Those not watching Netflix’s latest offering for a third time (in order to ‘Get it’, without asking Google), answered data-mined questions on their smartphones, in between quick & drawn-out games of Wordle. Meanwhile the HMS CostaLot prowled and trawled ‘sovereign waters’ for drowning ex-pats that had left war-torn Blighty for less welcoming arms. Mary put her crochet needles down and surveyed her morning’s work. A fishing-net the size of Sheppey, made of red, white & blue rope. The message - ‘God Bless You M’am - You’ve Gone Platinum!’  In Qatar the Crown Prince ordered three more executions. Two queens, and a fallen woman. All fur coat. No trousers. Mouth wide open. Knickers inside. And all in a days work………….

My love bought me an oven-glove An oven-glove she did gift me. I’d been reading the obituaries Wikipedia, on the World Wide Web And spouting facts about causes and ages and spouses and places of death. They were lined and flameproof And patterned with cats We carry on together marching forward gifting gloves absorbing facts.

  Does anyone have 'narrative voices' in their head? When I write shit, I often assume the inner voice of something or someone I’ve just watched, or heard on the wireless. I think it’s quite common. At the moment it’s Sterling Archer from Netflix's Archer. He’s also the voice of Bob from Bob’s Burgers . I think it’s the sort of laconic, can’t be arsed, and rather belligerent voice that I need, to express my laconic & belligerent sense of not being arsed at the moment? The problem is, if I read anything I have written back in a non-Archer/Bob voice, it loses all colour. And intrinsic meaning. It’s not a problem. According to my 'blog stats', only five people have read any of my stuff in the past month, and I’m one of them. Possibly two of them. I wrote a piece for a magazine last week. It hasn’t been published. Or accepted. But I wrote a piece of doggerel, and I managed to stay remarkably sane. I used to write my blogs in a Joe Pasquale voice. I wanted to convey...

  I need drugs! I need a drug. A specific drug. I need something I can pop in the morning and regardless of what transpires, NOTHING bothers me all day, yet I’m totally aware that no-one cares what I think anyway. If you’re reading this, you’re LITERALLY doing what I don’t want. If you ‘Like’ this, respond to my request, Twitter me, Follow me, Share me, or make a comment on my blog, you’re merely f acilitating . You’re being an enabler. If you’re NOT reading this, then thank-you! I assume it was the watered-down title, enforced on me by Facebook Community Standards? I’m sorry that you didn’t get this far. I’ve done FUCK LOADS of drugs in my life. I’m not proud. I am beholden to Big Pharma for my health, and beholden to Whomsoever for my woes. I have taken drugs that have made me fall in love with everyone. I have taken drugs to counter the inevitable consequences. I have taken drugs that have fucked up my liver. I have taken drugs that have repaired my liver. I have taken drugs th...

On the ninth day of Christmas.................... Traditionally today is ‘Wheelie Bin Day’ in the UK. In the modern, developed, post-Greta, Attenborough-effected UK of 2022, it is now considered ‘Traditional’ to traditionally stuff as much unwanted traditional wrap into whichever wheelie bin traditionally has the most space. But tradition can often be fickle. As Advent gives way to Epiphany, EU immigrant French Hens give way to ex-pat Calling Birds, and Netflix lays out a Top 10 of ‘must-see’ movies, we like many other cultures have differing bin days, and many see Bin Day as just another day. Some countries don’t even celebrate Bin Day! In East Anglia (East Suffolk Council - Zone A - Refuse Collection), many people decorate the streets with colourful wrapping paper. Last century people started stuffing huge cardboard boxes into their dustbins, and people still do the same in certain parts of Norfolk, but with the much more attractive & seasonal green wheelie bins. In the years BC ...

 I wonder if we make resolutions in order to experience a feeling of total failure? Like schadenfreude, do we get a perverse sense of masochistic pleasure when we let our own selves down? After the 'unprecedented' uncertainty of the past couple of years, I thought it wise NOT to make any steadfast promises to myself this year. What will be will be, it is what it is, we're all human, and Bob was my uncle (until he died of Covid early last year). So I told myself that I would make changes to my behaviour, rather than wholesale deprivation, or unrealistic goals. I would be more forgiving this year. I would accept others' fallibilities. I would empathise where possible, and at worst, try to see things from someone else's perspective. I would channel any anger I felt into something more positive. I would breathe deeper, slower and for longer. I would accept my fate. By 1.30pm on January 1st I had failed on all but one of the above. I am still breathing. Although it is s...