Tag Archives: massive rant

Let’s talk about things …

Wow, I have a whole gamut of stuff washing around to talk about this week. I’m not sure if I’ll get through it all or do it justice but off we go.

First of all, last week, you’ll have noticed there was a break in transmission. Yep. No blog post. I meant to do one but then it was time for the Christmas Fayre I was getting all my shizz ready and … er hem … I forgot.

In my defence, my father’s memorial service took it out of me. It was wonderful but blimey I was knackered afterwards. Lots of emotional stamina required. Which reminds me, I should write and thank a lot of people. Yet more stuff to add to the gargantuan, War And Peace-length list of Shit MTM Hasn’t Done. Gulp.

The fayre was kind of a mix. It was the first time in a new venue and it took a while for people to realise we were there. Friday was quiet, Saturday reasonably busy, and Sunday a lot busier. The books sold well, although differently, a lot of people bought two; a copy of Escape From B-Movie Hell and a copy of Small Beginnings. The EyebombThereforeIAm calendars, which I thought would sell like hot cakes and bankroll everything, they didn’t sell at all. So that was bizarre.

The ill fated eyebombing calendar

The consensus among friends and family is still, ‘oooh I’d buy one of those,’ and some even have, but they clearly left the general public cold. I am selling some for charity, which might help. I had to sell 30 at £9.99 to pay for costs, I sold five at £9 and I have sold three to a lovely friend for £9.99. I picked £9.99 after researching them in local shops and discovering they were mostly £9.99 – £15.99 so I went for the lowest price. However, McOther tells me a pop up calendar shop has opened in the new shopping centre with prices from about £7.00 to £9.99 so perhaps I’m now at the high end.

Never mind, onwards and upwards. If you think you’d like one you can find out more here.

Dad’s memorial went well. It’s always interesting going back to Lancing because for the first sixteen years of my life it was my home. I also had another home, kind of a two sheds Johnson, that was me, because we lived off site in the holidays. But Lancing means as much to me, in a different way, as the other place I grew up, which Mum still lives in now. Going back is like having a little squiffy in your old house, seeing how the new owners have changed the decor! Although I haven’t been in our actual old house.

It was a glorious celebration. Really lovely. I cried my eyes out at the end in a way I hadn’t at the funeral, which was a bit embarrassing but also kind of cathartic and easy enough to hide because I was wearing a big hat. Just look down and hey presto! Nothing to see here. I suppose I felt it more because this was the last goodbye and the last thing we can do for Dad … well … except inter his ashes but we are going to … er hem … batch him and Mum. The eulogies were great, really funny, the way Dad would have wanted. Lots of stories about his antics. Some good shouty hymns. Really well chosen readings and the readers and speakers did a grand job. I even managed not to cock mine up! Woot! Although I was last up so I was shitting gargantuan bricks for most of the service. Listening to audiobook proofs all week helped in that respect as I just followed the little voice in my head that said ‘read it the same way’ and did. Minus the funny voices, of course.

Highlight of the readings they chose an excerpt from 1 John Chapter 20, which included verse 4:

If anyone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen.

A perfect summation of Dad’s attitude, since he was the embodiment of love thy neighbour in a way that many of the loudest Christians on the internet – especially the mentalist, old-testament-thumping, gun-loving ones in the US – are not. Yes, if you think anyone is Satan’s own spawn because they think differently from you and say you love Jesus, you’re a liar! Love that.

Desmond Tutu stood here and so did I.

Huge amusement afterwards when we discovered a plaque bearing the legend, ‘Desmond Tutu stood here to dedicate this window to his friend Trevor Huddleston.’ Much incredibly mature ‘standing here’ where Desmond Tutu had stood ensued, from me, Bruv and Eldest Nephew, Good-King-Wenceslas-‘heat-was-in-the-very-sod’ stylee. Mwahahahrgh! Phnark.

With the election on, I think I am feeling Dad’s absence a lot more, mainly because of the race the bottom that is the election campaign. I’m one of these weird, old fashioned people who thinks that lies, soundbites and dirty tricks, just make a party look like a bunch of twats. I think fake news is a danger, not something to be embraced. I’m one of these old fashioned people who thinks dishonourable and shoddy behaviour, unkindness, opponent smearing, hypocrisy and bare faced lies, you know three year old caught with a hand in the biscuit tin and denying it, Scottish Spaceport is nearly built, let’s change our twitter name so we look like an impartial not for profit organisation disseminating facts rather than one of the contenders, kind of lies, and a general complete lack of integrity, are actually bad things. I still believe elections should be fought on issues although I’m not 100% sure if the labour site I’ve found is their real site or a conservative spoof. Sigh.

When it came to the day to day discipline of running his house, Dad had zero tolerance for three things, drinking hard spirits (he’d Not Catch boys drinking beer, wine or cider, so long as it wasn’t too out of hand but he would catch the spirit drinkers) drugs and bullying. Even so, nearly every boy my Dad expelled was expelled for bullying. One, who was expelled for doing something particularly stupid but which wasn’t bullying, was finally reinstated after three days, at my Dad’s behest. He didn’t stand by and let something go if he believed it to be an in justice.

Maybe that’s the trouble with this election; the glaring lack of statesmanlike behaviour in pretty much every one of the high profile politicians. The trouble is, there are decent people beavering away on the back benches for all parties. They just never seem to make it to the front.

To me and many others, the NHS is a good thing, and the death of a thousand tiny cuts to which the current and previous governments (of all colours) have subjected it is a bad thing. Successive governments have been breaking it so they can say, ‘look this doesn’t work’ and contract it out.

Take dementia care. My father paid tax all his life but until he was down to his last £14k he was not eligible for free health care, and even when he was, because he had a work pension, he actually paid for it, they just charged a lower rate. If he’d had a frontal lobe tumour it would have presented the same symptoms, but he would have been half a million quid richer when he died. Half a million quid of life savings which he’d earned and already paid tax on. You know tax don’t you, the stuff you pay so you get things like free healthcare from the NHS? At the point where he was weakest, most vulnerable and most in need of help, Dad was betrayed.

The thing is, hanging out with my Dad, as he became more and more mentally disabled, has turned something round in me. My Dad said and did some pretty grim things during various phases of his disease. Partly because there were no filters, partly because his world was warped and distorted by his disability, and I guess partly because his disability also warped his efforts at self expression. Sometimes he was horrible and that hurt because he was always my dad. And I knew that somewhere inside that inappropriate, screaming exterior was the gentle, kindly soul I knew. He just couldn’t reach us. A lot of the time, all he needed was the right word, the right help, to bring him back. We couldn’t always find it but we tried and I think he was aware of that.

But now when the conservatives talk about scroungers and tell disabled people to get jobs, when they foster the zero tolerance, claw-it-all-back attitude to social care and disability benefits I begin to wonder if I’ve jumped timelines or something, I’m so out of kilter with the way other people think. When they shame and vilify disabled or chronically ill people as scroungers, I feel sick. When Social Services ask my friend’s daughter, with achondroplasia, when she expects to get better I am unimpressed. This, a bright, very bright, intelligent human being, someone with a great deal to contribute to society, who was also in with a chance of becoming a future Olympic athlete. So not a scrounger or a free loader then. I’m beginning to understand what Sir Terry meant when he talked about holding onto the anger. It’s not angry ranting, well not always, it’s just righteous ire that burns the whole time. That’s why I have to write it out, it’s doing my head in.

The anguish of Dad’s last half year or so still haunts me and it probably always will, but it has also profoundly changed the way I see my fellow humans. I now realise, more than anything, that imagination is the most important gift we possess. It’s imagination that makes us able to see the other person’s side. It’s imagination that enables us to find a way through. It’s imagination that helps us understand that, if our enemies saw people’s heads off with a kitchen knife and post it on YouTube, the thing that raises us above them is that we don’t. It’s imagination that allows us to understand that torturing suspected torturers, ‘because they do it to us’ merely makes us one of them, possibly worse, because while they’re brainwashed and uneducated, we have the tools to know better and have made a conscious choice. It’s because we have imagination what we can realise that an eye for an eye merely debases all the arguments that our way is better than theirs at a stroke.

It’s imagination that makes us think before we wade in. It’s imagination that tells us when taking sides is necessary or merely petty. It’s imagination that allows us to step outside the bubble, accept and enjoy friendships with people who have different political viewpoints to us or are friends with people we don’t get on with. Politics is about issues and problem solving, it’s not a competition to see who can tell the most lies or paint their opponent as the biggest shit, although anyone looking at it now could be forgiven for thinking it is.

Another thing I have learned from the experience with my Dad is that everyone has a value, everyone is of some importance, everyone has something to contribute. I’m even beginning to see how Corrie Ten Boom’s sister, in Auschwitz, was able to feel sorry for the guards because they were so cruel. She thought their lives must be so empty, so without empathy, love, compassion and all the other things that make living so wonderful. I thought she was nuts at the time, now … I dunno. I am beginning to think it must be truly terrible to be as pompous as vainglorious as desperately in constant need of ego affirmation as Trump or Bojo. And yet I’m also beginning to see the humanity in the psychopaths, the killers, the mentally ill; those who I would have dismissed without a second thought as evil before I watched my father go insane. Perhaps I’m beginning to understand that many of them are just unwell. Mental illness is horrifically complicated but I seem to be able to extend them a courtesy I am finding it very difficult to give Boris, Trump and their ilk.

Dad always held the view that to get anywhere or do anything, you had to be a decent human being. He believed that being decent and honourable gets you quietly, unobtrusively, where you want to go. Because if you are straight with people and stand by them they will love you, and people who love you will move mountains for you. Not necessarily at the times, places or in a manner you expect but they will.

More and more, now he’s gone, I find myself sticking my head above the parapet, not because I care that much even, but because Dad’s not here to do it. Even if it’s just to joke about being the token bleeding heart liberal in some of my friendship groups and put a different point of view. But the thing is, despite half my friends having voted Brexit, which is a bit of a downer, we still all have so much common ground and we are still friends. Maybe this country will heal, if the politicians and the loud mouths will stop using the divisions to score points and entrenching them further; ie, shut the fuck up and give it time.

I can’t wait until this bloody election is over.

 

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Angry

Real Life. Don’t you wish it would just fuck off and leave you alone sometimes?

I wondered about posting this but I am so bloody angry. Really. I am tired of the petty shitty meanness of my fellow countrymen and women. Their inability to use any imagination and appreciate another person’s point of view, their willingness to swallow propaganda without thinking. I’m fed up with fucking Brexit, with the EU behaving like an arse and the idiots in charge of us ignoring the potential of the commonwealth and instead pandering to the US who, I’m afraid, royally shafted the UK after WW2 and the current administration is, quite clearly, rubbing its hands with glee in anticipation of doing it aagain. But our government and influencers don’t seem to have noticed, or maybe they don’t care, more likely they’ve the kind of investments that mean there’s some personal cash in it for them somewhere down the line.

You see, if you want people to pay tax, they have to actually get something for it, all of them, not just the rich, or just the poor, everyone. And while we do get some things, a lot of other stuff has disappeared. What the government’s austerity plans teach us is this: Get up to your neck in debt, live for today, save nothing for tomorrow and have anything you want whenever you want it on HP. It’s best not to have any real money because at the end of your life, when you’re ill, they’ll take it anyway. Get into debt and your healthcare will be free at the point of delivery. Sure it will be on the terms of the NHS or your local authority but you won’t have to pay a bean for it.

Today, I was reading about the Brexit party arriving at the European Parliament. They turned their backs to show their disrespect for Europe when Ode to Joy played. It seemed utterly ungracious and it really pissed me off. These people hate Europe and hate the European Parliament but they’re happy to take a very large wage and a lot of expenses to go there and be rude. I remarked on facebook that it was so Kevin and Perry it was embarrassing and I really wondered how much more petty they could get.

A level-headed friend countered the argument with this.

Which makes sense.

However, while the sentiment on the T shirt is put fairly robustly, it says, ‘I don’t like this.’ The turned backs say, ‘I don’t like you.’

That’s my issue.

The turned backs make it personal.

That’s been my issue with the way the Brexit campaign was conducted all along. Them and us. Hence the polarisation. I think both sides of this debate are as bad as each other now but originally that kind of behaviour was only noticeable to me, as a punter watching it, from the Brexit side. Now that may be my perception but it’s how it looked to me.

And that’s not because the people who voted Brexit are nasty, either.

It’s just unfortunate that the leading, noisiest, pro Brexit leadership are conspicuously unpleasant even for politicians and yet also seem entirely typical for the party currently governing us.

We’ve got that bloke who’s trapped in the eighteenth century and looks as if he lives in a coffin, jeez I don’t even remember his fucking name. He probably thinks all these underprivileged families should be putting their kids down coal mines or up chimneys to earn cash. Obviously those of us who don’t earn or inherit astronomical wealth like his are too stupid to succeed so if they’re living in miserable penury it’s their fault. He doesn’t care if there’s no NHS, he’s fucking loaded and he probably pays for all his medical care anyway so he doesn’t have to go to hospital with the proles. He probably thinks that people who can’t earn enough money to pay for their medical care are failing to do so because they’re too stupid. I expect he thinks that’s their problem and if Brexit and Britain all goes tits up, well, he can just move to another country.

Then there’s Boris who doesn’t give a s*** about anything but Boris, and is such a massive cockwomble that he actually managed to go to Iran to negotiate for leniency for that poor woman who’s been accused of spying and instead blurted out that she was spying by mistake so they’ve put her in prison and thrown away the key. Well done. Great going. And has Boris shown any regret, any humility, or compassion or the tiniest, remotest hint of remorse? No, of course not! He doesn’t care because he’s an entitled fucking cunt.

You can just imagine him behind the scenes saying, ‘she’s only a woman, who gives a shit.’

And lastly, we have Nigel Farage who is a thinly disguised Nazi who has said he will leave if the UK goes tits up after Brexit … and like Hitler with his Jewish grandmother, he has German immigrant antecedents – for all his anti immigration stance – and has ensured that his children have German passports allegedly.

As someone who feels, personally, utterly betrayed by the conservative party and everything it stands for, Farage, Boris and the vampire bloke seem to be the epitome of everything I despise about the right wing in politics. Their sense of entitlement, their bombproof self love, their we’ve-got-money-and-we-can-cope so f*** you attitude really pisses me off.

Likewise the rest of the Conservatives, I am not impressed with their shafting people who have lived good lives and worked hard, or about the destruction of the national health service, which is only going to accelerate once Brexit goes through, about the fact that looking after people who are ill comes down to the name of the disease they have and if a disease has the wrong name, the person suffering from it will be left to fend for themselves or give everything that they have, including the house they live in, to pay for care which, again and again, has been proved in the high court should be delivered free.

To me Brexit is less about leaving Europe and more about handing our country to people like Boris, coffin man and Farage. And that worries me far more than any mere implications of leaving the EU. I suppose what I’m trying to say is it’s not Brexit itself that does my head in, it’s what it has unleashed.

They’re career politicians and politics is all they’ve known. If the rest of us were just too stupid to follow their lead and go into politics too it’s our own fault. That’s the attitude that comes over.

Fuckers.

Brexit, or at least, the shit that goes therewith, is one of the biggest arguments in favour of time travel I’ve seen.

How else have we ended up in a situation where a vacuous, self-serving, charmless, philandering yobbo like Boris Johnson is likely to be Prime Minister? And worse, where people are actually convinced he’s a decent bloke! If you made this shit up nobody would believe you. ‘Nobody’d be so dumb they’d follow that guy, he’s a twat!’ My readers would say. Yet here in Real Life nobody thinks it’s strange … is this a hex?

And what’s the alternative?

A man who admires the American model of healthcare, where the hypocratic oath comes second to payment. Where people willingly put payment for treatment in the hands of the insurance industry, an industry which, essentially, is there to scare you into giving them money and then, if something happens, find reasons not to give it back. I have American relations, I actually know someone who watched a man lying on a gurney left to suffer. He’d drunk bleach by mistake. He had no health insurance because he was poor so the hospital refused him treatment. No-one would touch him. He just lay there, writhing and groaning in agony. That’s zero fucking ethics any way you look at it. My relative did have insurance, so luckily he was wheeled in for treatment before he had to watch the man on the gurney actually die.

How fucked up does a nation have to be before it allows that? And how fucked up does another nation have to be to think it’s a good idea, and dismantle one of the best healthcare systems in the world to change to the insurance model.

Do we, in Britain, really want that? Are we that fucking cold?

Well, yes according to the Tory party – because compassion and empathy are for wimps aren’t they? They’ve been educating us for a while now haven’t they? The NHS is failing because evil people are coming to Britain from abroad and draining its resources. No, but a lot of people coming in from abroad fucking work there. It would fall on its arse without them. Then there’s the retirement age being pushed further and further back so it’s harder and harder for young people to get a job is because old people can’t let go of them. They’re fucking skint, no pension yet and they’ve got care fees to pay for their other half …

Here’s another one they’re peddling; everyone on benefits is milking the system, the disabled are freeloading bastards, they should work like everyone else. Yeh. Good idea, because you know my dad who worked all his life, paid taxes, and saved up so he and Mum would be OK in their old age. He became disabled, so he was a freeloading bastard in the end. Scrounging benefits from the state after a life time paying tax. Disgraceful!

Fancy my Dad expecting the state to honour its promise to care for him when he was ill. Sorry chum, your illness has the wrong name. You should have seen this coming and taken out an insurance plan against care fees. If he’d had a benign frontal lobe brain tumour, which would have produced exactly the same symptoms, my Dad’s treatment would have all been free.

Oh dear, John. You didn’t think you’d get to keep a penny did you? You’re not rich enough to be allowed to keep any. You have to be pushed down and kept there, your children too.

And while we’re at it, my Dad paid tax on his work pension, hang on though, it was taken from his wages, which he paid tax on, so it’s taxed twice. What?

And what happens to all the people who have grown up being promised free healthcare and aren’t insured, or people who’ve been disabled from a young age, so aren’t insured? Damaged your knee as a nipper? Won’t get any insurance on that. What happens to them? Oh hard luck, I’m afraid you’ll have to live with crippling pain because we’ve changed the rules. Yes, I realise you’re going to spend half your fifties in a wheelchair but you can only have two new knees each side so you can’t have one until you are sixty.* What will you do if you’re a fit and healthy seventy year old and you can’t walk?

I’ll be in a wheelchair! But I won’t care half so much if I’m fucking seventy as I do now you stupid Tory winnit! I’ll have bastard Alzheimer’s by then anyway.

* (Subtext, each one lasts for ten years, with any luck after a decade of excruciating pain, you’ll have died of some stress induced illness before we have to fork out for the second one). That’s the basic NHS strategy, only treat them at crisis point, don’t do anything preventative because with any luck they’ll die first.

Sometimes, I am just weary with the endless, grinding awfulness of it all.

The latest one … Mum only has a certain amount of cash to pay for carers. When that runs out -and it will, soon – we only have two ways forward.

  1. Persuade Mum to move somewhere smaller with less overheads and upkeep and pay her care fees with the cash from the house sale.
  2. Get planning permission to build all over Mum and Dad’s garden to up the value of the plot and get an endowment mortgage so she can stay where she is and still pay her care fees.

If she runs out of cash before the end, the local authority will not allow her to stay in the house. They only fund care in an institution and she will be forced to sell her house to pay for the fees. As I understand it, forcing her to move from her house and sell it isn’t legal. Forcing her to pay for care isn’t legal. After all, the NHS still says it’s free at the point of delivery and as I write this there isn’t an ‘if your illness has the right name’ caveat tacked on the end Animal Farm some-are-more-equal-then-others style. Once our new Prime Minister is settled in post, doubtless there will be.

We’re welcome to go to the High Court to prove it. But we won’t because it takes years and we don’t have years, do we? The politicians and NHS managers who decided to withdraw free healthcare for dementia sufferers know this of course, and they also know that watching someone you love slowly losing their mind is one of the most strength-sapping, soul-destroying, utterly cruel experiences available in the gamut of human experience. They know you won’t have the mental energy or capacity to fight them, they know you’re weak from carrying everything. They know that it’s all you can do to keep everyone’s heads above the water. They know that if they try to kick you into submission, you’ll go down.

Seriously? In this day and age. After the fall of the Berlin Wall. When we are supposed to be enlightened. When we are supposed to have learned where Nazism takes us and instead what are we doing? We’re going backwards. We’re trying to convince idiots that the world is round, that evolution is a real thing and that the holocaust actually happened. We’re losing our empathy, our sympathy, our compassion. That’s where it starts. With people glorying in their ignorance, with extremists undermining main stream news and others actually believing the hype. With people so nuts they even believe Australia isn’t real! What can you do in the face of moronism like that!

This shit can only be someone fucking with the time-line, right?

I am also still wading through the admin plus all the sundry admin associated with my dad dying. Jeez. Getting there on that one. It’s a case of writing a list of tasks and setting myself one thing a day.

On the up side, I needed a special number from the land registry to take Dad’s name off the house ownership. I was a bit pissed off at having to pay for information but OK with doing it. However, I didn’t know which bit of information I needed to purchase to get the number so I rang them. I was amazed to find there was a report a death option on the menu so I pressed the button and spoke to a lovely lady. I explained my predicament and she gave me the number without my having to pay. So there are times when it pays to find a phone number.

Likewise the lady I spoke to at the Department for Work and Pensions when I had to cancel Dad’s attendance allowance really couldn’t have been kinder or more helpful. She explained that I may have some outstanding to pay and was genuinely apologetic when she explained that it might take as much as a year to receive a request for this money. In the end, it didn’t. But what was so refreshing was that she understood that a sudden bill for several hundred pounds is enough to put people living on the edge into debt and into serious trouble.

In my journey with Dad, the people who work in these departments, and the social workers whose job it is to implement the shitty rules the Government makes have been lovely without exception.

It occurred to me that maybe, if every MP was forced to spend a month living on benefits, or the minimum wage, or working in the call centre that runs the benefits help lines they might learn some humanity. I guess I’m just raw, because I’ve lost my Dad and I’m beginning to remember who he was and realise that he was a giant compared to most of them and had more wisdom and empathy in his little finger than all of these bastards put together. But even if these hideous people were given a dose of reality it wouldn’t help. They’d just dismiss the experience, or say it was easy. And as for adding money worries, stress and angst to the painful business of watching someone they loved going slowly insane … well … for that to cause a blip they’d have to be capable of loving someone first.

Don’t mind me, I’m just fucking, fucking angry. It’s probably a grief thing.

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Aaargh! Am I turning into an adult?

Yep it’s a valid question. I never, ever wanted to become a grown up but it’s one of those unfortunate facts that as we age, the changes are so imperceptible that, for the most part, we fail to notice. That might be why, if you asked me or anyone for that matter, if we feel any different inside now, to the way we did as kids, the answer is likely to be a resounding no. Yet apparently there have been changes – in my case, anyway.

On our way back from Spain we stopped in a rather lovely town called Niort in France where we stumbled on a small gallery, in a lovely old building, displaying a series of photographs documenting a short period of time in the life of a graffiti artist. There were some cracking photos and I actually love a bit of graffiti art, myself. France seems to be particularly good for it, or maybe it’s just that its motorways are; less traffic + less CCTV = more multicoloured letters.

Nice.

Graffiti art in Niort, France.

Anyway, as we went round I pointed out the photos I liked to McMini with my usual enthusiasm. McMini was interested too but seemed slightly bemused. Oh dear and I do so want him to enjoy art because he’s quite good at it.

However, when we got outside we got to the bottom of his bemused attitude. The conversation went like this,

‘Mummy, you don’t really like graffiti art do you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Really?’
He sounds incredulous.
‘Yeh.’
‘But you’re a grown up. Grown ups should disapprove and be saying, “Those terrible kids what are they up to now?”’
‘Your Mother is not a grown up,’ says McOther.
‘Yes she is!’ says McMini.
‘You think?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says McMini.
McOther is looking very dubious but with a twinkle at the corner of the eyes because he knows how completely horrified I will be to hear this.
‘Flippin‘eck! I’ve convinced my child I’m an adult!’ I say. ‘How did that happen?’

How indeed?

The idea is, frankly, horrifying! When I was a kid, I never thought my parents disapproved of much, well, no they did but not in a pissy small-minded adult way. They disapproved of bad things like punching people, stealing, bullying, being unkind, hurting animals and stuff like that but they couldn’t give a toss if someone was untidy, had illegible handwriting, was late to things or was, say, gay. At one school I went to there were a couple of girls who made life hell for a lot of people – to the point of giving someone a nervous breakdown – but they had neat handwriting, they were on time for everything and always looked tidy so as far as many of the teachers seemed to be concerned they were paragons of virtue, whereas I was ‘slapdash’ and untidy in my work; well no, actually, I had a form of dyslexia. Looking back on it now, those girls were incredibly unhappy at home and dealt with their unhappiness by spreading it. I suspect the teachers who praised them, who I saw as traitorous and unjust, were merely trying to instil them with some sense of self worth.

Sorry, going off on a tangent there, I guess what I’m saying is that as a child and then a young woman, I loved that my parents totally seemed to get that timeliness, tidiness and conformity, though fine traits sometimes, were worthless if the person displaying them behaves like a piece of shit. Likewise, their complete lack of concern over the sexuality of the people I came into contact with. They probably spotted that my gay friends were gay way before I did and back then in the 1980s any difference in sexuality could be a major stigma even among the supposedly liberal youth, let alone folks of my parents’ generation.

As I grew older and started to do rebellion, it became very obvious that my parents were right behind me and, indeed, that they were a great deal more anarchic, liberal, forgiving, free-thinking and generally open than most of my supposedly avant garde acquaintances. They seemed to revel in eccentricity of character and loved anyone who was prepared to think deeply and challenge the establishment. I remember my father desperately trying to get me to say the word, ‘fuck’ in mixed company because he felt that some of the older people there were rather pompous and deserved a good shock. I suppose he simply approached language, and swear words, with the same lack of prejudice as he approached everything else.

Mum dragged up all sorts of gloriously textured words to replace invective, troglodyte, nit-wit and strewth were some of them. Dad, on the other hand, was an occasional but enthusiastic swearer – usually when he was frustrated or angry, I don’t recall him ever swearing at people. When he mowed the orchard, colliding with the low branches of Every. Single. Tree. He used to eff and blind like the most foul-mouthed squaddie. Mowing sessions were rated on a scale of buggeration, ‘how many buggers was that one, Dad?’ we would ask. He would try to be cross for about a nanosecond and then laugh and say something like,

‘Far too many, and there were a few fucks as well!’

No matter how odd I was considered to be at school, I fitted in at home and surely that’s what good parenting is, isn’t it? Giving your kids somewhere they fit, where it’s OK to be who they are while they try and find out what that is.

When I went to university I desperately tried to persuade my friends to visit me at home for the weekend because if only they would, I knew they would be able to make sense of who I am. Few were brave enough. It was very, very hard to make friends my first year, until someone happened upon the fact I was good at art. Then, suddenly, there was a new box to put me in. I was no longer a southerner (and therefore scum) I was ‘the artist’ and all was fine from there on in.

Always, I have hoped that if I had children of my own I would be like my parents, which is why the idea that McMini thinks I’m a grown up is so alarming. Have I officially Lost My Sense of Humour? Have I Become Set In My Ways? Have I started to believe I’m right about everything? I hope not. As a woman of faith, my politics seem to be moving further and further left as the mainstream moves further right so maybe it’s OK. Maybe there’s hope for me.

The fact my friends weren’t as anarchic my actual parents was a terrible disappointment to me as a youngster. If I’ve turned into one of those normal bastards, at least I’ll spare McMini that. It’s awful having to bite your tongue with people your own age because they tell you off for swearing or mentioning periods, admitting to a fart, or whatever, as if they’re anally retentive prudish pensioners (except both sets of my grandparents were similar to my parents). Seriously, though, teenagers trying to be grown up can be so fucking prissy. Actually, anyone who feels they have to try and act like a grown up can be is pretty fucking prissy. That’s why the thought that responsible adulthood might have crept up on me fills me with such despond.

As a kid, I rebelled against the Draco Malfoys of my school life who despised me because, among other things, I wasn’t attempting to get my end away with every male who crossed my path. But to me, boys weren’t the complex mystery they saw. Living with a brother and in close proximity to 500 of the buggers does that to a girl. Looking back, I suspect the real reason they hated me was because I was happy and they weren’t but they couldn’t articulate it, or perhaps the failure of their sporadic efforts to be nice to me so I would invite them home and give them a pop at those 500 boys was part of the problem too. The official reasons they gave for hating me were very faux, things like my being too posh or not posh enough, or ‘so immature’ (ie having a sense of humour). Deep down we all knew that the hatred was irrational and the excuses fake. Nothing like someone giving you shit because they want to and then trying to pretend there’s a logical reason to make you start questioning the status quo.

But McMini isn’t bullied, thank heavens. And I hope he never will be. There are no Dracos for him but that means that when the time comes to rebel he may well rebel against me. I am, kind of, braced for this but I’m still not sure how I’ll go about empathising. Will I be able to? Will I just become entrenched in my position, be Eddie to his Saffie?

Throughout my school and working life, barring a couple of notable exemptions, I have always been lumbered with a someone who decides, upon meeting me for the first time, that their raison d’etre from now on will be to make my life a misery. I seem to have something in me that enrages total and complete bastards to the point of mania and while on occasion, I feel smug at being able to piss off the small and petty minded so comprehensively, it can be hard going. What a relief it was to give up work and step out of all that and, for the first time in my life be bastard free!

But now I wonder, have these recent, glorious years without my own personal nemesis corrupted me? Am I like Lister in Red Dwarf? When he complains that Holly has brought back Rimmer, his arch enemy, and not one of his friends, he is told it’s because Rimmer is the crew member most likely to keep him sane. Do I need a total wanker in my life to keep me on the straight and narrow? Have I gone normal in these glorious tosser-free years? Or is it simply that I lack the strength of character to have that open-minded, easy going confidence of my parents?

I hope I will be the kind of parent to McMini that I had. I hope that when I’m in my 80s, I’ll be as anarchic as my Mum and that McMini, in turn, will be the same in his 80s. I hope I’ll always be able to grow and think and adapt my view. I hope I never lose that curiosity of viewpoint that my parents still have, even now. To give you an example:

My mother was a debutant, she’s had dinner on the Royal Yachet while The Queen was still living there. Twice. But she’s fully convinced socialist. She thinks that ideally we would just pass a law to re-nationalise the railways, power infrastructure, the lot of it, and then have it run by people who knew what they were doing (which is many of the folks there now) and who could tell the government what dividend it was going to have each year so they could invest properly in the infrastructure as needed, rather than having to stand and watch their companies being bled dry.

She thinks that MPs are never going to go after people like Google to collect the proper amount of tax, partly because … lawyers … and partly because unlike the Victorian times the Conservatives so espouse, rich people these days ‘have no proper religion so they don’t know how to behave. They have no compassion, they’re not going to set up the Joseph Rowantree Foundation, or build Port Sunlight. Those days are gone.’ But mostly she believes the Googles of this world will always escape tax because this country is still run by the 200 most intelligent people in each year at Oxford and Cambridge, no matter what the social background from whence they come, and so the UK branches of these companies are run by folks with whom many of our politicians are friends.

‘It’s awfully hard to have dinner with someone one night and send his company a writ the next morning,’ she says.

She’s right, of course, it is, and just as much if you’ve come up from the gutter and want to maintain your status as if you’re a weak-willed trustafarian. And principles only get you into trouble. After all, look what happened to St Thomas A Becket. The politicians will be looking to their post political careers, speaking, being on boards … none of that’s going to happen if they go round clobbering their future employers. Mum agrees this is bad but thinks it’s human nature and that the state needs to accept the humanity of its elected servants and find ways to earn money through something other than the taxes people like Boris and Rhees Mogg will have neither the balls nor the inclination to collect.

‘We should feel sorry for them really, they can’t help it, they haven’t a clue how to behave,’ she says with sweeping disdain.

So if some utilities etc were state run, PROPERLY, I might add, Mum thinks we’d have more money to give to the NHS.

It’s a bit of a cop out, she admits, because like me, she thinks that the government should go after people like Google for the tax they owe. After all, by paying their employees so little that they can’t survive, people like Jeff Bezos are, basically, taxing the rest of us. Buy your goods for less on Amazon but pay an extra £5.00 a week on stuff for the food bank their zero hours, underpaid employees have to use. Oh and some extra tax, because you’d better believe the government will collect yours, the poorer you are, the more heavy handed they will be because they know they’ll get it – you can’t afford to fight back. But they collect the tax so that they have the money to run the state services Jeff’s stressed employees will need to use when their worry and over work have made them ill. And now we’re coming out of Europe, of course, it will be even easier for Jeff and his friends to screw their employees over because our compassionate conservative government will get rid of all that annoying red-tape-shaped employment law.

Will I be as anarchic as that when I’m 85? Will McMini have parents like I did? I really, really hope so.

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That’s Alzheimer’s not Dad.

The post is a bit grim but at least this picture is pretty!

A couple of weeks ago, someone shared one of my posts of dementia-related whinging on Facebook – this post if anyone’s interested – and it got an interesting comment.

There is ample opportunity for me to have misconstrued here but, as I interpreted the comment, I think it basically said something along the lines of that we don’t really know why some folks get to die suddenly or well and others get something a bit more operatic; by which I mean they get the real world equivalent of twenty minutes of singing and an encore after a wound that should have killed them instantly. The gist was that ours is not to reason why.

The poster went on to say, if I’ve understood correctly, that if it was God’s will that they linger who are we to argue, and to just have faith that it’s all happening for a reason, that it is not our place to judge or begrudge them their time in the twilight zone, and we can give them that time. That this process of slowly withdrawing from one world and preparing to step into the other is clearly of spiritual importance in some way and we should accept our part in it with grace. Thinking about it, I should probably post what was said. This is the comment in question.

It’s a kindly, wise comment and clearly meant to give comfort but instead, reading it, I feel as if I am being chided for my lack of faith, and for my selfishness in feeling that fourteen years of this is a tad fucking long. I found myself wondering how much of the poster’s own care/worry marathon they had completed, two years? five years? seven? ten? I’ve reached the stage, now, where I worry that the pressure of worrying about my folks may do me in; that I may not out live my parents. I mean, I can’t die! It would kill them. Then there’s the whole cancer thing. Have you noticed how many people who have been through a tough patch like this one end up going down with cancer just as they get right again? I dearly hope I avoid joining them.

Clearly the commenter has a great deal more grace and faith than I, but I confess, the thing about the comment that really threw me was that I had no idea that anyone could so completely and utterly miss the point of why I post all this stuff.

Bearing that in mind, I thought I’d better explain to clear things up! Because I accept my father’s fate is clearly not a swift and merciful death, trust me, there is no mercy in dementia. Indeed, if this is the greatest mercy they can wish for I shudder to think on the horror of any alternatives my parents have missed. Likewise, if they have to suffer this now I hope they have manifold blessings in store. My father has been losing his memory the whole of my son’s life. Even when my lad was born in 2008, Dad couldn’t really be left alone. It began before that, in 2004. Fourteen years is a fuck of a long time in anybody’s book. It’s probably my fault and I’m the one being punished. I expect I snogged too many boys or wanked too much as a teenager or something, but I digress.

It’s no good my railing against fate, it merely wastes energy. I just have to bite the bullet and get on with it. I will endeavour to give my parents as much quality of life and freedom of choice as possible, and I am trying to make this twilight time for them a time of gentleness, peace and compassion. That my brother and I aim to do that, however painful it may be for all of us, is moot.

But you know what? Just because my brother and I are doing what we hope is the right thing, it doesn’t make it any more fun. And I doubt the feelings I have experienced as I’ve watched my father lose his mind over fourteen long years are any different to those of other people in my position. And that’s why I write about this.

When I write about Dad’s sickness on my blog, it isn’t about my brother and I doing the right thing by our parents, it’s not even about our efforts at trying to. That’s a given.

No.

This is about what tenderness and mercy to one member of a family costs the others.

Similarly, I doubt the dismay I felt as I realised, three years ago, that my mother also had dementia, is unique. If there is anything merciful in this perhaps it’s Mum’s dementia. Because I do not know how she finds the strength to endure some of the stuff Dad says to her and at least if she forgets, she won’t know what she’s lost.

The posts I write about my father’s Alzheimer’s and my mother’s dementia are not here to give you answers, they’re here to show you my reactions. Because I think I’m very average and I suspect most of us feel the way I do but may not admit it, not even to ourselves. Well if that’s you, I’m writing this so you can see that your reactions are normal. The things you think about the situation that are so dodgy and shameful that they almost hurt? You aren’t alone.

That’s the only gift I can give to people suffering through this. Thousands of people have come before us, doubtless many thousands will come after. You’re not alone, I’m not alone, we are united in this trouble.

When the dementia patent in your life does something that completely shocks and repulses you, it’s OK to recoil, to feel sad, hurt, horrified and angry. It’s OK to feel those things because it’s natural, and yes, it’s OK to feel trapped by their neediness. The key is not how you feel but how you act when you are with the person affected, the key is not whether you are disgusted but whether you show it. They no longer understand or even realise that their actions are unacceptable. Much of what they are doing is caused by them feeling frightened and alone, you can reduce the number of melt downs, if you can get alongside them and have them working with you not at you, but if you fail, well that’s OK, because there’s always next time, when you can try something else.

Showers, but also sunny intervals.

Also, attitudes to dementia are changing and I write about things that happen to us which reflect that change because I want people to see it and know about it. I want people to realise that if they want to take a dementia sufferer out somewhere they should go right ahead. It’s just a disability. You don’t have to hide them like a shameful thing but at the same time, you need to have an idea of what you are all facing. I describe our journey to help you understand what is coming as you embark on yours.

When I was a kid, if someone got Dementia it usually went something like this. Person gets dementia. No-one is allowed to know it’s all kept secret because it’s a Bad Thing. Person does something a bit strange in public which a handful of folks hear about but which is not ever passed on but is just mentioned as, ‘that time at …’ or something similar. Person disappears from all social life. Five years later, you attend their funeral. I used to wonder what happened in between. Now I know. And I want other people to know and understand. That, yes, it is horrible, but it can also be uplifting. I want people to know that they needn’t feel afraid, that it is unbelievably harsh but they will cope.

While Dad can still enjoy the company of others – and he can most days – I want my dad to be active and social. To be able to go out and Mum with him. I want him to be able to go have lunch at the pub or whatever. Amazingly, they attend a huge number of social events but it is getting more and more difficult now. Bless them, a decent number of his friends now come to him, or if they’re no longer mobile, ring him.

As I said, attitudes are changing, although it takes a certain brazenness to be a carer. For example, back in 2011 when we were on the ferry to the Isle of Wight. Dad went to the loo and got a bit disorientated while he was in there. He came out with his zip open and his cock out. A lady sitting nearby rushed over to him, just as I noticed and ran over to him, too.
‘Oh thank you, I’m so sorry,’ I told her when I got there.
‘Is he yours?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said as I turned to Dad. ‘Dad, we need to pop back in there for a moment.’
‘Oh dear, do we?’
‘Yes,’ I leaned over and whispered, ‘You’ve forgotten to do your flies up.’
He guffawed and we thanked the lady and went back into the loo.
‘What am I coming to? I left my cock out,’ he said when we got inside. We giggled some more and he made some joke about Winston Churchill’s reaction when someone pointed out his flies were undone, ‘The dead bird does not leave the nest!’ my Dad said in his best Churchill voice. Giggling, we sorted it all out and we started back to our seats. We passed the helpful Lady so I thanked her again. She gave me a big smile and said,
‘Not to worry, we have one of our own at home!’
It was all done with a wink and a smile at Dad, too, to include him. Naturally he joined in. People are kind these days, when you rock up somewhere with a dementia sufferer.

Likewise, when your father clears his throat, leans over the side of the chair and gobs a massive steaming greenie onto the kitchen floor in front of company, as if that is the most normal thing in the world, a certain brazenness is required. I reckon it’s fine to use graveyard humour to make light of it, or any other form of tasteless joke that will get you through the surreal horror you’ve just witnessed. We avoid jokes at Dad’s expense in his presence and we avoid them where we can if we are not in his presence. However, if treating your father with the decency and compassion his humanity affords him to his face means laughing at his child like antics, and calling him Spoilt Bastard after the well known Viz character behind his back, I say knock yourself out. Because if you can’t do both then do what it takes behind the scenes to achieve compassion and kindness where it matters, when you’re with the person.

Recently, a couple of visits have gone badly and my father has been unremittingly vile to me, not to mention Mum. Some days, he doesn’t know who we are any more. He doesn’t remember that he loves us. Except that he is always pleased to see me initially. However, my gentle, good-humoured, loving father – with the wicked sense of humour – is now, quite often, just wicked. He refers to me as a trollop, or a fucking stupid woman, or sometimes, for variety, a stupid fucking woman. I take no offence since he refers to nearly all the females around him like this.

But I miss my dad. I miss my mum. There is much more of Mum there but we have still lost enough to miss. Dad, is still there too, but we have to dig hard for those precious shiny glimpses of treasure. And I’m raw about it at the moment because at my Uncle’s funeral last week we prayed for the sick and when we did that we prayed for Dad and Mum. And it was the sweetest, kindest thought, a truly lovely act on their part, and so touching, and I nearly lost it, and I realised how much grief there is; an enormous, bottomless black pit of the stuff at the centre of me. Too much to look at head on. Too much to acknowledge. I can see it all the time out of the corner of my eye. Look it in the face and I am undone. And as the male lead says in one of my books, ‘I can’t be undone.’ For the sake of my parents and also the rest of my family, I have to hold it together.

And the weird thing is that even with this huge bottomless grief, this mourning that will end in death, but which, without a death, cannot end, even though it’s fourteen years old and huge and dwarfs me somehow, I do hold it together. If I have any kind of faith, I suspect that’s where it counts. Because I’m no saint. I have no grace. I’ve never been one to cope well with a long drawn out process. I do not know how I keep my grief about my parents in its box, but it happens, and I doubt the strength required is all coming from me.

In the face of this, I’ve come to believe that there are really only two things that matter when dealing with dementia:

Number one. Trying to hang onto who the patient was and what it was in him we loved. We look out old photos, read letters, memories from the boys and girls he taught. We do whatever it takes to keep in touch with the real person who is living under that disability. We do it because it’s the only thing we can do to hold onto him.

Two. On the days when Dad is vile to me; like the time when he grabbed the wee bottle from my hand on Sunday and tried to throw his warm piss in my face, shouting, ‘Get that thing off me you bloody trollop! I’ve finished, you stupid fucking woman!’ Or yesterday when he did the same thing to the carer in the loo, all the while continuing to wee copiously down his trousers and onto her foot, proving conclusively that he was NOT finished, not by a long chalk, it’s important to keep a sense of humour; to laugh about it – and we did laugh because what else can you do? I mean, it could be worse, it’s not as if I had to hide behind the sofa while he searched for me with a knife (genuine dementia story, luckily, not mine). It’s also important I keep a firm enough grasp of who he is. I will always try to treat him as the man he was. Dad is in there, somewhere. I refuse to believe he is wholly the man he’s become. Because that is not my father. That is Alzheimer’s.

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Is it me that’s nuts or them?

WARNING!!!! There is swearing in this post. Actually, thinking about it, if you are offended by swearing what on earth are you doing here on my potty-mouthed blog? No but seriously, there is swearing, so please don’t read this if effing and blinding (and ranting) offends you.

Right, if all the non-swearers have left, on we go.

Rant mode activated.

Lately, I’ve been slightly worried that I might, perhaps, be going nuts. Perhaps it’s just the mean spirited horrid climate of the EU referendum that’s making me feel out of sorts. After all, while the folks voting leave are not all racist, you can bet all the racists will be voting leave. And then you get Farage with his smug bull frog grin and his ‘At Breaking’ Point’ poster aimed at brown people. I know I shouldn’t single him out but it’s so hard not to. Well, Mr Farage, Boris and co, if you look you’ll find most of us have been immigrants at some point including, very possibly, you own forebears. My uncle has been tracing my family tree and it turns out my family has a blood characteristic that is singular to North African blood. I look as white and middle class as they come and I can prove at least 1,000 years of residence in the UK but even so, it turns out I’m secretly brown. Which just goes to show what a load of shite it all is.

Farage allegedly has Huguenot antecedents, Boris German was it? but European for deffo (cf Who Do You Think You Are) and possibly this chap although I got that off Facebook so it’s probably lies since Facebook has wiped it from my timeline!

Boris JohnsonBut we have, Farage’s antecedents, clearly asylum seekers fleeing persecution if they were Huguenots, Boris’ German, as far as I recall, was an economic migrant. So both of them get to be here because our forefathers were a little more kindly disposed to their antecedents, when fleeing persecution, or moving to a place of better prospects, than he and his ilk are to others in the same position, now.

How ironic.

Looking at historic precedent, at what happened last time the economy went as far down the lav as this last recession, is quite a worry. Yeh, the crash of the 1920s… the world economy died on its arse what did we get? Facism, not to start with, but over a period of a few years, creeping in through people playing the race and hate card to get power. Playing the blame card to explain how things were, blaming brown people or ethnic minorities or people of a different faith rather than the handful of rich people who actually cocked it up. And what are we getting now? The exact same thing. Even though we’ve seen it all before and we know it’s bollocks and that fascism doesn’t work.

The whole racist thing does make me feel a bit … well … sick. Because the only difference is place of birth and melanin in the skin and because somewhere way back my umpteen times great grandfather was one these darker-skinned outcasts. Yes peps, I’m secretly coloured! If aliens exist, small wonder they won’t touch us with a barge pole. We’re poison; a bunch of complete and utter scum. The whole human race.

Someone shared a great post on Facebook the other day about how wonderful the 2012 London Olympics were, how great they made us feel our country was as we celebrated it in all it’s different diversity. How I wish we could somehow reset to that, before the hate-fest of the last election, the Scottish in/out referendum which was fought, as far as I could tell, entirely on an attempt to ignite a nationwide loathing of the English, and the EU referendum. Because we seem to have lost that. The climate in this country seems less than pleasant right now. And after some years without incident I seem to be encountering it on the streets of mild mannered Bury St Edmunds, where everyone is usually polite. This last week I feel as if I’ve run into arsey aggressive males every which way I turn. Worse, I seem to be as grumpy as the best of them.

Earlier this week, I was riding my bike down a street in town that is two way for bikes and one way for cars. Some knobend in a car coming the other way piled past me mouthing what was clearly obscenities, going by the hand gestures. Obviously the moron thought I was going the wrong way down a one way street because he was too much of a blind bastard to notice the signs telling him otherwise. What surprised me was my reaction. I mean, I gave him the bird, obviously because he had got it wrong and was behaving like a total fucktard but I also chased him, in his car, on my bike.

20160614_092206

To be fair, bikes tend to go faster than cars at that time of the morning and I just wanted to knock on his window and make some crushingly sarcastic remark themed around the concept of him borrowing my spectacles to read the big sign at the bottom of the street. I now have a picture of it on my phone to show to the next idiot – it does happen regularly but they are usually more polite.  I almost caught up with him but the traffic was moving more freely than usual so he escaped my withering scorn. Bad that.

Then yesterday, I was riding my bike along a quiet back street in Bury to collect McMini from school. There’s a part where the road narrows and as I reached it a car came up behind me. It was a blue mini – the new try hard version rather than the original 60s icon – and it was full of young men, except to call them ‘young men’ is inaccurate because, unfortunately they were more like a group of symbiotic molluscs with a single shared brain cell… only they were less brainy than that. And they were clearly drunk as well. They had the window open and the music on loud and they were shouting leerily. It wasn’t 100% intelligible but I got enough to understand what I’m pretty certain was, ‘Get out of the fucking way you fucking bag.’ Of course, the way the driver was leaning on the hooter was fairly indicative.

When I got through the thin bit they came piling past me. Oh how I wish I’d had the presence of mind to ride very slowly along the middle of the road up to the junction, but then, that would have made me a wanker. They roared past shouting at me – not sure what it just came out as noise but plenty of f word in it – and obviously, standard procedure, I gave them the bird. A few yards ahead was a friend walking along the pavement to collect her grandson from the school.

‘Did that just happen?’ I asked her as I passed.
‘We should report them,’ she said.
‘Yeh, I think they’re drunk,’ I replied and I rode on.

Richard Cheese (Dick to his mates) driving the mini sped up to the junction went over the crossroads without stopping and then got stuck behind another car which was parking. Again, numpty features lent on the hooter. Seriously, these guys were such a bunch of monumental dick splashes it was incredible. The other car carried on doing what it was doing because it was being driven by an old man, slowly. Knob features in his mini hooted more. Old man in car hooted back – good for him. I could hear them shouting at him as I approached.

And then I was alongside them. Waiting for the old fellah to move too. And their window was open and before I knew it I was giving them a piece of my mind except that, unfortunately, all that was in there was the one fingered salute and the word ‘wanker’. So there I am leaning down to the window shouting, ‘wankers, wankers you bunch of fucking wankers’ in a kind of sing song football chanty-tastic kind of way… with a bit of the aaaaaaargh from the ‘woooooooooah your shit aaaaaaaa’ thing that everyone does when the goalie for the opposing team takes a goal kick.

I mean what?

Where, exactly, has calm, mild-mannered MTM has gone? I’m still very level-headed in a crisis but time was, if someone was aggressive and unpleasant to me, I could stay cool and acerbic. Now, I seem to have lost my capacity for intelligent thought, the red mist descends straight away, hulk smash is the go-to setting, and I seem unable to think or act with any clarity or sense and behave … well … like them. I mean, the obvious thing to say was something along the lines of ‘blimey lads, which one of you is having the baby or is this not a mercy dash.’ Because they were the kind of guys who find any suggestion of womanhood way, way more insulting than being sworn at and it would have been a light hearted way of getting the point across that they were behaving like morons. At the very least I should have told them their car was really too rubbish for them to get away with driving like that or that they’d better stop shouting because the braincell they were sharing probably couldn’t do that, keep them all breathing and allow the bloke at the wheel to drive without accident. But no. Although I confess, shouting the simple wanker line in their faces was very cathartic.

They sped away and I could hear them hooting and shouting at every other car, pedestrian and bicycle that got in their way, or even vaguely near them, while they drove through the streets of the mediaeval town as if they were in a high speed police chase with the blummin’ Sweeny on their tail.

It was only when I got to school to collect McMini that I realised England were playing Wales that afternoon and kick off was at 3 o’clock. Clearly they’d been down the pub, got a bit slammed and decided they’d better drive home for the game – possibly, in their defence, because they didn’t want to drive home after watching it in the pub when they were even more rat-arsed.

I love football, but I found myself hoping England lost, just to really piss off all the people like that Mini full of plankton, not to mention the tossers who stood round at Calais throwing money at refugee children and mounted running battles with Russian fans – yeh, I don’t care who threw the first punch, it is possible to be a man and walk away. As for taunting little children about the same age as my lad? Really? They’re all on video. So, can we close the borders please and not let them back, because they don’t deserve to live here.

In defence of my own behaviour, I know my personal circumstances might contribute, I’m stressed, there’s no doubt about that. I am trying to be mother to a small child and dutiful daughter to elderly infirm parents both of whom suffer memory loss. My parents need my help running their lives – mainly the finances – but they are able to do just enough on their own bat to make it really hard for me to keep things on an even keel. I have so much to remember that my brains seems to have gone on strike and refuses to remember anything, which means every tiny task I try to do is frustratingly slow. Each time I try to organise my son’s birthday party, for example, I have to start at dot and read up what I’ve done and where I’ve got to. In short, I suspect my pissedoff-o-meter is very close to the red zone at all times. Times are hard, a lot of folks have money worries, maybe their pissedoff-o-meters are under the same stress as mine. Maybe.

But whatever’s causing it the mood in the nation, and the world, seems to be ugly.

To have two of the kind of events I would consider reasonably unusual within days of each other – well OK the one way thing isn’t, nobody sees that ruddy sign but they’re usually less rude – has shaken my confidence a little. It’s left me wondering if we’re all sick. If I’m sick.

The sooner this referendum is over the better. Doubtless there’ll be enough racist bigots voting leave for Murdoch to get his way and the leave vote to stick. But frankly, I like being in Europe. I like the idea of trading with the people around us rather than the ‘ally’ which happily buried this country – its government knowing full well what it was doing – with lend lease. If Europe seems dominated by France and Germany it’s because we didn’t effing join in at the start, when they did, even if it was Winston Churchill’s idea – and yes, I know; DeGaulle, tosspot, veto yada yada. It’s true that, for a while after that, we couldn’t. But we can now. If we choose to. Or we can turn our backs. Isolate ourselves and watch our economy go even further down the lavvy, like it has been the last couple of weeks as the world fears leave will win only oh so many times worse. Like sub prime was a pic-nic.

Personally, I like diversity, I like different peoples and cultures and sexualities and cuisines. Diverse societies are vibrant and thriving and full of ideas. I’d happily swap the arsehats in that mini for some economic migrants from the Calais camps any day of the week. I bet I know which group would contribute more to our society. Not all gay/muslim/brown people are bad. Not all hetro/’Christian’ (they’re not)/white people are good. It’s more complicated than that. Shitheads come in many different colours. Why would we turn our backs on some of the people geographically and culturally closest to us? It’s crazy.

Rant mode off.

Ah that’s better, and hey, whadda you know? I didn’t mention hell or hand carts once. 😉

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Politics: MTM’s post election rantathon.

You’re probably wondering whether or not I’m still alive so I thought I’d better put your mind at rest. To be honest, there are three reasons for my absence, first a sudden and abrupt cessation of all free downloads for my books had me scurrying to tweak key words, check categories etc on all the major book retail sites – I’m still none the wiser and thinking I’ll probably have to chalk it up to experience… ‘kismet Hardy’ and all that.

Second, I’ve had to learn to do some stuff and it took a while… more on that story next post.

Third, the election. For those who don’t know, there’s been an election here in the UK and even for politics, this one has left a really bad taste in the mouth. Perhaps I spend too much time on the internet but the whole thing seems to have been fought on the politics of hate: them and us, rich and poor, north and south.  I wanted to post something but I was so annoyed that I couldn’t make it articulate or un ranty enough. At the same time, I couldn’t  manage to post anything else until I’d written about the election. I’m still having difficulty being articulate and it’s still a bit of a rantathon. But it’s been a whole month now and this will have to do.

The aftermath of the election was also grim. There was a lot of silly, shitty ‘people who voted for … are the devil’s spawn’ style generalisations on Facebook. One person even asked that anyone who’d voted for one party to unfriend her because she didn’t want to know them. Like uh? For real?

That seems a little extreme. Perhaps there’s a very real need in all of us for a religion, or something like it. But I wonder how it is that people who are staunch rationalists or atheists are sometimes able to turn to politics with the exact same zeal and blind belief that they mock in those of religion. Maybe the human psyche has to believe ‘passionately’ in something. But believing in a political party? I have strong beliefs on what is right and wrong but the ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ of politics seems quite murky. A party which has some great ideas in its manifesto is guaranteed to have some that, to my mind anyway, are complete pants at best, at worst, wrong or possibly even unwittingly evil. So it’s a case of compromise there’s no perfect absolute. Not for me. I’m drifting from the point though. Back to the them and us.

Doubtless all this categorising of other humans rallies the troops and makes it easier to produce catchy sound bites but unfortunately, it tends to do so at the expense of a huge uplift in pointless, ignorance-based, alienation and hatred. Perhaps I’m sensitive about this, because in the eyes of a sizeable chunk of the population my geographical origins render me unspeakable, so I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of it over the years.

That’s also why I, personally, can no more think it’s ‘the right thing to do’ to vote blindly for one political party without thought than I could cut my own arm off. Would we put such unthinking trust in a group of fallible humans if they were running a multinational? Should we blindly obey people who want us to vote for their right to wield power and run a whole country? Probably not. Let’s face it, power is guaranteed to bring out the bad side of the strongest among us. So my view is that we need to mix the ruling parties up as regularly as possible so they don’t get too used to it and remember who put them where they are.

However, despite not liking politics, or politicians, very much I think standing with your fingers in your ears going, ‘la la la la I’m not going to play’ and refusing to vote is probably worse. Yes, I’m sure if nobody voted they’d have to change but I doubt that would be with the revolution some folks want. Most likely they’d simply take even less notice of those they are supposed to govern than they do now. Or we’d really have a revolution. Like Syria. There are few things more uncivil than a civil war.

As a child, I grew up in a situation where the people around me came from all walks of life, all social backgrounds and all levels of income, and they were friends. I’ve never quite got the hang of ‘them and us’ because the people in my life have always been too eclectic a mix so support the concept. Everyone was a ‘them’ of some sort. As a result of this, when I vote, I vote for the people I think will do the least damage to the country at the time. I have voted Green, Liberal, Labour and Conservative.

That’s why I found it profoundly depressing: the way that this election seemed to be fought on the politics of hate, with (otherwise) intelligent rational individuals urging us to vote for their respective political parties – on the internet at any rate –  on the grounds that it was ‘the right thing to do’: as if their manifesto was some infallible dictat laid down by God, while at the same time happily mouthing poisonous platitudes from the mother ship decrying the moral turpitude of anyone who voted for a different bunch.

Do we really fall for this ‘everyone in party x is a knob’ style shit?

The fact is this.

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE WANKERS IN THE WORLD. I know! Drop down dead in shock! But yes it’s true. A small minority of the human race are just total tossers. Nothing will change this and it isn’t anyone’s fault. But, contrary to popular belief, their monthly income, accent, occupation, the identity of their antecedents, whether or not they’re vegetarian are allergy sufferers or drive a certain type of car, or drive at all, their birth place, current home, school they went to, parents’ occupation, gender, social standing, social background, stance on animal rights, religion, colour or political affiliation has absolutely NO bearing on whether or not a person will be a twat. In short you cannot just pick a random aspect or experience about their life and say that everyone else who shares it is a tosser, well… I suppose you can, but only if you’re a tosser of epic proportions yourself.

So there we go peps, when you next read a statement that runs along the lines of ‘everyone who voted labour is a twat,’ or conversely, ‘anyone who voted conservative is a knob,’ made by someone pitching it as actual truth, we can all have a quiet chuckle at who the real dick head is.

On the up side, my faith in the British public has been boosted enormously by the fact that UKIP didn’t get in.

For a light hearted take on the way we in the, laughingly named, ‘united’ Kingdom all hate each other, just spool to 2.45 on this vid and watch Andy Parsons sum it up.

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