Wensleydale and the whippet

Let’s get this straight: when I’m Prime Minister, given basically anyone’s allowed a go now hahaha, the first new crime on the statute books will be tardiness.

I will trample a litter of newborn puppies to get somewhere on time. I don’t instantly want you dead if you’re late to meet me, but your first born are fair game. If we agree to meet at 7pm and you arrive with a “Sorry, I got caught up” at 7.50, I’ll have spent the 45 minutes since your grace period ran out thinking of ways to have you arrested for sex crimes.

But that doesn’t make me a hurrier. If I say I’m going to be somewhere at a certain time, I make sure I add a few minutes’ buffer to the journey. If I’m looking like being early, that’s why God made pubs.

I don’t spend my days hurtling about like a sheepdog on Ritalin. Which brings us to HS2.

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A shade of beetroot

I have a burning pet hate these days. I become so infuriated I’m sure I often resemble a ‘gammon’ myself as my face turns a shade of beetroot, my blood pressure skyrockets and I struggle to maintain my cool and dignity. I absolutely detest arrogance, especially when the so-called achievements are exaggerated or didn’t even happen.

So many Brits believe they are better than any other nationality, and living anywhere other than the UK is akin to living in North Korea or some third-world country in Africa. I really can’t comprehend where this arrogance comes from and I have no tolerance for people who think and behave like us Brits walk on water and look down on all other nationalities from our ivory tower. I’m beginning to think we’ve become a nation of complete twats, convinced we are far superior to the rest of the world and that our tiny little island exceeds any other place on the planet.

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Monsoon season

Poor old Australia. Currently on fire due to what their hilariously holidaying Prime Minister probably blames on a Swedish schoolgirl, it’s hot as Hades and people can’t see each other for smoke. A couple more weeks of this and they’ll have to use their famed ‘points-based system’ to decide who gets to hop about in the last flip-flop not yet ablaze.

The average Aussie would give their right leg shackle for a downpour. Meanwhile on this side of the planet it’s winter and therefore rainy season, since snow was banned under whatever arrangement Boris Johnson has made with Satan. At this most wonderful time of the year, people look fearfully to the skies as though the AFD have found a few leftover V-2s.

I personally love unhappy weather. A grey day makes my heart sing as though the darkness at my core has been allowed out on day release. Rain is Mother Earth crying at the constant beatings she takes from her children, and we deserve every tear. So needless to say I fucking hate umbrellas.

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Screen 15

Westfield Shopping Centre in Shepherds Bush, on Black Friday. Whoops.

It didn’t occur to me when I booked my ticket. I had to be out west later to see a band, I had time to see a film first, there’s a cinema in this hideous place: fine, I’ll tolerate it. Little did I realise I’d encounter a battalion of rabid consumers surging towards me in waves with their unlimited boxes of trainers, always bloody trainers.

Still, not even people soon to realise that bargain Converse won’t fill the hole in their soul can ruin one of my favourite experiences – going to the pictures. That honour instead falls to the Vue cinema chain.

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Living the dream

Let’s face it, every freelancer dreads their job on a daily basis.

You may believe we’re living the dream. It must be so relaxing to be your own boss, even if you do have to give almost a quarter of every one of your invoices to a third-party website you’re being forced to use because it’s almost impossible to start a business by yourself these days. We’re not living the dream.

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Idiota

My blood is boiling. Steam is blowing out my ears. I might just explode like Mark François was meant to on October 31st.

The reason? Hearing for the millionth time from some geriatric fuckwit who lives in Spain declaring he’s not an immigrant here, but an expat. Because clearly, as a British citizen living abroad, being referred to as an immigrant is an insult that puts us Brits on a par with immigrants in the UK. And everyone knows they only go over to get a free 6-bedroomed house, a mobile phone, a speedboat to smuggle the rest of their family over in and £2,000 a week in benefits.

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Chatter and rabbit

It happened when I was cleaning my teeth.

Wandering about the flat, toothpaste dribbling down my chin and a very real threat in the air of my tripping on a carpet rail and headfirsting into the bath. My face was raised you see, to keep the toothpaste in, because I needed to have my mouth open a bit wider than necessary for just a toothbrush.

Because I was walking around talking to myself. This is when it happened. I realised I’m absolutely fucking mental.

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Fireworks night

There are a few nights of the year sent to test you as a parent, and fireworks night is definitely one of them.

As a kid in the ’80s it was great – big blazing bonfires to which you could get close enough to need a completely new set of eyebrows in the morning, sparklers tracing out your name in the darkness and plenty of whizz-pops and bang-clatters to make a great evening out. Not to mention plenty of hot food and hand-warming drinks.

5th November 2019 on the other hand – not so great.

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Morning at Moorgate

To celebrate National Poetry Day, I’d like to share with you my favourite poem:

A downpour lies in wait,
Licking itself like an ice cream,
A soaking cools its heels.

Tiny creatures scurry,
Cows sit and ponder, at the edge of their minds a torrent
They’ll never see coming.

Tiny creatures scurry,
Dread held at bay
By plastic shields.

A downpour is coming,
Wrath forecast,
Without a cloud in the sky.

Nonsense, eh?

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