Sunday, 13 September 2020

How did that happen?

It dawned on me last week that tomorrow I 'celebrate' thirty years in London.

Let that just sink in for a moment.

T H I R T Y.

How in the name of all that is precious did time slip by so quickly?

And when I say 'celebrate', I am mindful that whilst there is so much to be grateful for, this country has also become a global embarassment that makes The Muppet Show characters look like better contenders for future politicians than any one of the current mob pretending to govern this nation.

It is tedious enough to have to explain to others not here - or attempt to excuse, which I am looooong beyond doing - what the fuck is actually going on at present (Brexshit disaster, check; Covid mishandling, check; corruption, check; incompetence, check; blatant law-breaking, check), so I instead focus on what has made me remain in this city for such a lengthy period of time:

London itself.

Whichever way you look at it, whatever your views or your opinions or your beliefs or your inclinations, there is somewhere for everyone and something to offer for all.

I think I can truly call London 'home' now.

Thursday, 19 March 2020

The mother of all clusterfucks

So there was 2016.
A bundle of laughs post referendum. Not.

Fracturing of friendships, an increase in overall nastiness, general intolerance and vitriolic diatribe in the name of - variously - 'sovereignty', 'patriotism', or (my favourite) 'spirit of the Blitz'.

Because nothing says "love thy neighbour" like telling them that they have no right to live here after twenty-odd years of contributions to society (tax, work input, voluntary time, et al) and insisting they apply for indefinite leave to remain so they can stay in their own house.

Welcome to Britain.

Then we had the years in-between.
I call them The Wilderness Years.

You occasionally thought things would be okay, the politicians would reclaim our faith, the world stage would actually come good, and the conglomerate of fuckwits that go variously by the names of Johnson, Farage, Trump, Morgan, Salvini and associates would finally locate that cliff edge and take a collective running jump.

Alas, not so.

And here we are.

The year of 2020 that has so far seen Britain somehow manage to 'serve time' on the EU and insist on exiting without a plan of any sort, beyond a blind 'belief' that if we squeeze our eyes shut and push hard enough, a polished turd will emerge that - incredibly - will be the envy of all other nations.

I can smell it already from here, but never mind.

In the meantime, to keep us all otherwise entertained, we have a pandemic - yay us!

Who'd have thought it? A true, life-threatening, highly contagious, untreatable virus to separate the real men from the wusses.

You know, the real men (I use the term liberally, don't take offence now please) who stockpile loo rolls, fight over the pot noodle selection and boxes of tea bags, deplete the aisles of bleach and detergents, and think nothing of queueing for seven hours so they can bulk buy at Costco because... well, everyone else is, innit?

I salute you all, you absolute genii.
The Spirit of the Blitz is truly alive and kicking.

We can survive leaving the EU - apparently - but heaven forbid we might have to self-isolate and look after and out for one another.

Because, of course, neither are related in terms of survival, are they?

What an absolute, disgraceful, cowardly demonstration of petty shallowness.

If this is an insight to the Britain that awaits us once Covid-19 has wreaked its havoc, then heaven help us all.

What a time to be alive.
Thank goodness for the NHS and all its staff.
Of every nationality.

Yadda yadda yadda...