Scrounger Marries Parasite: Welcome to the Family Business

Eight weeks since the onset of this bloody chest infection-and I'm not dead yet. It only felt that way-especially after four weeks of whacking my system with very strong antibiotics.

I didn't get online since the last time I wrote-there wasn't anything to say, except how I felt like a sweaty bag of shit with a horrendous cough that sounded like I was about to cough up at least one lung. Nope-no luck there, I still have both. And, after some heavy duty lung function tests, I discovered that my lungs didn't suffer from the infection. See that? Miracles happen. There is a God.

Of course, I missed the scrounger marries parasite Windsor dog and pony show of the other weekend. Like many, many people I know (there are intelligent people in this country-and I thought I knew all of them!), we all felt dishonored by these greedy so called "royals". Why did the taxpayers have to cough up more than 32 million pounds to pay for this wedding, when the old girl (you know. Her maj. The queen who now is demanding an increase in the funds she gets from the taxpayers. Or-the suckers) could have (and should have) paid for it herself?

They had the effrontery to issue a statement thanking the public for their support. Yeah-they did stop short of thanking the suckers for paying all their bills, when they could have paid everything themselves. This is one thing (of many things) that brings up my blood pressure. People are dying. The NHS is imploding, it is in a right mess; very sick people are denied life saving drugs because there "isn't enough money". What a load of old bollocks (one more for the swear box). There's money. It's being wasted, and people do nothing (because they're stupid). Dump the greedy parasites who call themselves "royals". Stuff their attitudes of entitlement and use some of their ill gotten gains to save the lives of people who have lived and worked in this country, and now are being - well, betrayed. All these tossers are the products of hundreds of years of inbreeding anyway. Who needs them? People go to France, and the French don't have a royal family. They've got the best wine (outside California. Some loyalty here!), the best cheese, and as for the fashions-no, I'm not going to make any more enemies than I have already.

So I've now given the "royals" a lot more blog space than they deserve. No, I didn't watch the wedding, I didn't hear anything on the radio because I wasn't listening, ignored the tabloids sucking up to the tossers-except that I did hear on the news (accidentally, a few days after the ridiculously opulent event) that the badly aging George Clooney and his trophy wife were there. Of course they were; if they got paid enough money and got enough publicity, they would go to the opening of a public toilet. And the newscaster gushed about Clooney's wife wearing a mustard colored dress. Mustard looks great-on a hot dog.

So now I'm back. I did the whole "let's go to all the clinics and physio at the hospital" thing, and I just have to put one foot in front of the other and do my best not to fall on my head again. Believe me when I say that I am erring on the side of caution, whatever I do.

There is good news, though. I received my five year all-clear from the oncologist last week. That's five years since the double mastectomy-and with a few scares notwithstanding, I'm free of cancer. I can stop the tamoxifen. The side effects should all disappear: my hair should grow back, my skin return to normal, no more night sweats, moodiness, and, of course, the memory. I told you that the memory is one of the first three things to go. I forgot what the other two are.

~Tamoxifen has also affected my bone density. Personally, I think I would rather have thin and brittle bones than have cancer. I got the all clear, came back to the house, and cried. Then I went and celebrated: Kettle Chips. Starbucks. Even a little Lindt's chocolate truffles. And I called everyone who is important to me to tell them the news.

I haven't had a life for eight years: first, the gentamicin. Next, cancer. Now it's all changing.
Will I still take pot shots at the Brits? Oh, hell, yes. I had so many years of being on the receiving end-and being married to one of them, I had to watch everything I said. Not any more. Taking pot shots-well, it's become something of a hobby. Let's face it: it's so very well deserved!!

I'm back. I'm pretty healthy, all things considered. And-I'm off to Starbucks. I need the exercise...

Return of the less-than-exploding head-finally

After three months, the head is actually fine. The lungs, though, are another story. It turns out that the whacking big dose of antibiotics cured the problem, although they'll probably end up killing the host. I've been scanned, irradiated, poked, prodded, blood letted and magnetized up the wazoo. And I'm still here. Obviously only the good die young. If that's the case, I should live forever. Or it'll seem like forever. I want to be around for a very long time- years and years left so I can really piss people off.

I'm back on form-I hope. People are dropping like flies from a very nasty flu bug that's going around, so I've been avoiding everyone as much as possible. And now I can start living again.

Everyone here is geared up for the scrounger marries parasite in a couple of weeks time. We not only are getting the local elections and all the crap about Brexit rammed down our throats-plus the news that there are shootings in this country-shootings, stabbings, acid attacks, things that now (according to the government) place London in front of New York when it comes to crime-we are also getting the scrounger marries parasite wedding rammed down our throats, too. My friend has the right idea: she's going off to Budapest that weekend, so she gets to avoid the whole circus. Me, I'll be in hiding.

I'll cover all that in my next post. This one is to let people know that I'm not dead yet. I told you: only the good die young. Allegedly. So I'm off to Starbucks -where else?- and I'll see you next time. Next time will be tomorrow.