Crazy Lady Gotta Roar

It’s a bad sign when you start referring to yourself in the third person. It’s could be something of an indication of worry if you feel inclined to get in touch with some decidedly animalistic instincts. And also of course when you at long last admit that you could be considered by some as slightly insane. Sure, we can all admit that I’ve been dropping some fairly significant red flags over the years but this is a brand new milestone (have I done this bit yet? Because mental illness isn’t remotely taboo and everyone enjoys jokes about it).

Surely there’s got to be something in particular that’s pushed me over to the edge and driven me out of my tiny little mind? To be fair, it could be pretty much anything. The first thing that comes to me (mainly because it’s the matter weighing the mini grey cells into nonexistence), is that I’m trying to choose a wedding dress.

I’ve trawled through a load of sites and it turns out that is actually is possible to look at too many (who knew?). For a normal person (i.e. not me. Sure, Jacob Rees-Mogg might believe that term denigrates the general public, everyone is absolutely extraordinary and whatnot but it’s an easy shorthand especially when I’m deprecating myself. So put that in your pipe and smoke it Eton boy. I do not have an axe to grind), this might be an excellent activity. I, however, am incredibly indecisive and I think this might be what finally causes my aneurysm.

Anyway, this started out being about something else entirely but then I got to thinking about the honourable member for the eighteenth century and got even more livid. His excuse for not having changed a nappy is pathetic – if Nanny wouldn’t approve then bloody well get her to teach you. There’s being honest which even I can admit that I appreciate but that doesn’t necessarily make the bile you spew any more palatable.

Song choices courtesy of: Mark Mancina, Neil Patrick Harris and Ramin Djiwadi

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Dripping Wounded on Your Throne

There’s a perfectly reasonably rational explanation for this. If you would be so good as to hand me some variety of bandage so that I can attempt to staunch the flow of blood, I will happily walk you through the course of events that brought us to this moment in time. Well, when I came in here and realised I was suffering from several gaping axe wounds I ascertained that I’d absolutely have to sit down to catch my breath for a little while. To be sure, there are plenty of places to deposit one’s self in here. However, would you really expect me to stagger to the floor like some kind of peasant?

Therefore, the throne was the obvious option and I would hope you’d appreciate the fact that I’m doing my level best not to get any of my innards all over it. Also, I think we’re grown up enough to admit that we know that I didn’t expect you be able to reclaim this particular seat. It’s been something of a drawn out resolution and I for one would like to applaud you for your efforts during it.

Absolutely, you could have been out there in the midst of battle. You might have thought it would be expected of you and made the conclusion that the best place for you would have been inside and away from any of the burly men I’d tasked with ensuring your death. A cunning stratagem.

It may well be that I bleed out before medical aid can reach me and you can sit back down once you’ve pushed my desiccated remains to one side. A satisfied smile may even play across your lips as you do but for this particular moment in time the throne is mine. Mine I say! Insert twist about it being one of the porcelain variety or something. And I’ve got terrible bottom squits (not really, honest).

Song choices courtesy of: East India Youth, John Powell and Beans on Toast

The Great Big F*cking Hole

Julia Hartley-Brewer, someone whose name I’m almost certain I’ve known before but honestly can’t be bothered to look up right now, has seen fit to opine to Twitter that she’s alarmed by how many young Brits aren’t proud of their country. She includes in this what’s we’ve achieved (sic), our values, our freedoms etc. and goes on to proclaim the whole situation rather sad. I am not proud, I am ashamed. Thoroughly so.

Theresa May gave a speech on something or other at the UN to a largely empty room. Faithful lackey Boris Johnson was obviously there, to reaffirm his hound-like obedience to the mistress but otherwise few delegates were interested in what she had to say. This strikes me as about right. We’ve surrendered our right to be relevant in the wider world.

Perhaps you disagree. I don’t actually care. This is my blog and I’m flipping well right cheesed off, you don’t have to read this but at this point in time I absolutely have to get this out. We’ve lost our position in the world (not that we really deserved it in the first place: the tiny island who enslaved people way back when, why should anyone be forced to listen to our opinions any more?) and the running around like headless chickens in the Brexit negotiations certainly hasn’t helped matters.

What on earth do I have to be proud of in this day and age when it comes to the country of my birth? We’re the land of Farage and Hopkins, they’re our ambassadors whether we like it or not. We’ve lost any appearance of reasonableness and no volume of tacky royal festooned commemorative mugs is going to salvage what we’ve collectively chucked away. There’s time to backtrack, it’s not going to happen because idiots like Johnson are dashing about demanding our attention but I refuse to be shamed into pride when it’s bloody well not what I feel like expressing right about now. There’s just a great big hole where any national pride used to exist.

Song choice (because I’m too irritated to do a mash up): Beans on Toast

Reasons Not to Be Riled Up

If you go through life making it plain for all to see just how angry you are at any given time it’s going to get increasingly difficult for folk to take you seriously. It’s the smoothly cool hep cats who get stuff done. Believe me, Theresa, I’m here to help. I know that this advice would have been ever so slightly more helpful if it had been delivered earlier (I’m fairly certain you’ll have already had to interact face to face with Boris at the United Nations but you can take what I have to say to heart going forwards now can’t you? Lovely).

To be honest, I wasn’t particularly interested in this story up until now but that’s basically because I only got round to getting the general gist of Mr Johnson’s Brexit ramblings last night. Hey, I have a busy life, lots of episodes of Bake Off to keep on top of and that. Anyway, if I were in the position of Prime Minister I’d be bloody livid. As it is, I’m only mildly incensed. As things stand, BoJo doesn’t have all that much bearing on my day to day life so I can live with this.

But you don’t really have the luxury of being able to fly off the handle in private do you? So, sure, you could fire him for bloody minded obstinate insubordination and it would be inordinately satisfying. However, it wouldn’t make him go away. For once you and I have a goal in common Mrs May. We want him nowhere near the premiership but we both know that if you strike him down he will come back stronger than ever before.

Also, and it does kill me to say it, but you have an image problem. They (the press and that idiot general public) won’t read it as the power move that they would from a man. So you have plenty of reasons to bide your time, keep that icy demeanour of yours and wait for everyone to get sick of his shtick. Probably.

Song choices courtesy of: Frank Turner and Michael Giacchino

Waiting for the Cosmic Population

Aliens are totally definitely out there. The oo-niverse is simply far too large and speckled with habitable planets for us to be it. Seriously, we’re messing up so spectacularly it would be such a shame if we were the sum total of life in this particular reality. Therefore, extra-terrestrial races much exist and I’m starting to long for their arrival.

Sure, if a hitherto unknown race with spacefaring tendencies and technology turn up it may not end up totally well for us. But there are plenty of perfectly benevolent scenarios that could occur. They might decide that we’re decidedly cute and convert our planet into a massive human sanctuary. They’d divert resources into making sure that we don’t end up blowing ourselves up or something equally unfortunate. Admittedly, we’d lose all pride in ourselves as a species and autonomy over our affairs but it can’t be that much worse than the creeping dread that accompanies the latest developments in world politics.  We’d be totally brilliant pets.

Maybe they’d attempt cross breeding or some such but maybe we’d get a fascinating generation out of that endeavour. One with exciting superhuman powers who’d eventually take us over altogether to be sure but this is another case where we lose ultimate responsibility for our future. Win-win in my book. There are those who’ll push the doom and gloom narrative where we get conquered and enslaved or possibly just annihilated but it’s not like we’ll have much of a chance to mount a resistance so might as well go with the flow.

And that’s why I’m not getting on with normal human functions. I’m waiting for the aliens to come so I couldn’t possibly do anything so utterly pedestrian as pay my mortgage. Or shower. Dear sirs, what is that tantalisingly white jacket you’re all of a sudden brandishing at me? I’d love to try it on, very slimming.

Song choices courtesy of: Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly, Florence + the machine and Thomas Newman

My Kind of Wonderland Strife

Happy endings are not to be trusted because they’re not realistic in perpetuity. George RR Martin is right to be sceptical of resolutions where Good King Such and Such reigns for a hundred years and everything is marvellously happy. That sort of thing is an easy fantasy (who am I do criticise incredibly popular literature? Someone who hasn’t bothered to read it for one but these aren’t my original arguments. Then why are we reading this if you’re merely going to parrot the thoughts of more accomplished writers? Why indeed?). But it’s not how things wind up in the real world.

There are tax plans to execute, rampaging armies of the oppressors to deal with. If the author decides to leave off the very moment (or shortly afterwards) the destined bum hits the throne end of the story is left untold. Am I asking for yet more conclusion to the Lord of the Rings epic? Not on your life. It’s just an interesting way of ramping up to the half formed notion I came up with when I slapped the title together.

I’m a sucker for a happy ending but I also like being told what happens next. Who got married to whom? How many children did they have? What were their names, hopes and ambitions? It’s not always satisfying to discover the answers that lie in store. Many readers were disconcerted to find that Mark Darcy had snuffed it before the start of the most recent proper Bridget Jones book (so much so that they went for a completely different narrative for the film).

I suppose it’s simply that much more satisfying to know that the tale goes on in a believable way. Rather than the characters being props in a fable, they’re still living and breathing, coming up against problems they’re still able to handle but which prevent them from having an interruptedly blessed experience. Because where’s the fun in wonderland without a little strife?

Song choices courtesy of: Vance Joy, John Mayer and East India Youth

Just a Sexy Chick in a China Shop

Much press is given to the proverbial bull who finds occasion to enter the emporium peddling items of fragile crockery. However, if such beasts were the only patrons of these establishments one can hardly imagine that they’d be much of a going concern in this day and age. Admittedly, no one actually buys their regular plates from a specialist vendor, they purchase the generic twelve pack from Argos or a local supermarket (ruining absolutely everything for the little guy they are).

So what happens when someone enters a china shop after the owners breathe a heavy sigh of relief that they’re not bulls and therefore are far less likely to wreck the stock (of course this is ingrained speciesism with a little dash of sexism against the poor innocent male bovines. But we’re not trying to change the world today. You can do your bit to prove yourself more accepting but that’s a meaningless drop in the ocean when it comes to raging against the awesome power of the proverb simile)?

Naturally, it depends further on who they are, how much use they’re likely to get out of the china on sale and how much they’re estimated to have to spend. A pantsless duck, for example, will get surprisingly good service and the staff will have assumed they have a good deal of spare change burning a hole in their lack of pocket.

And then there’s the sexy chick. One might have assumed this might be a lady with curves in all the right places and a wink locked and loaded for a lucky few. Nope, it’s a disturbingly attractive young bird (don’t get any funny ideas, we wouldn’t want to have to put you on any variety of ornithological register) fluttering and tweeting its way around the place. Nothing to see here, move on.

Song choices courtesy of: Rachel Bloom, Paloma Faith and the Barenaked Ladies