of the road and the grassy verges would suffice. Its not like Bertie likes the rain much. This was fine until at a certain point a complete fuckwit in their 'never been off road' 4x4 decided to drive past ma and ignore the torrent of water running alongside the pavement.
Soaked...from head to toe. Just like you'd see in a sitcom. Except it wasn't funny and I wasn't laughing. water ingress had occurred as the water went UP the jacket and DOWN the collar as well. The cap did little to protect the few dry bits on my head.
Oh, I cursed. I shouted. I gave then the full finger and wanker gestures in the faint hope they'd stop, either to apologise or to remonstrate over my language and gestures. I was ready for either, but they drove on, no doubt oblivious, laughing or scared when they saw this raving and drooling lunatic in the rear view mirror.
We walked on to the grass verges, aware of the fact I could not get any wetter now, slightly less angry because it was just footie shorts soaked rather than jeans and trainers.No poo. Lots of wee, but he steadfastly did not do the business. We walked (trudged) back, saturated. I let him into the back garden whilst I I stripped off the wet clothing in the garage. I had dry clothes in there as an insurance. I let him in, dried him off and decided to use the loo quickly. I came back out to a trail of runny, smelly dog shit from the kitchen door to the living room door. It was like an H-block dirty protest.
As I retched my way around with loo paper, baby wipes and poo bags cleaning it up I knew bigger equipment was needed. Cue the next 30..yes 30 minutes spent using the VAX carpet cleaner (a bloody godsend if you have pets and grandchildren) cleaning the carpet fully. Copious amounts of carpet freshener applied and the smell has almost gone. Almost. I can't help thinking it may never fully go. Only the unadapted nose of visitors will tell us that.
All of this before 9am.
Hows your day going then?
Later Mugs, GJ
I woke up this morning to torrential rain. Persistent rain. Not fucking 'showers' as the Met Office like to call rain these days, even if it's being going fo 3 hours. Pricks.
I decided it might be best to try and walk Bertie early. My strategy was to wear a pair of shorts and boat shoes with no socks. This would limit any trouser/sock/trainer soaking issues. yes I do have proper walking boots but they take a long to put on as it takes to walk Bertie and I don't have time to faff about...proper walking boots for proper walks!
Then with wax jacket and cap on we walked into the rain. We normally walk to a local secure field for dog walkers but due to the sheer heavy rain I decided a walk to the bottom of the road and the grassy verges would suffice. Its not like Bertie likes the rain much. This was fine until at a certain point a complete fuckwit in their 'never been off road' 4x4 decided to drive past ma and ignore the torrent of water running alongside the pavement.
Soaked...from head to toe. Just like you'd see in a sitcom. Except it wasn't funny and I wasn't laughing. water ingress had occurred as the water went UP the jacket and DOWN the collar as well. The cap did little to protect the few dry bits on my head.
Oh, I cursed. I shouted. I gave then the full finger and wanker gestures in the faint hope they'd stop, either to apologise or to remonstrate over my language and gestures. I was ready for either, but they drove on, no doubt oblivious, laughing or scared when they saw this raving and drooling lunatic in the rear view mirror.
We walked on to the grass verges, aware of the fact I could not get any wetter now, slightly less angry because it was just footie shorts soaked rather than jeans and trainers.No poo. Lots of wee, but he steadfastly did not do the business. We walked (trudged) back, saturated. I let him into the back garden whilst I I stripped off the wet clothing in the garage. I had dry clothes in there as an insurance. I let him in, dried him off and decided to use the loo quickly. I came back out to a trail of runny, smelly dog shit from the kitchen door to the living room door. It was like an H-block dirty protest.
As I retched my way around with loo paper, baby wipes and poo bags cleaning it up I knew bigger equipment was needed. Cue the next 30..yes 30 minutes spent using the VAX carpet cleaner (a bloody godsend if you have pets and grandchildren) cleaning the carpet fully. Copious amounts of carpet freshener applied and the smell has almost gone. Almost. I can't help thinking it may never fully go. Only the unadapted nose of visitors will tell us that.
All of this before 9am.
Hows your day going then?
Later Mugs, GJ
Friday 13 September 2019
The Reality Bump
Morning Mugs,
I've been blessed in truth with most aspects of my life. Two lovely daughters, two lovely grandchildren, a nice house, decent cars and a mobile home placed on a site 5 minutes from the Med in the South of France....amongst other things. At this time the good far outweighs any bad, which I think is how most people like things. Yes, bad things are needed or how else do you truly appreciate the good things. Those bright eyed bushy tailed optimists who tell you life is great in every way are basically liars. It's not human nature to live in ecstatic bliss.
After just over 3 weeks in France I'm back. Every year I think that 3 weeks is enough, especially when added to the cruise, the battlefields tour, the week at the mobile on my own and the trip to Budapest, all this year. However, I do think there is a subconscious thing going on. I'm 58 now....if the government allows it and all goes well I could be retiring in a few years. And I wonder if this sits in the mind and makes it harder to come back from holidays and breaks and once more put nose to grindstone?
I came back to over a thousand emails from work, that's the best part of 2 days catch-up alone just sifting those into order and making sense of the conversations. But despite feeling ready to come after the 3 weeks, the actual dread of it starts building few days before leaving. It's like an elephant in the room looming large over the last few days of a well earned holiday. This year, the day before the departure drive, I was sat at the bar smiling throughout teeth gritted with envy at those staying there for a few more weeks. just the ambience of the area, the restaurants, the actual true 'laissez-faire' way of life the French (and it seems the Irish) have. I come back to people smiling at the joy of work, most admittedly younger than me and I wonder what lies behind the faux enjoyment of work and life in a divided and nasty shithole like the UK has become. is it just youthful vigour? Is it genuine excitement at being full of ideas (and mostly shit ones at that)?
I prefer to think it as them being untarnished by age, experience and the trials of life. I envy that in some ways, maybe once I was like that? Now I come back to work, and like a midfield journeyman I just put my head down and try to get on with the job. No career ambition left, no super bright ideas, just a rat race with maybe a glimpse of a finish line at the end in a few years. A finish line that once crossed, will let me get up when I want, do another degree, walk the dog when I want, go to the pub when I want.....a time when for the twilight years I might just be free to do what I want.
Until then, back to life..back to reality!
Later Mugs
I've been blessed in truth with most aspects of my life. Two lovely daughters, two lovely grandchildren, a nice house, decent cars and a mobile home placed on a site 5 minutes from the Med in the South of France....amongst other things. At this time the good far outweighs any bad, which I think is how most people like things. Yes, bad things are needed or how else do you truly appreciate the good things. Those bright eyed bushy tailed optimists who tell you life is great in every way are basically liars. It's not human nature to live in ecstatic bliss.
After just over 3 weeks in France I'm back. Every year I think that 3 weeks is enough, especially when added to the cruise, the battlefields tour, the week at the mobile on my own and the trip to Budapest, all this year. However, I do think there is a subconscious thing going on. I'm 58 now....if the government allows it and all goes well I could be retiring in a few years. And I wonder if this sits in the mind and makes it harder to come back from holidays and breaks and once more put nose to grindstone?
I came back to over a thousand emails from work, that's the best part of 2 days catch-up alone just sifting those into order and making sense of the conversations. But despite feeling ready to come after the 3 weeks, the actual dread of it starts building few days before leaving. It's like an elephant in the room looming large over the last few days of a well earned holiday. This year, the day before the departure drive, I was sat at the bar smiling throughout teeth gritted with envy at those staying there for a few more weeks. just the ambience of the area, the restaurants, the actual true 'laissez-faire' way of life the French (and it seems the Irish) have. I come back to people smiling at the joy of work, most admittedly younger than me and I wonder what lies behind the faux enjoyment of work and life in a divided and nasty shithole like the UK has become. is it just youthful vigour? Is it genuine excitement at being full of ideas (and mostly shit ones at that)?
I prefer to think it as them being untarnished by age, experience and the trials of life. I envy that in some ways, maybe once I was like that? Now I come back to work, and like a midfield journeyman I just put my head down and try to get on with the job. No career ambition left, no super bright ideas, just a rat race with maybe a glimpse of a finish line at the end in a few years. A finish line that once crossed, will let me get up when I want, do another degree, walk the dog when I want, go to the pub when I want.....a time when for the twilight years I might just be free to do what I want.
Until then, back to life..back to reality!
Later Mugs
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