Sometimes things go pear-shaped; life goes sideways. In fact, there are times in one's life when everything just turns to shit. And this two month period has been colossal crap of the first order.
I wrote on Halloween, and that was fine. Little kids came around, parents standing back to watch-so appropriate, given the state of the country at the moment-and they were adorable. I'm still so glad that I didn't ever want children; I had dogs instead. Much better! Dogs love you whether you look good or not; dogs are so loyal, which is more than anyone can say for people.
I then took a week off, went to the abbey outside London; they rent out rooms (five) for people who want to come on retreat, and there are no phones, no television, no noise. In fact, the only place you're allowed to talk is in the communal kitchen, and only during certain hours. So I had a week of peace and quiet. And was I ever bored! That experience taught me just how much stress and anxiety I've been under for a very long time.
I got back and discovered that everything truly had gone sideways. The landline phone decided to break, so I had to go out and buy a new one. This time I decided to get one that wasn't battery operated (okay, so the last one did last about ten years, so I couldn't complain), so I bought the only decent looking one I could find. It has buttons that are so big, you could press them with your fist. And the ringer is so loud, you could probably hear it in the next county. But hey, it works.
The kettle died. The boiler decided to spring a leak, giving me a soaking wet kitchen. It took the boiler people nearly a week to sort it out; this had happened on the Saturday, and nobody wanted to come out and have a look. By Wednesday, five guys showed up to fix the boiler. Five. And they stood outside and had a committee meeting, deciding that they didn't have the correct parts to fix the thing. So three went away to find the parts, and the other two stood in my kitchen, taking the boiler apart and making a mess. I offered them coffee-but I couldn't get to the wall sockets to heat the kettle. I was happy to find another place to heat the kettle, but they refused. They had brought a thermos, so that made things easier. They still went trooping through the kitchen, wet floor and all.
I thought-once they left-okay, that's three things that have gone wrong, so that should be the end of it. Oh, how wrong I was! The computer died. The broadband decided to break. My not-so-smartphone also decided to give up the ghost.
I did manage to cope with all of it, and everything that was broken was fixed or replaced; I ended up with the cleanest kitchen floor in North London. Or anywhere.
But-and there is always a "but"-I was minding my own business and taking out the trash very early on a Wednesday morning. I was up early, so I thought I would get that done. I didn't allow for the rain the night before, and the very soggy leaves and wet ground outside. No stick, no glasses-I could do this. And that is when the world turned to shit.
I slipped on the leaves, slammed into the edge of the building-hip first-and went down flat on my side, my knees, and my hands, which I used to keep my face from hitting the ground. Talk about pain.
I was really winded, and it took me awhile to get myself up and back inside, where I moved my legs and arms and decided that I probably hadn't broken anything, or I wouldn't be walking at all.
I waited a couple of days, with a huge lump on one side, bruises and big swellings everywhere, even though the first thing I reached for was the arnica. And then I went to A&E. I wasn't going to go to the emergency room at the Whittington, I wanted to come out of there with all my body parts intact- so I went back to the Royal Free, where I spent a tedious four and a half hours, two people mangled my veins in my arms trying to insert a cannula (idiots. They don't understand that people have very small veins. These guys couldn't tap a vein if it was the size of a six lane motorway).
Got the x-rays, and was congratulated on not breaking every bone in my body. The doc who came to see me told me that I have two hairlines on my pelvis, a huge amount of bruising and soft-tissue damage everywhere, and that I should rest and take painkillers.
So now you know where I've been for the past six weeks: doing only what was absolutely necessary and spending the rest of the time lying on my left side. Oh, joy.
Christmas has always been very difficult for me anyway. I did cook for myself for Thanksgiving, and sent a prayer of thanks to-well, whoever is out there-that I'm still alive, compos mentis, and in pretty good shape regardless. And the pain is finally beginning to subside, the bruising on my side is less than it was before, and everything seems to be working. So I'm grateful.
Christmas was when I finally decided that I was going to get a divorce. I didn't say anything to my husband because I didn't want to ruin his Christmas (what a wuss, eh?), so I ruined mine instead. So usually I solve the problem by hibernating. I read, watch old movies, go walking-and on Christmas morning I can usually walk without some imbecile heading straight for me, expecting me to jump out of the way.
Yes, Christmas is over for another year. The children are happy (I hope), the parents are dreading when the Christmas bills come out in January, and some of us (possibly many of us) just treat it as another day, and give thanks for finally doing what should have been done years before-and I personally give thanks for the lucky escape.
Things happen, and there are so many things over which we have no control whatsoever. But I hope that everyone reading this had a good time anyway, whatever you did-or didn't do. Eat lots, I decided that anything we eat or drink between Christmas and New Year's has no calories. Eat, drink, be happy - and find a person you really dislike, find the person who is odious and obnoxious-and get behind them and kick them down a flight of stairs.
Ho ho f+++in' ho.
Friday 27 December 2019
Thursday 31 October 2019
Happy Halloween
I finally got one holiday right-on the day, too! Yes there is a God. And all the halloweenies will be out in force tonight. I don't mean the kids, I mean the adults (biologically, anyway). It's not even 9:15am and they're out getting rat-assed. This is the day when anything can happen-and does-because every villain is wearing a mask. Funny: the bigger the ego, the smaller the willy. Have you women noticed this? If you're just figuring this out now-what the hell! What took you so long?
I had a very underwhelming ten days since my last post. This was when I discovered that, the older I get, the shorter my fuse. I had a temper when I was growing up, but I thought that I had grown out of it. But now? Not so much.
Everything that could break-broke. One vacuum cleaner expired-very noisily-and I swore a few times, but then remembered that it was thirteen years old, and wasn't supposed to last more than around five years (the end of the extended warranty). I have a mini-stereo, sitting on a shelf, minding its own business, and it broke (fifteen years. Lucky me). The phone died, so I had to go out and buy another one. The final insult was when the broadband stopped working last week. That was it.
Everything that broke was really old, so I can be positive and say that at least they all lasted a long time. Add to that that nothing broke at Christmas, so I didn't have to brave the stampede of shoppers headed-well, everywhere. But the broadband? Grrrr....
This began a week-long fight with Virgin Media, the service provider of broadband, TV and phone-all of which decided to break down at once. I called it in. They didn't have a technician available until last Thursday. Okay, I said, give me a time. So I waited in, all afternoon, and nobody showed up, and nobody called, or texted to say that they had cancelled the appointment because a fault in the area had been fixed.
Did I go ballistic? Hell, yes. I had a go at the customer service people, who are located in Mumbai, and most of whom cannot speak English. I don't care where they are located. They could be on the moon, but at least hire people who can speak English. The last time I looked, I was in England. And before you start name calling, a huge number of customers are complaining to Virgin for that same reason: all services should be provided in this country, so that everyone can understand everyone else. And it got worse.
I had to fight all weekend to get a router sent so that I could change the defective one by myself. Easy: just unplug all the cables, plug in the new ones, call an activation number, and then restore the Virgin numbers onto my phone. Easy? Errr....no. Because Virgin, in their wisdom (of which they have none) sent the thing via a crappy service called Yodel. And Yodel is well known for never showing up, or showing up with broken packages. Did Yodel show up on Tuesday? I'll bet you know the answer to that.
To shorten a long story: I got through to Yodel and laid into them for 45 minutes, while they made incredibly feeble excuses. I laid into Virgin after that, and threatened to cancel my contract. I've been with them for ten years, I really was forceful (polite, no swearing, but very, very forceful).
Yesterday afternoon a Virgin technician arrived and changed the router. The whole thing took twenty minutes (he had to wait for everything to upload, then complete the installation). Then Virgin had the colossal nerve to email me and ask what I thought of the service. I told them. I hope that whoever read what I wrote still has a migraine.
I know that I said that I was going to retire from activism, quit fighting over things that I felt (and feel) are wrong. However...that doesn't seem to have worked out so well. When challenges present themselves, you cannot sit back and let people walk all over you. In the absence of having a weapon (forget that, I'd probably shoot myself by mistake), you just have to stand up, fight for your rights, and refuse to back down.
I told you about Toothless Terry the deranged tosser next door? A prime example of standing up for myself. Have I heard from the police? No. Have I heard from any of the senior managers? No. Am I carrying a can of mace with me wherever I go? Ummmm....I think I don't want to answer that, but I think that you already know the answer. Even if I got arrested for fighting back, I doubt that there would be a jury in the world that would convict me.
Maybe I would get a medal, or a lifetime supply of free flat whites at Starbucks.
It's Halloween. Maybe I'll just sit back and have a glass of wine.
I had a very underwhelming ten days since my last post. This was when I discovered that, the older I get, the shorter my fuse. I had a temper when I was growing up, but I thought that I had grown out of it. But now? Not so much.
Everything that could break-broke. One vacuum cleaner expired-very noisily-and I swore a few times, but then remembered that it was thirteen years old, and wasn't supposed to last more than around five years (the end of the extended warranty). I have a mini-stereo, sitting on a shelf, minding its own business, and it broke (fifteen years. Lucky me). The phone died, so I had to go out and buy another one. The final insult was when the broadband stopped working last week. That was it.
Everything that broke was really old, so I can be positive and say that at least they all lasted a long time. Add to that that nothing broke at Christmas, so I didn't have to brave the stampede of shoppers headed-well, everywhere. But the broadband? Grrrr....
This began a week-long fight with Virgin Media, the service provider of broadband, TV and phone-all of which decided to break down at once. I called it in. They didn't have a technician available until last Thursday. Okay, I said, give me a time. So I waited in, all afternoon, and nobody showed up, and nobody called, or texted to say that they had cancelled the appointment because a fault in the area had been fixed.
Did I go ballistic? Hell, yes. I had a go at the customer service people, who are located in Mumbai, and most of whom cannot speak English. I don't care where they are located. They could be on the moon, but at least hire people who can speak English. The last time I looked, I was in England. And before you start name calling, a huge number of customers are complaining to Virgin for that same reason: all services should be provided in this country, so that everyone can understand everyone else. And it got worse.
I had to fight all weekend to get a router sent so that I could change the defective one by myself. Easy: just unplug all the cables, plug in the new ones, call an activation number, and then restore the Virgin numbers onto my phone. Easy? Errr....no. Because Virgin, in their wisdom (of which they have none) sent the thing via a crappy service called Yodel. And Yodel is well known for never showing up, or showing up with broken packages. Did Yodel show up on Tuesday? I'll bet you know the answer to that.
To shorten a long story: I got through to Yodel and laid into them for 45 minutes, while they made incredibly feeble excuses. I laid into Virgin after that, and threatened to cancel my contract. I've been with them for ten years, I really was forceful (polite, no swearing, but very, very forceful).
Yesterday afternoon a Virgin technician arrived and changed the router. The whole thing took twenty minutes (he had to wait for everything to upload, then complete the installation). Then Virgin had the colossal nerve to email me and ask what I thought of the service. I told them. I hope that whoever read what I wrote still has a migraine.
I know that I said that I was going to retire from activism, quit fighting over things that I felt (and feel) are wrong. However...that doesn't seem to have worked out so well. When challenges present themselves, you cannot sit back and let people walk all over you. In the absence of having a weapon (forget that, I'd probably shoot myself by mistake), you just have to stand up, fight for your rights, and refuse to back down.
I told you about Toothless Terry the deranged tosser next door? A prime example of standing up for myself. Have I heard from the police? No. Have I heard from any of the senior managers? No. Am I carrying a can of mace with me wherever I go? Ummmm....I think I don't want to answer that, but I think that you already know the answer. Even if I got arrested for fighting back, I doubt that there would be a jury in the world that would convict me.
Maybe I would get a medal, or a lifetime supply of free flat whites at Starbucks.
It's Halloween. Maybe I'll just sit back and have a glass of wine.
Monday 21 October 2019
Who said that life was never meant to be a struggle?
I'd like to go up to whoever said that and give him (or her) a good slap across the face. But-that has probably been said so many times in history-whoever said it first is probably dead. So-too late.
Life is a struggle-and, more than occasionally, a huge pain in the ass. But it's all we've got, so we might as well make the best of it. We're all going to die anyway.
Such a cynic! Absolutely. Things go well, and we're all hey, it's wonderful, life is great. Then a huge pile of shit falls on our heads, leaving us having to dig our way out of it, and once in awhile we even have the use of a shovel. Duh!
These two weeks have been like that: the boiler breaking, the vacuum cleaner dying (okay, it was twelve years old, so all good things come to a sad and sticky end.), the bin thief threatening to do me in (I'll have to practice harder with the elbow crutch-just in case I need to stick it in his eye and run. Too bad I can't run).
Remember the man who wrote the first line of his book: Life is difficult. Well, he wrote it, made gazillions, and then died young of -cancer? Heart failure? Whatever. He's dead. So that is the end of his life being difficult. And the guy who invented jogging? Dropped dead at 42. While jogging. Go figure.
I've been really thinking about life-especially the end of life. The first part of every year I get down because that was when I walked out, I had enough of bullying and abuse, so off I went. With nothing.
In May I feel down because that was the month I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and three weeks later I had the mastectomy-and then I had to wait to find out the results of the biopsy, so I would know how bad it was. It was bad. Call me lucky.
Then there is August-where the incompetents nearly killed me with gentamicin, destroying my life as I knew it (did they apologize? Hell, no). And the whole event began at the end of 2009, so it hasn't been a hellish nine years. It's been a hellish TEN years. Talk about a decade of a shitload...
Halloween (appropriate for the Brexit that will probably never happen), my birthday, Thanksgiving, and, of course, the dreaded Christmas-all approaching like the express train at the end of the tunnel. It's no wonder why I'm cranky, testy, impatient, and basically bad tempered. Me and probably most of the population.
The end of this year marks ten years; I truly feel that whatever I ever did to anyone in this lifetime I have paid for many, many times over. Enough already. Enough-but there is no surrender. None.
So now I'm remembering the old saying about how you define insanity: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again and expecting different results. It's time for some lateral thinking. Actually, it's time for some thinking. Period.
PTSD? Anger and hatred over injustice? Depression over what happened/what might happen/what could happen... all useless. The past is the past, and if I could change anything, I would. But wishing for things to be different will never make them any different. It'll just make me more depressed, more impatient, more bad-tempered, more cranky. And older. Who needs that?
My friend abroad beat cancer, but paid for the win with failing organs and seriously bad mobility. We talked about it when I phoned her the other night, and came to the conclusion that we both could be dead now. So maybe-just maybe- we might start thinking about how lucky we both are to have survived everything that was thrown at us. In ten years, I came very close-too close- to being a statistic. A dead statistic. And, after ten years, I'm finally discovering how lucky I am to just be alive. There are things that I am no longer to do-like racing cars, flying hot air balloons, riding a bike-and, of course, staying upright most of the time. But-maybe at some point I'll sit down and make a list of all the things I can do, and everything I could be grateful for-and, really, it's a long list.
I haven't gone soft-just the opposite. People still piss me off. I still get up in the morning and remember where I am, that 99% of 99% of people are complete brain-dead assholes who have no manners and less personality than a doorknob. But it's always been that way. I have met a few-very few-who are different. The rest all seem to be the products of inbreeding.
When you actually get this, and that nothing has ever changed, nothing will ever change, you find it easier to duck when they are coming at you. Usually. Hopefully. Why get upset (I'm still learning this lesson) by people who (collectively) have less intelligence than a termite?
That brings us up to date. I've got to go to Starbucks. And then I've got to buy a new vacuum cleaner. Who said that life has to be easy?
Life is a struggle-and, more than occasionally, a huge pain in the ass. But it's all we've got, so we might as well make the best of it. We're all going to die anyway.
Such a cynic! Absolutely. Things go well, and we're all hey, it's wonderful, life is great. Then a huge pile of shit falls on our heads, leaving us having to dig our way out of it, and once in awhile we even have the use of a shovel. Duh!
These two weeks have been like that: the boiler breaking, the vacuum cleaner dying (okay, it was twelve years old, so all good things come to a sad and sticky end.), the bin thief threatening to do me in (I'll have to practice harder with the elbow crutch-just in case I need to stick it in his eye and run. Too bad I can't run).
Remember the man who wrote the first line of his book: Life is difficult. Well, he wrote it, made gazillions, and then died young of -cancer? Heart failure? Whatever. He's dead. So that is the end of his life being difficult. And the guy who invented jogging? Dropped dead at 42. While jogging. Go figure.
I've been really thinking about life-especially the end of life. The first part of every year I get down because that was when I walked out, I had enough of bullying and abuse, so off I went. With nothing.
In May I feel down because that was the month I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and three weeks later I had the mastectomy-and then I had to wait to find out the results of the biopsy, so I would know how bad it was. It was bad. Call me lucky.
Then there is August-where the incompetents nearly killed me with gentamicin, destroying my life as I knew it (did they apologize? Hell, no). And the whole event began at the end of 2009, so it hasn't been a hellish nine years. It's been a hellish TEN years. Talk about a decade of a shitload...
Halloween (appropriate for the Brexit that will probably never happen), my birthday, Thanksgiving, and, of course, the dreaded Christmas-all approaching like the express train at the end of the tunnel. It's no wonder why I'm cranky, testy, impatient, and basically bad tempered. Me and probably most of the population.
The end of this year marks ten years; I truly feel that whatever I ever did to anyone in this lifetime I have paid for many, many times over. Enough already. Enough-but there is no surrender. None.
So now I'm remembering the old saying about how you define insanity: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again and expecting different results. It's time for some lateral thinking. Actually, it's time for some thinking. Period.
PTSD? Anger and hatred over injustice? Depression over what happened/what might happen/what could happen... all useless. The past is the past, and if I could change anything, I would. But wishing for things to be different will never make them any different. It'll just make me more depressed, more impatient, more bad-tempered, more cranky. And older. Who needs that?
My friend abroad beat cancer, but paid for the win with failing organs and seriously bad mobility. We talked about it when I phoned her the other night, and came to the conclusion that we both could be dead now. So maybe-just maybe- we might start thinking about how lucky we both are to have survived everything that was thrown at us. In ten years, I came very close-too close- to being a statistic. A dead statistic. And, after ten years, I'm finally discovering how lucky I am to just be alive. There are things that I am no longer to do-like racing cars, flying hot air balloons, riding a bike-and, of course, staying upright most of the time. But-maybe at some point I'll sit down and make a list of all the things I can do, and everything I could be grateful for-and, really, it's a long list.
I haven't gone soft-just the opposite. People still piss me off. I still get up in the morning and remember where I am, that 99% of 99% of people are complete brain-dead assholes who have no manners and less personality than a doorknob. But it's always been that way. I have met a few-very few-who are different. The rest all seem to be the products of inbreeding.
When you actually get this, and that nothing has ever changed, nothing will ever change, you find it easier to duck when they are coming at you. Usually. Hopefully. Why get upset (I'm still learning this lesson) by people who (collectively) have less intelligence than a termite?
That brings us up to date. I've got to go to Starbucks. And then I've got to buy a new vacuum cleaner. Who said that life has to be easy?
Monday 7 October 2019
Fucky Bucky and the Cripplers: An Update
Now there's a novel name for a rock band-doesn't quite have the same ring as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
I discovered that Bucky (aka Fucky Bucky, or Matt Buckland, or Tombstone Teeth Goofy) has, after having been unceremoniously dumped by my hospital, returned (tail between his legs, no doubt) to-the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. What a hoot.
Hilary Longhurst, as you know, was the chief crippler in the gentamicin case, and has now bailed out and moved to a private hospital, where she can kill and/or cripple private patients for more money than she could get on the NHS. So who is in charge? The ferret-faced Sophia Grigoriadou, who was ignoring the entire gentamicin disaster for the two months I spent in the hospital. She was allegedly in charge-personally, I think that Grigoriadou, Longhurst and Phil not-so-Bright (now in Bristol, sharpening up his crippling skills) shouldn't be practicing medicine at all. Bucky and the cripplers should be doing something more suited to their abilities and personalities: cleaning public toilets comes to mind.
This means, of course, that with Longhurst gone and Grigoriadou in charge, Bucky was able to return to Barts Trust- aka Barts Never Trust-and hope that nobody will remember the fact that he was so humiliated that he had to leave in the first place.
My last words on the four incompetents until next August, when it will be ten years: what goes around comes around. Wait long enough and those who hurt you will get what they deserve. And I hope that the same people from the Royal London are still reading this blog. More humiliation for the cripplers is more than well deserved.
So that brings me to the latest news about my recovery-which is why I began to blog so many years ago-it almost feels like yesterday-although it doesn't.
I've made the usual rounds of consultants and their clinics-if it's Monday I'm here, if it's Tuesday I'm there, and so on. After nine horrible, depressing years-it seems like I'm good to go. What better news can there be-except maybe winning the lottery so I can get out of the area in which I've been stuck for the past nine years?
I told you about Toothless, Tattooed Terry, the nutcase who lives next door. And I'm sure I've told you about his friends: Sandra, who claims to have been married to a millionaire (who turned out to be a waiter in a pub. Not the owner. A waiter.), and Rob, who was a garbage collector for twenty years, and who is living with another nutcase called Tara, who keeps pointing to people and saying that she hates them and wishes they were dead (they have more class than to say the same thing about her, although it's probably crossed their mind).
So- a few weeks ago, we had a tenants' meeting, and I thought that I was going to see blood being spilled. It was like a geriatric fight club. In fact, it WAS a geriatric fight club. Rob-who is in his 60s- started picking a fight with Bob, who is 80, and another neighbour, who is nearly 90. Imagine the shouting and swearing (from Rob. Bob and the other tenant obviously were raised better), and Rob in Bob's face, pushing and shoving. Everyone else was shocked, but nobody made a move. Wise, I thought. Very wise decision, not to get caught up in a fight with people who are bigger than you are.
The housing manager had to separate them. Everyone else moved backwards.
In all the years I've lived in this country, I never lived in council accommodation-that is, property owned and run (usually badly) by the local authority. What an eye-opener. Our area is small, and looks so benign-unlike some of the tower blocks that wouldn't be out of place in worse areas. But there are vendettas left and right: this one hates that one, these people hate those people, and, of course, Tara, who just simply shouts that she hates so-and-so and wishes them dead.
When I first moved in here, I was only just out of the hospital, and I couldn't stand up, or see properly, or hear properly-I was so badly injured that I didn't have a choice but to move out of my lovely two story property, because a fall downstairs could mean a fracture of something important: like my skull, for instance. The hospital contacted the local authority, and they told me that this flat was the only one they had, but that everyone was disabled. They didn't say that there are people who are mentally disabled, or that they had to empty some of the mental hospitals and put people out into the community. What a challenge!
So now you are up to date, and I am going to Starbucks. Hooray for Starbucks. Hooray for some semblance of sanity. Next time I'll tell you about the rubbish bins and the Bin Thief. It's hilarious.
I discovered that Bucky (aka Fucky Bucky, or Matt Buckland, or Tombstone Teeth Goofy) has, after having been unceremoniously dumped by my hospital, returned (tail between his legs, no doubt) to-the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. What a hoot.
Hilary Longhurst, as you know, was the chief crippler in the gentamicin case, and has now bailed out and moved to a private hospital, where she can kill and/or cripple private patients for more money than she could get on the NHS. So who is in charge? The ferret-faced Sophia Grigoriadou, who was ignoring the entire gentamicin disaster for the two months I spent in the hospital. She was allegedly in charge-personally, I think that Grigoriadou, Longhurst and Phil not-so-Bright (now in Bristol, sharpening up his crippling skills) shouldn't be practicing medicine at all. Bucky and the cripplers should be doing something more suited to their abilities and personalities: cleaning public toilets comes to mind.
This means, of course, that with Longhurst gone and Grigoriadou in charge, Bucky was able to return to Barts Trust- aka Barts Never Trust-and hope that nobody will remember the fact that he was so humiliated that he had to leave in the first place.
My last words on the four incompetents until next August, when it will be ten years: what goes around comes around. Wait long enough and those who hurt you will get what they deserve. And I hope that the same people from the Royal London are still reading this blog. More humiliation for the cripplers is more than well deserved.
So that brings me to the latest news about my recovery-which is why I began to blog so many years ago-it almost feels like yesterday-although it doesn't.
I've made the usual rounds of consultants and their clinics-if it's Monday I'm here, if it's Tuesday I'm there, and so on. After nine horrible, depressing years-it seems like I'm good to go. What better news can there be-except maybe winning the lottery so I can get out of the area in which I've been stuck for the past nine years?
I told you about Toothless, Tattooed Terry, the nutcase who lives next door. And I'm sure I've told you about his friends: Sandra, who claims to have been married to a millionaire (who turned out to be a waiter in a pub. Not the owner. A waiter.), and Rob, who was a garbage collector for twenty years, and who is living with another nutcase called Tara, who keeps pointing to people and saying that she hates them and wishes they were dead (they have more class than to say the same thing about her, although it's probably crossed their mind).
So- a few weeks ago, we had a tenants' meeting, and I thought that I was going to see blood being spilled. It was like a geriatric fight club. In fact, it WAS a geriatric fight club. Rob-who is in his 60s- started picking a fight with Bob, who is 80, and another neighbour, who is nearly 90. Imagine the shouting and swearing (from Rob. Bob and the other tenant obviously were raised better), and Rob in Bob's face, pushing and shoving. Everyone else was shocked, but nobody made a move. Wise, I thought. Very wise decision, not to get caught up in a fight with people who are bigger than you are.
The housing manager had to separate them. Everyone else moved backwards.
In all the years I've lived in this country, I never lived in council accommodation-that is, property owned and run (usually badly) by the local authority. What an eye-opener. Our area is small, and looks so benign-unlike some of the tower blocks that wouldn't be out of place in worse areas. But there are vendettas left and right: this one hates that one, these people hate those people, and, of course, Tara, who just simply shouts that she hates so-and-so and wishes them dead.
When I first moved in here, I was only just out of the hospital, and I couldn't stand up, or see properly, or hear properly-I was so badly injured that I didn't have a choice but to move out of my lovely two story property, because a fall downstairs could mean a fracture of something important: like my skull, for instance. The hospital contacted the local authority, and they told me that this flat was the only one they had, but that everyone was disabled. They didn't say that there are people who are mentally disabled, or that they had to empty some of the mental hospitals and put people out into the community. What a challenge!
So now you are up to date, and I am going to Starbucks. Hooray for Starbucks. Hooray for some semblance of sanity. Next time I'll tell you about the rubbish bins and the Bin Thief. It's hilarious.
Friday 13 September 2019
Cosmic Justice: Matt Buckland has been sacked
Did I realize that it's been so long since I last posted? Well-no, I didn't. August has been a year of constant treatment for BPPV, so it's been difficult to sit in front of a computer. It's been difficult to sit anywhere. Period.
I told you about Matt Buckland-aka Fucky Bucky, the petulant, bullying, nasty, not very competent immunology consultant at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. This is the evil prat who discharged me from the hospital the week before my cancer surgery-deliberately, maliciously, gleefully, who thought that I would now be up shit's creek-and all because I stood up to him and told him not to abuse me. Surprise for Bucky: I immediately got into the immunology clinic at the Royal Free, where the team and the lead immunologist are about 1000 percent better, and I haven't been on the ward with constant chest infections-like I was at the London.
Well-I decimated Bucky Buckland and the three cripplers: Hilary Longhurst, who has now moved on to the Broomfield Hospital and is charging people privately (instead of overcharging the NHS) to cripple or kill (or both) their nearest and dearest. Sofia Grigoriadou, the ferret-faced incompetent who was in charge when I said "no gentamicin" and she chose to ignore me-and never once came to the ward in the two months I was there, unable to stand up, walk, or move-and is now lead immunology clinician and enjoying crippling and killing patients at the Royal London (they swapped Longhurst for the ferret), and, of course, Phil (not very) Bright, who has now moved to Bristol Southmead Hospital, or one of them (so I've been told by one of the nurses), where he is creating the same destruction and incompetence he enjoyed creating when he was at the Royal London.
Bucky went to the Royal London lawyers about the blog; he got nowhere. Then he tried to get me thrown off Blogger-they emailed me, and I emailed them back, told them everything, and that was the end of the bellicose Buckland's efforts. He even contacted You Tube- but so did I. That was amusing-and his efforts failed spectacularly.
Well-Bucky (who is a ringer for the Disney character "Goofy", just in case you ever run into him) left the London, presumably because he was so humiliated by the blog, and everyone at Bart's and the London knew the story. Where did he go? The Royal Free. He complained to my doctor-who is the clinical lead-about the blog, and tried to get me discharged from the Free. My doc called me in for a special consultation and told me that Bucky was working at the Free, and he told her about the blog.
I naturally said that I have nothing bad to say about anyone at the Royal Free, but I reserve the right to give Bucky the royal pasting that he deserves. She said that she would prefer it if I wouldn't mention any names (which is why I now give everyone so many different names, I forget which one I gave to whoever) Bucky gets the mention he deserves.
And now he has been sacked. Apparently, patients were complaining, his work and attitude were substandard, and he didn't like taking orders from my doc, who is more experienced and a better immunologist than Bucky, Longhurst, (no so) Bright, and ferret-faced Grigoriadou put together. She finally saw the light a few weeks ago-and sacked him.
Now that's what I call what goes around comes around: Cosmic Justice rules again!
Every August I have a bad month (emotionally). I looked back last month (always a mistake), and thought that it is now nine years since the cripplers ruined my life-and very nearly killed me. Was I compensated? Of course not: Barts Trust is famous for misdiagnosing, crippling, killing patients but never compensating them, never even issuing an apology (mind you, I would love to tell them where they can shove their apology).
But- I've reached the point where my hatred of the cripplers (and Bucky) has eased; I used it to recover more than anyone ever thought I could (or would). I still get to August and it all comes back, only not as seriously.
I remember what the other patient told me (I think I told you in the last post) about there being some PTSD, due to all the trauma nine years ago. Well-perhaps there is an element of PTSD. Or-perhaps I'm just really, really vindictive.
I think that patients who have been crippled by incompetent, vicious, uncaring doctors like the cripplers and Bucky should all get together and form a support group. There would be hundreds of us-possibly thousands of us!
Then we should get some experienced people to go to find these "doctors" and kick the shit out of them. Any time anyone wants to go to the Royal London in Whitechapel, or the Broomfield (or wherever Longhurst is these days), or Bristol (to find Phil not so Bright), and beat the living crap out of them-and ensure that they're unable to practice what they laughingly call "medicine", let me know.
I'll take you to lunch.
I told you about Matt Buckland-aka Fucky Bucky, the petulant, bullying, nasty, not very competent immunology consultant at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. This is the evil prat who discharged me from the hospital the week before my cancer surgery-deliberately, maliciously, gleefully, who thought that I would now be up shit's creek-and all because I stood up to him and told him not to abuse me. Surprise for Bucky: I immediately got into the immunology clinic at the Royal Free, where the team and the lead immunologist are about 1000 percent better, and I haven't been on the ward with constant chest infections-like I was at the London.
Well-I decimated Bucky Buckland and the three cripplers: Hilary Longhurst, who has now moved on to the Broomfield Hospital and is charging people privately (instead of overcharging the NHS) to cripple or kill (or both) their nearest and dearest. Sofia Grigoriadou, the ferret-faced incompetent who was in charge when I said "no gentamicin" and she chose to ignore me-and never once came to the ward in the two months I was there, unable to stand up, walk, or move-and is now lead immunology clinician and enjoying crippling and killing patients at the Royal London (they swapped Longhurst for the ferret), and, of course, Phil (not very) Bright, who has now moved to Bristol Southmead Hospital, or one of them (so I've been told by one of the nurses), where he is creating the same destruction and incompetence he enjoyed creating when he was at the Royal London.
Bucky went to the Royal London lawyers about the blog; he got nowhere. Then he tried to get me thrown off Blogger-they emailed me, and I emailed them back, told them everything, and that was the end of the bellicose Buckland's efforts. He even contacted You Tube- but so did I. That was amusing-and his efforts failed spectacularly.
Well-Bucky (who is a ringer for the Disney character "Goofy", just in case you ever run into him) left the London, presumably because he was so humiliated by the blog, and everyone at Bart's and the London knew the story. Where did he go? The Royal Free. He complained to my doctor-who is the clinical lead-about the blog, and tried to get me discharged from the Free. My doc called me in for a special consultation and told me that Bucky was working at the Free, and he told her about the blog.
I naturally said that I have nothing bad to say about anyone at the Royal Free, but I reserve the right to give Bucky the royal pasting that he deserves. She said that she would prefer it if I wouldn't mention any names (which is why I now give everyone so many different names, I forget which one I gave to whoever) Bucky gets the mention he deserves.
And now he has been sacked. Apparently, patients were complaining, his work and attitude were substandard, and he didn't like taking orders from my doc, who is more experienced and a better immunologist than Bucky, Longhurst, (no so) Bright, and ferret-faced Grigoriadou put together. She finally saw the light a few weeks ago-and sacked him.
Now that's what I call what goes around comes around: Cosmic Justice rules again!
Every August I have a bad month (emotionally). I looked back last month (always a mistake), and thought that it is now nine years since the cripplers ruined my life-and very nearly killed me. Was I compensated? Of course not: Barts Trust is famous for misdiagnosing, crippling, killing patients but never compensating them, never even issuing an apology (mind you, I would love to tell them where they can shove their apology).
But- I've reached the point where my hatred of the cripplers (and Bucky) has eased; I used it to recover more than anyone ever thought I could (or would). I still get to August and it all comes back, only not as seriously.
I remember what the other patient told me (I think I told you in the last post) about there being some PTSD, due to all the trauma nine years ago. Well-perhaps there is an element of PTSD. Or-perhaps I'm just really, really vindictive.
I think that patients who have been crippled by incompetent, vicious, uncaring doctors like the cripplers and Bucky should all get together and form a support group. There would be hundreds of us-possibly thousands of us!
Then we should get some experienced people to go to find these "doctors" and kick the shit out of them. Any time anyone wants to go to the Royal London in Whitechapel, or the Broomfield (or wherever Longhurst is these days), or Bristol (to find Phil not so Bright), and beat the living crap out of them-and ensure that they're unable to practice what they laughingly call "medicine", let me know.
I'll take you to lunch.
Monday 29 July 2019
PTSD, Professor Google, and me
I wonder if anyone was ever electrocuted by sweating all over their computer...sounds like an interesting question, but one that doesn't seem to have a definitive answer. Hmmm...
It's been that kind of week: severe heat (severe as in over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on one day, over 90 on several others), and, of course, no air conditioning. I would even dare to venture outside-and think that when I turned crispy, just turn me over and fry the other side. And so many people were loving just getting their kit off, hanging out and turning beet red. There were warnings about being outside between 11am and 3pm- but I guess a lot of people don't really mind setting themselves up for heat stroke. Me, I'm out in the sun for five minutes without being covered up and I turn the color of beetroot and then peel, and I'm back to my natural color: I look like I'm ready for embalming. So much for a healthy (or unhealthy) tan.
I was in clinic on the hottest day of recent history-last week-and I met another patient I only see annually. Jo usually comes on other days, and not as regularly as I do, so it was good to catch up. It was good until she told me about her nephew, who was given the wrong medication while in hospital and ended up with severe brain damage. Except for the "severe brain damage", this was a familiar story. No apology from the hospital, only feeble excuses (another familiar story). The family wanted to sue, but were told that the hospital wouldn't accept liability and would mess them around until they were bankrupt. Another familiar story!
Jo knew about the whole gentamicin disaster-same hospital, too (no surprises there), and she was asking me whether I was able to let the whole matter go. After all, it has now been (almost exactly) nine years of hell. We had a long chat-infusions take four hours-so we had lots of time to compare notes. And Jo, whose husband works with PTSD patients, suggested that I had that from the time the hospital nearly killed me, still have it, and should find someone who specializes in the disorder.
This is really important, because I always associated PTSD with the military, or police, or victims of terrorism...you know what I mean, people who are severely traumatized by things that happen to them. I never associated it with being nearly killed (and essentially rendered disabled) by hospital incompetence. No, Jo said, that is a misconception; severe trauma is severe trauma.
Who knew? I've had to cope (for better or worse-usually worse) by myself for nine years. So I promised Jo that I would look into it. And I haven't-yet-because I still don't think of myself as someone who is brave, bearing up-what I went through isn't in the same category as the categories I mentioned. It was an interesting theory of Jo's, though.
So that brings me up to the present. And clearing out the storage units, something that I have two weeks to do-heat or no heat, I have to do it. So this is where I step up and get ruthless.
I thought a lot about what Jo was saying-trying to be helpful, which I always appreciate- and I remembered a quote I read years ago. Confucius, maybe? Or Epictetus? Doesn't really matter, since they're both dead. But whoever it was said that one should never seek revenge; seeking revenge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.
Obviously, they weren't from Essex. Or anywhere in this country, for that matter.
It's been that kind of week: severe heat (severe as in over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on one day, over 90 on several others), and, of course, no air conditioning. I would even dare to venture outside-and think that when I turned crispy, just turn me over and fry the other side. And so many people were loving just getting their kit off, hanging out and turning beet red. There were warnings about being outside between 11am and 3pm- but I guess a lot of people don't really mind setting themselves up for heat stroke. Me, I'm out in the sun for five minutes without being covered up and I turn the color of beetroot and then peel, and I'm back to my natural color: I look like I'm ready for embalming. So much for a healthy (or unhealthy) tan.
I was in clinic on the hottest day of recent history-last week-and I met another patient I only see annually. Jo usually comes on other days, and not as regularly as I do, so it was good to catch up. It was good until she told me about her nephew, who was given the wrong medication while in hospital and ended up with severe brain damage. Except for the "severe brain damage", this was a familiar story. No apology from the hospital, only feeble excuses (another familiar story). The family wanted to sue, but were told that the hospital wouldn't accept liability and would mess them around until they were bankrupt. Another familiar story!
Jo knew about the whole gentamicin disaster-same hospital, too (no surprises there), and she was asking me whether I was able to let the whole matter go. After all, it has now been (almost exactly) nine years of hell. We had a long chat-infusions take four hours-so we had lots of time to compare notes. And Jo, whose husband works with PTSD patients, suggested that I had that from the time the hospital nearly killed me, still have it, and should find someone who specializes in the disorder.
This is really important, because I always associated PTSD with the military, or police, or victims of terrorism...you know what I mean, people who are severely traumatized by things that happen to them. I never associated it with being nearly killed (and essentially rendered disabled) by hospital incompetence. No, Jo said, that is a misconception; severe trauma is severe trauma.
Who knew? I've had to cope (for better or worse-usually worse) by myself for nine years. So I promised Jo that I would look into it. And I haven't-yet-because I still don't think of myself as someone who is brave, bearing up-what I went through isn't in the same category as the categories I mentioned. It was an interesting theory of Jo's, though.
So that brings me up to the present. And clearing out the storage units, something that I have two weeks to do-heat or no heat, I have to do it. So this is where I step up and get ruthless.
I thought a lot about what Jo was saying-trying to be helpful, which I always appreciate- and I remembered a quote I read years ago. Confucius, maybe? Or Epictetus? Doesn't really matter, since they're both dead. But whoever it was said that one should never seek revenge; seeking revenge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.
Obviously, they weren't from Essex. Or anywhere in this country, for that matter.
Tuesday 16 July 2019
After Carter the Musical Farter
There is life after Carter-only things were a little unexpected, to say the least!
I thought that, after the absolutely horrible 2018, that this year would be better-or, at least, benign. Nope-no such luck.
I started to have back pain-and anyone who suffers from back pain knows what a joy that isn't. I thought about the symptoms, and didn't even need to consult Professor Google to work out that I might have a kidney infection. The usual symptoms-which, of course, I ignored, since I'm really fed up with being a professional patient. But-kidneys are kidneys, backs are backs, and I went to the doc's a few days after I last entertained you with tales of Carter. Sure enough: nine hours in the hospital Ambulatory Care Center (if you can walk in, you will spend so much time there, you'll start to take root), some idiot tapping my vein twice (someone who was so "experienced" they couldn't find a vein if it was the size of the M1 motorway), and they put me on Cephalexin, the go to antibiotic for kidney infections.
I sat in the waiting area and watched people come and go, and although I explained my dilemma about having no immune system (from birth, I had to explain, so the numpties wouldn't panic), I sat. And sat. And sat. I was getting so wound up that I decided to take my mind off people coughing and sneezing, and there was no tea, coffee or water-and I couldn't get up and get any, because I was told that I would be moved to the end of the list. I thought of limericks.
I always forget the punchline of jokes-and there's nothing as irritating as someone telling a funny joke and forgetting the punchline just at the crucial moment. Limericks-well, I only know a few. My ex knew dozens-possibly hundreds. His school was one of those where the motto was "never leave your friends behind". Or maybe that was "never leave your friend's behind", I always suspected that. Eton and Harrow are the schools that are most suspicious in that area. Ex used to say that if you dropped a pencil, you just didn't bend over and pick it up. You kicked it against the wall -if you could-and then stood with your back against the wall to bend very quickly to get your pencil. It seems that bending over when you're at a boys' school is pretty lethal. He also used to say that, when the boys were (and are, nothing has changed. Allegedly) experimenting with limericks, they also were experimenting with each other. Hmmm....that explains a lot.
So I thought of a few that might amuse you, if you liked Carter. Obviously, I had nothing else to do except drink tons of water and take tablets. So, for your amusement:
A theological student from Kings
Once dreamt of heavenly things
But his only desire
Was a boy in the choir
With an ass like a jelly on springs
I like this one, so I must be weird:
There once was a hooker called Alice
Who used dynamite sticks for a phallus
They found her vagina
in South Carolina
And bits of her tits fell on Dallas
And one of my all time favorites:
There was a young girl from Madras
Who had an adorable ass
Not rounded and pink
As you probably think
It was grey, had long ears and ate grass
And my personal favorite, the first I heard when I was a limerick virgin:
There was a young fellow from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds
In less than an hour
His ass was aflower
And his balls were all covered in weeds
So there you are: how I spend my time when I have a kidney infection. Isn't that productive?
I just got a call from the Whittington, one of the worst hospitals in London (or anywhere): I only went there, very reluctantly, because the GP (who obviously hates me) insisted that I go there (never, ever again!). They want me to come back so they can check me over and ruin the veins in the other arm by trying to tap veins that don't exist. So I said the obvious thing: you know the words "hell, freezing and over"? That's when I'll be back.
Now they hate me, too. Boo hoo. I'm going to Starbucks. Infection be damned.
I thought that, after the absolutely horrible 2018, that this year would be better-or, at least, benign. Nope-no such luck.
I started to have back pain-and anyone who suffers from back pain knows what a joy that isn't. I thought about the symptoms, and didn't even need to consult Professor Google to work out that I might have a kidney infection. The usual symptoms-which, of course, I ignored, since I'm really fed up with being a professional patient. But-kidneys are kidneys, backs are backs, and I went to the doc's a few days after I last entertained you with tales of Carter. Sure enough: nine hours in the hospital Ambulatory Care Center (if you can walk in, you will spend so much time there, you'll start to take root), some idiot tapping my vein twice (someone who was so "experienced" they couldn't find a vein if it was the size of the M1 motorway), and they put me on Cephalexin, the go to antibiotic for kidney infections.
I sat in the waiting area and watched people come and go, and although I explained my dilemma about having no immune system (from birth, I had to explain, so the numpties wouldn't panic), I sat. And sat. And sat. I was getting so wound up that I decided to take my mind off people coughing and sneezing, and there was no tea, coffee or water-and I couldn't get up and get any, because I was told that I would be moved to the end of the list. I thought of limericks.
I always forget the punchline of jokes-and there's nothing as irritating as someone telling a funny joke and forgetting the punchline just at the crucial moment. Limericks-well, I only know a few. My ex knew dozens-possibly hundreds. His school was one of those where the motto was "never leave your friends behind". Or maybe that was "never leave your friend's behind", I always suspected that. Eton and Harrow are the schools that are most suspicious in that area. Ex used to say that if you dropped a pencil, you just didn't bend over and pick it up. You kicked it against the wall -if you could-and then stood with your back against the wall to bend very quickly to get your pencil. It seems that bending over when you're at a boys' school is pretty lethal. He also used to say that, when the boys were (and are, nothing has changed. Allegedly) experimenting with limericks, they also were experimenting with each other. Hmmm....that explains a lot.
So I thought of a few that might amuse you, if you liked Carter. Obviously, I had nothing else to do except drink tons of water and take tablets. So, for your amusement:
A theological student from Kings
Once dreamt of heavenly things
But his only desire
Was a boy in the choir
With an ass like a jelly on springs
I like this one, so I must be weird:
There once was a hooker called Alice
Who used dynamite sticks for a phallus
They found her vagina
in South Carolina
And bits of her tits fell on Dallas
And one of my all time favorites:
There was a young girl from Madras
Who had an adorable ass
Not rounded and pink
As you probably think
It was grey, had long ears and ate grass
And my personal favorite, the first I heard when I was a limerick virgin:
There was a young fellow from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds
In less than an hour
His ass was aflower
And his balls were all covered in weeds
So there you are: how I spend my time when I have a kidney infection. Isn't that productive?
I just got a call from the Whittington, one of the worst hospitals in London (or anywhere): I only went there, very reluctantly, because the GP (who obviously hates me) insisted that I go there (never, ever again!). They want me to come back so they can check me over and ruin the veins in the other arm by trying to tap veins that don't exist. So I said the obvious thing: you know the words "hell, freezing and over"? That's when I'll be back.
Now they hate me, too. Boo hoo. I'm going to Starbucks. Infection be damned.
Saturday 6 July 2019
The Cosmic Law of Mr. Murphy
Just when things are looking up. Ish...it's Murphy's Law in action. The joys of constant vertigo (thanks to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving). And BPPV- for anyone who is new to this blog, that's Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo-of course, that's for those who are really nerdy (like me), and who want to know what everything means. The crystals of the inner ear (needed for balance) decide to pack their bags and go walkies. While they're on holiday, I'm stumbling all over the place. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. I bump into things while trying to remain upright. Even my bruises have bruises.
Add to that the fact that it is very, very hot. All my friends at home will laugh at me saying that-because it is summertime, and it's supposed to be in the 80s-and sometimes the 90s. But the only places that have come into the 21st century are the supermarkets (the larger ones) and the major department stores. Everyone else-well, we all just sweat. And when I say sweat, I do mean sweat. There' no such thing as women "glowing", or men "lightly perspiring"- what idiot decided on those terms, anyway? We all sweat. And some of us walk around leaving a trail behind us.
I have to say that this is my least favorite time of the year-I do not do heat very well. In fact, I do not do heat at all. I'm short, so when I'm on the Underground or in a bus-or anywhere with lots of people around- I inevitably come up to someone's armpit. And usually that someone hasn't ever heard of soap and water. And usually that someone has had a huge curry-or a huge amount of garlic-the night before. You get the picture.
So now you know what I've been up to since the last time I posted. I did get to Independence Day (belated happy 4th. I hope that you celebrated), had two lots of Epley maneuver from my physio for the BPPV, but still couldn't do much of any consequence. Only-in November the Brits celebrate Guy Fawkes Day-November 5th, when the poor sap tried (and failed) to blow up the houses of Parliament. No comment on we could use someone better at it today...
Every November I stock up on fireworks-I save them for July 4th, then wait until it's dark and go to the local park to set them off. This is, of course, an offense. Legally you are only allowed to set off fireworks in November 5th-so I could be arrested and imprisoned if I get caught. Trust them here to arrest and jail someone who is setting off fireworks, in a safe place, but not on their holiday-on mine. I would probably get a longer jail sentence than someone who commits mass murder.
The problem with the fireworks here-apart from the fact that they're hideously expensive- is that they're nowhere near as strong as the ones we get at home (from Georgia, the firework capital of the USA). Honestly, you could fart louder than some of the stuff they sell here.If you want proof, just stand in an Underground station and wait for a delayed train. Trust me.
Now-every Independence Day I phone everyone at home. And every Independence Day I get homesick. And maudlin. I was thinking back to everything important that ever happened to me-and I remember years of fireworks in the back garden and terrible limericks. My ex went to an all boys' school, and the boys all seemed to try to make up the grossest limericks.Some were hilarious, and some were-really cringe-worthy. But there are several about farting (of course. Boys will be boys), and I remember one that is somewhere in the middle range, depending on your mood at the time. And here goes:
There once was a fellow called Carter
He was known as a musical farter
He could fart anything from God Save the Queen
To Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
Don't say I didn't warn you. At least it made me smile. I obviously have to get out more.
And where am I off to now? Starbucks, of course. I'm giving them so much free publicity!
Add to that the fact that it is very, very hot. All my friends at home will laugh at me saying that-because it is summertime, and it's supposed to be in the 80s-and sometimes the 90s. But the only places that have come into the 21st century are the supermarkets (the larger ones) and the major department stores. Everyone else-well, we all just sweat. And when I say sweat, I do mean sweat. There' no such thing as women "glowing", or men "lightly perspiring"- what idiot decided on those terms, anyway? We all sweat. And some of us walk around leaving a trail behind us.
I have to say that this is my least favorite time of the year-I do not do heat very well. In fact, I do not do heat at all. I'm short, so when I'm on the Underground or in a bus-or anywhere with lots of people around- I inevitably come up to someone's armpit. And usually that someone hasn't ever heard of soap and water. And usually that someone has had a huge curry-or a huge amount of garlic-the night before. You get the picture.
So now you know what I've been up to since the last time I posted. I did get to Independence Day (belated happy 4th. I hope that you celebrated), had two lots of Epley maneuver from my physio for the BPPV, but still couldn't do much of any consequence. Only-in November the Brits celebrate Guy Fawkes Day-November 5th, when the poor sap tried (and failed) to blow up the houses of Parliament. No comment on we could use someone better at it today...
Every November I stock up on fireworks-I save them for July 4th, then wait until it's dark and go to the local park to set them off. This is, of course, an offense. Legally you are only allowed to set off fireworks in November 5th-so I could be arrested and imprisoned if I get caught. Trust them here to arrest and jail someone who is setting off fireworks, in a safe place, but not on their holiday-on mine. I would probably get a longer jail sentence than someone who commits mass murder.
The problem with the fireworks here-apart from the fact that they're hideously expensive- is that they're nowhere near as strong as the ones we get at home (from Georgia, the firework capital of the USA). Honestly, you could fart louder than some of the stuff they sell here.If you want proof, just stand in an Underground station and wait for a delayed train. Trust me.
Now-every Independence Day I phone everyone at home. And every Independence Day I get homesick. And maudlin. I was thinking back to everything important that ever happened to me-and I remember years of fireworks in the back garden and terrible limericks. My ex went to an all boys' school, and the boys all seemed to try to make up the grossest limericks.Some were hilarious, and some were-really cringe-worthy. But there are several about farting (of course. Boys will be boys), and I remember one that is somewhere in the middle range, depending on your mood at the time. And here goes:
There once was a fellow called Carter
He was known as a musical farter
He could fart anything from God Save the Queen
To Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
Don't say I didn't warn you. At least it made me smile. I obviously have to get out more.
And where am I off to now? Starbucks, of course. I'm giving them so much free publicity!
Saturday 8 June 2019
Chickpeas? What chickpeas? Whoe chickpeas?
Amazing to report-but my last post started a shitstorm. Yes- I know- swear box. I've got so many that I'm going to have to get a bigger box-the size of a small car. Or maybe a minibus. Living here-and at this rate-I'll be able to fly to Australia-and everywhere else-first class, and have the accommodation to match.
I think that a few people's brains exploded. And all I said was that British males have balls the size of chickpeas. Imagine criticizing the rest of them. Oh-of course, I did, didn't I?
I was standing in the supermarket, minding my own business, when I heard barking behind me. Barking, as in nearly shouting "chickpeas? What do you mean, chickpeas?" The barking came from Annie, who works as a school dinner lady (God help us), and lives up the road. Now-you don't start any disagreements with Annie. She's nearly six feet tall, probably outweighs me by at least 150 pounds, and is-as the adorably descriptive but perhaps a little vulgar British saying goes-built like a brick shithouse. The woman has the shoulders of a quarterback and the temperament of Attila the Hun. And there she was-in my face.
Oh, hello, I said. I couldn't resist following that up with "do you have a problem with chickpeas?" Duh.
"You said in your blog (she reads my blog-and hasn't beaten the crap out of me. Yet) that British men have testicles the size of chickpeas." Blimy-I didn't know that she could read, much less find my blog. "That's what I said". "And how many have you examined?" she demanded (with a great deal of hostility, I might add).
I took a poll of every woman I know-and more than a few men, too-and they polled everyone they know. And, I'll tell you, if I shagged enough men to have definitive proof, I'd be in the hospital-in intensive care.
"My brother-in-law is very well endowed, and he's English", she said. And she went on to say that his testicles were more like walnuts than chickpeas. What? Brown and wrinkly? Eww...Now I thought: gotcha.
"Well, Annie, you told me that you're gay. So why are you examining your brother-in-law's testicles? Are you a bit of a pervert-or is he trying to convert you?" I was taking a risk now-but some big security guard was standing nearby, so I figured that I would take the chance. Besides that, I was standing in the bottled water aisle.
Annie turned beet red-so red that I wondered if she was going to hit me or simply rupture something. Add to this the fact that we were attracting an audience (Annie has a voice like a bullhorn), she just glared at me and turned around and left. I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.
Like I told you: shitstorm.
Life since then has been pretty uneventful. The huge bandage is off my leg now, replaced by a small waterproof dressing, and I can have a shower. Finally. Simple things, but how they are missed when you suddenly don't have them. For nearly seven weeks, I've had to strip wash: a bowl of soapy water and a washcloth had to do, and I kept looking fondly at the shower. Plus, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Oh joy- when my nurse took the dressing off and replaced it with a waterproof one, the first thing I did was go home and stand under a hot shower until my skin was the consistency of a prune.
As long as I don't fall over-and as long as some imbecile doesn't knock me over-I'm okay now. I'd like to be able to say that life returns to normal-but since when has my life been normal?
Good thing I look very innocent-you'd never know that I carry a can of every woman's best friend: mace.
I think that a few people's brains exploded. And all I said was that British males have balls the size of chickpeas. Imagine criticizing the rest of them. Oh-of course, I did, didn't I?
I was standing in the supermarket, minding my own business, when I heard barking behind me. Barking, as in nearly shouting "chickpeas? What do you mean, chickpeas?" The barking came from Annie, who works as a school dinner lady (God help us), and lives up the road. Now-you don't start any disagreements with Annie. She's nearly six feet tall, probably outweighs me by at least 150 pounds, and is-as the adorably descriptive but perhaps a little vulgar British saying goes-built like a brick shithouse. The woman has the shoulders of a quarterback and the temperament of Attila the Hun. And there she was-in my face.
Oh, hello, I said. I couldn't resist following that up with "do you have a problem with chickpeas?" Duh.
"You said in your blog (she reads my blog-and hasn't beaten the crap out of me. Yet) that British men have testicles the size of chickpeas." Blimy-I didn't know that she could read, much less find my blog. "That's what I said". "And how many have you examined?" she demanded (with a great deal of hostility, I might add).
I took a poll of every woman I know-and more than a few men, too-and they polled everyone they know. And, I'll tell you, if I shagged enough men to have definitive proof, I'd be in the hospital-in intensive care.
"My brother-in-law is very well endowed, and he's English", she said. And she went on to say that his testicles were more like walnuts than chickpeas. What? Brown and wrinkly? Eww...Now I thought: gotcha.
"Well, Annie, you told me that you're gay. So why are you examining your brother-in-law's testicles? Are you a bit of a pervert-or is he trying to convert you?" I was taking a risk now-but some big security guard was standing nearby, so I figured that I would take the chance. Besides that, I was standing in the bottled water aisle.
Annie turned beet red-so red that I wondered if she was going to hit me or simply rupture something. Add to this the fact that we were attracting an audience (Annie has a voice like a bullhorn), she just glared at me and turned around and left. I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.
Like I told you: shitstorm.
Life since then has been pretty uneventful. The huge bandage is off my leg now, replaced by a small waterproof dressing, and I can have a shower. Finally. Simple things, but how they are missed when you suddenly don't have them. For nearly seven weeks, I've had to strip wash: a bowl of soapy water and a washcloth had to do, and I kept looking fondly at the shower. Plus, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Oh joy- when my nurse took the dressing off and replaced it with a waterproof one, the first thing I did was go home and stand under a hot shower until my skin was the consistency of a prune.
As long as I don't fall over-and as long as some imbecile doesn't knock me over-I'm okay now. I'd like to be able to say that life returns to normal-but since when has my life been normal?
Good thing I look very innocent-you'd never know that I carry a can of every woman's best friend: mace.
Friday 24 May 2019
Maimed but not dead- Revenge of the senile vagina brigade?
The senile vaginas would probably call it karma. Of course they would. So it must be karma when all their bits shrivel up and fall off. Huh. Serves them right, too.
I was planning on giving Easter eggs, then writing to tell you about the mixed emails I got about vaginas. I don't really understand why the word vagina upsets people who are perfectly okay about the word fuck.Seriously?
I'm the one who took a poll of every woman I know-and a few men,too- about size. No wonder British men are so-well, British- with penises the size of gherkins and balls the size of chick peas. I wonder if someone would get all huffy if I said testicles? This being England, it's doubtful if they would know how to spell the word. Or what to do with them.
Enough about balls-especially since so few people have them.
Easter-and I was walking through the park with a friend of mine, discussing Brexit. As you do. We were on the pavement, it was mid-morning, bright and sunny-and some imbecile on a bicycle came up behind us, pushed me and knocked the crutch out of my hand, said a few nasty words and off he went, laughing. It was deliberate, there were no cameras anywhere, and really no way to identify the bastard. I hope he gets run over by a bus. Very un-Christian, but hey-seven hours in A&E, heavy blood loss, big gash from knee to ankle-and surgery the next day. Plus four weeks of antibiotics. So-happy Easter to me! I'm finally able to walk.
What the hell! It's been a tough few weeks. And my swear box is so full, I could fly to Australia. I spent a lot of time listening to the political disaster in Parliament-then shook my head and had to keep away from the news. Insane. Makes your teeth clench and your ears bleed. It all made me want to throw things.
So here we are at the end of a very unpleasant (for me, at least) couple of months. Time to move on. And past time to push myself out of the depression that hit me hard at Easter. It's history.
It was exactly six years since the cancer surgery. Some anniversary! But I saw the surgeon on Monday, and he reminded me. So you had six more years than you expected, he said. And when are you going to start living?
If that isn't a good swift kick in the ass, I don't what is.
I was planning on giving Easter eggs, then writing to tell you about the mixed emails I got about vaginas. I don't really understand why the word vagina upsets people who are perfectly okay about the word fuck.Seriously?
I'm the one who took a poll of every woman I know-and a few men,too- about size. No wonder British men are so-well, British- with penises the size of gherkins and balls the size of chick peas. I wonder if someone would get all huffy if I said testicles? This being England, it's doubtful if they would know how to spell the word. Or what to do with them.
Enough about balls-especially since so few people have them.
Easter-and I was walking through the park with a friend of mine, discussing Brexit. As you do. We were on the pavement, it was mid-morning, bright and sunny-and some imbecile on a bicycle came up behind us, pushed me and knocked the crutch out of my hand, said a few nasty words and off he went, laughing. It was deliberate, there were no cameras anywhere, and really no way to identify the bastard. I hope he gets run over by a bus. Very un-Christian, but hey-seven hours in A&E, heavy blood loss, big gash from knee to ankle-and surgery the next day. Plus four weeks of antibiotics. So-happy Easter to me! I'm finally able to walk.
What the hell! It's been a tough few weeks. And my swear box is so full, I could fly to Australia. I spent a lot of time listening to the political disaster in Parliament-then shook my head and had to keep away from the news. Insane. Makes your teeth clench and your ears bleed. It all made me want to throw things.
So here we are at the end of a very unpleasant (for me, at least) couple of months. Time to move on. And past time to push myself out of the depression that hit me hard at Easter. It's history.
It was exactly six years since the cancer surgery. Some anniversary! But I saw the surgeon on Monday, and he reminded me. So you had six more years than you expected, he said. And when are you going to start living?
If that isn't a good swift kick in the ass, I don't what is.
Wednesday 3 April 2019
The Curious Case of the Senile Vagina
This was supposed to be hot on the heels of mentioning poor Phil and his frozen bollocks. Before you have an aneurism: I'm talking about Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog. By now, his bollocks will have thawed out and he'll be over being sedated for Groundhog Day. Poor thing. If it was me, I'd bite the handler, sedation or no sedation. But that's me. And probably you.
It's been a month of the usual appointments (only to be told that I'm in great shape-for my age-hmmm! and that I should come back in six months time. Oh, joy), as well as falling over way too much. So I was back with my physio, having the Epley manoeuvre, and then back in the chair-that chair- being dangled unceremoniously upside down until the nasty BPPV passed, and the crystals in my inner ears decided to return from holiday.
I told you about some of the other tenants in my little area, including the Ugly Sisters, aka Worthless and Useless. That would be Big Flo, previously known as Fatberg (her relatives can be found in London sewers, and you can Google that if you want to be suddenly extremely sick to your stomach).
Flo and her friend, Val: they are two of the most poisonous creatures I have ever met. They spend all day watching daytime television, drinking copious amounts of wine and whisky-do you think that someone who goes through an entire bottle of wine every day-except when she forgets, and has a second one on top of that one-has a problem?
When they aren't drinking and blinding themselves watching the big screen, they are sitting outside (drinking) and making very nasty comments about everyone who is passing by. They do this at top volume, too, which I personally find disgraceful. So much for the Ugly Sisters. They've had a go at nearly everyone who lives in the area, so they aren't exactly on everyone's Christmas card list.
I mention all this because I overheard them the other day-you could overhear them in Dublin, they are that loud-and Flo was saying that she really missed having sex. I just about fell over, I laughed so hard. She glared at me and I said: you've had sex? With someone who was blind and senile? Or was it a goat?
I walked away, and remembered someone from my past: my neighbour from many years ago, when I had only been in this country for a couple of years. Her name was Betty, she was English (nobody is perfect, after all), and she was a really sweet person, very old school (white gloves and a hat to church, very proper. Old school).
I came back from work one afternoon and found Betty almost weeping outside my door. So, of course, I made her a coffee-and put a brandy in it. She asked for a double, and explained to me that she was having problems "down there" (old school, remember. Today everyone is so much more graphic). She went to a well known gynaecologist -privately, no NHS involvement, or she would still be waiting for an appointment. He examined her, and told her that it had been so long that she had a senile vagina. Upset? Seriously?
I just had to laugh. I even choked on my coffee. I asked her if he was an old guy. Yes, she said. Ugly? I asked. Yes again. Well, that was the problem, I told her. He was old, and ugly, and probably gay-most likely gay-and hated women, because nobody under the age of 80 would even look twice at him.
I even checked with my gynaecologist (female), and checked with everyone I knew who was in the medical field. There was no such affliction as a senile vagina. I related this to Betty a couple of days later, and she was so happy-especially since I called him a woman-hating asshole. What could she do but agree?
Well. I remembered the Betty story (true, by the way) as I walked away from the Ugly Sisters. And there is a moral to this story (isn't there always?). The next time some woman-hating doctor pulls this on you, threaten to break his arm. Well, no, that isn't really the moral of the story, it just sounds good. The next time a couple of ugly old fossils make fun of you (or your friends, or anyone you like), just look at them, think "senile vagina", and have a good laugh. But not while you're driving. That would really be hard to explain.
It's been a month of the usual appointments (only to be told that I'm in great shape-for my age-hmmm! and that I should come back in six months time. Oh, joy), as well as falling over way too much. So I was back with my physio, having the Epley manoeuvre, and then back in the chair-that chair- being dangled unceremoniously upside down until the nasty BPPV passed, and the crystals in my inner ears decided to return from holiday.
I told you about some of the other tenants in my little area, including the Ugly Sisters, aka Worthless and Useless. That would be Big Flo, previously known as Fatberg (her relatives can be found in London sewers, and you can Google that if you want to be suddenly extremely sick to your stomach).
Flo and her friend, Val: they are two of the most poisonous creatures I have ever met. They spend all day watching daytime television, drinking copious amounts of wine and whisky-do you think that someone who goes through an entire bottle of wine every day-except when she forgets, and has a second one on top of that one-has a problem?
When they aren't drinking and blinding themselves watching the big screen, they are sitting outside (drinking) and making very nasty comments about everyone who is passing by. They do this at top volume, too, which I personally find disgraceful. So much for the Ugly Sisters. They've had a go at nearly everyone who lives in the area, so they aren't exactly on everyone's Christmas card list.
I mention all this because I overheard them the other day-you could overhear them in Dublin, they are that loud-and Flo was saying that she really missed having sex. I just about fell over, I laughed so hard. She glared at me and I said: you've had sex? With someone who was blind and senile? Or was it a goat?
I walked away, and remembered someone from my past: my neighbour from many years ago, when I had only been in this country for a couple of years. Her name was Betty, she was English (nobody is perfect, after all), and she was a really sweet person, very old school (white gloves and a hat to church, very proper. Old school).
I came back from work one afternoon and found Betty almost weeping outside my door. So, of course, I made her a coffee-and put a brandy in it. She asked for a double, and explained to me that she was having problems "down there" (old school, remember. Today everyone is so much more graphic). She went to a well known gynaecologist -privately, no NHS involvement, or she would still be waiting for an appointment. He examined her, and told her that it had been so long that she had a senile vagina. Upset? Seriously?
I just had to laugh. I even choked on my coffee. I asked her if he was an old guy. Yes, she said. Ugly? I asked. Yes again. Well, that was the problem, I told her. He was old, and ugly, and probably gay-most likely gay-and hated women, because nobody under the age of 80 would even look twice at him.
I even checked with my gynaecologist (female), and checked with everyone I knew who was in the medical field. There was no such affliction as a senile vagina. I related this to Betty a couple of days later, and she was so happy-especially since I called him a woman-hating asshole. What could she do but agree?
Well. I remembered the Betty story (true, by the way) as I walked away from the Ugly Sisters. And there is a moral to this story (isn't there always?). The next time some woman-hating doctor pulls this on you, threaten to break his arm. Well, no, that isn't really the moral of the story, it just sounds good. The next time a couple of ugly old fossils make fun of you (or your friends, or anyone you like), just look at them, think "senile vagina", and have a good laugh. But not while you're driving. That would really be hard to explain.
Monday 4 March 2019
Somewhere in the UK there's a village that's missing its idiot
Actually, this country is filled with villages that are missing their idiots. They can find them by just going to Parliament-a place that is filled to the brim with village idiots. They call them MPs. What else can anyone say about Brexit-except that the Brits make fun (justifiably, in my view) of Trump, and I turn around and say that the words "pot, kettle and black" spring immediately to mind. So who's the bigger idiot?
I started February with Groundhog Day. Now, I'm talking the celebration, not the movie. Every February 2, the groundhog leaves its burrow and decides whether we will have an early spring or six more weeks of winter. It's a tradition leading back over a hundred years. I like it because it's a bit of fun, a celebration, a big party-unless you happen to be Punxatawney Phil, the groundhog in question.
I watched it this year. It really is a big celebration in Pennsylvania, and the world's press are out in force, as are hundreds of Americans who are looking for something less horrible than Trump, Brexit (I still say that Brexit sounds like a breakfast cereal), wars, terrorist attacks...it's a groundhog. You can't get more benign than a groundhog, can you? Or can you?
Standing on the stage were several old guys in tuxedos and top hats. They looked like undertakers.
They read from various "scrolls", made introductions, talked incessantly, and then went to get Phil, the world's most famous groundhog. I'm certain that the poor groundhog must have been sedated. If that had been me, I would have turned around, given him a good bite on the hand, and legged it out of there, doing my best to never be seen (or grabbed) again. But poor Phil was manhandled, squeezed firmly in the middle so he couldn't go anywhere, and finally placed on a table which contained two scrolls. He was too sedated to choose one, so one of the old guys did it for him, and announced that Phil had seen his shadow and we would have an early spring. Or maybe he didn't see his shadow and we will still have an early spring? By this time, poor zonked Phil had my sympathies. He didn't half looked pissed off, I can tell you.
It was winter in Pennsylvania, quite cold, and the poor little guy must have been freezing his bollocks off. I hope they gave him plenty of treats to eat, because he will now have another year to recover.
Spare a kind thought for Punxatawney Phil and his bollocks.
I've had a February that got worse after I saw poor Phil being manhandled by a bunch of undertakers. I had another fall a few days afterwards: I was standing in the kitchen, minding my own business, and down I went, on my head-as usual. There was no blood (luckily) but plenty of pain. Just ask my head.
So I had to do nothing for a few days, until I got to see my physiotherapist, who performed the Epley maneuver and showed that I once again had BPPV. Annoying, really, that the crystals in my inner ear decided to take a holiday and go where they didn't belong.
I was told to do nothing for a week, wait until everything settled down-so February was one of those "do nothing and try not to keel over" months. And that was fine-until last week, when it happened again. Now I have a huge gash on my arm-luckily, no breaks, but plenty of blood. And my physio is on holiday, as is my neurologist. So, for the time being, I'm screwed.
So now it's March, and I'm trying hard to remain upright. I'm also trying hard to stay out of everyone's way, since, as you know, people are idiots and don't watch where they're going. I wonder sometimes if they give themselves points for every person on crutches they can knock over..,
Without my physio and my vestibular neurologist-who may or may not have me turned upside down in the chair I told you about some time ago-I'm starting to walk as much as possible again. And I had all my worldly belongings moved out of storage in East London to a storage facility that is much closer to where I'm living now. More stress. How adorable.
I decided over the weekend that I'm walking away from the unpaid job of tenants advocate. I did this for seven years, unofficially, got a lot of abuse and no thanks at all from the other tenants who live here. So why bother? As soon as I get this balance thing right -again- I'm going to start emptying out the storage unit. Charity shops will be thrilled, I think. Time to restructure my life, and that means getting rid of old stuff-and getting rid of nasty, negative people who have been taking up way too much of my time. By "get rid of" I don't mean kill off, I hasten to add. I'm going to be very, very busy.
Now, if I can stay upright until I get hung upside down, that would be pretty good.
I started February with Groundhog Day. Now, I'm talking the celebration, not the movie. Every February 2, the groundhog leaves its burrow and decides whether we will have an early spring or six more weeks of winter. It's a tradition leading back over a hundred years. I like it because it's a bit of fun, a celebration, a big party-unless you happen to be Punxatawney Phil, the groundhog in question.
I watched it this year. It really is a big celebration in Pennsylvania, and the world's press are out in force, as are hundreds of Americans who are looking for something less horrible than Trump, Brexit (I still say that Brexit sounds like a breakfast cereal), wars, terrorist attacks...it's a groundhog. You can't get more benign than a groundhog, can you? Or can you?
Standing on the stage were several old guys in tuxedos and top hats. They looked like undertakers.
They read from various "scrolls", made introductions, talked incessantly, and then went to get Phil, the world's most famous groundhog. I'm certain that the poor groundhog must have been sedated. If that had been me, I would have turned around, given him a good bite on the hand, and legged it out of there, doing my best to never be seen (or grabbed) again. But poor Phil was manhandled, squeezed firmly in the middle so he couldn't go anywhere, and finally placed on a table which contained two scrolls. He was too sedated to choose one, so one of the old guys did it for him, and announced that Phil had seen his shadow and we would have an early spring. Or maybe he didn't see his shadow and we will still have an early spring? By this time, poor zonked Phil had my sympathies. He didn't half looked pissed off, I can tell you.
It was winter in Pennsylvania, quite cold, and the poor little guy must have been freezing his bollocks off. I hope they gave him plenty of treats to eat, because he will now have another year to recover.
Spare a kind thought for Punxatawney Phil and his bollocks.
I've had a February that got worse after I saw poor Phil being manhandled by a bunch of undertakers. I had another fall a few days afterwards: I was standing in the kitchen, minding my own business, and down I went, on my head-as usual. There was no blood (luckily) but plenty of pain. Just ask my head.
So I had to do nothing for a few days, until I got to see my physiotherapist, who performed the Epley maneuver and showed that I once again had BPPV. Annoying, really, that the crystals in my inner ear decided to take a holiday and go where they didn't belong.
I was told to do nothing for a week, wait until everything settled down-so February was one of those "do nothing and try not to keel over" months. And that was fine-until last week, when it happened again. Now I have a huge gash on my arm-luckily, no breaks, but plenty of blood. And my physio is on holiday, as is my neurologist. So, for the time being, I'm screwed.
So now it's March, and I'm trying hard to remain upright. I'm also trying hard to stay out of everyone's way, since, as you know, people are idiots and don't watch where they're going. I wonder sometimes if they give themselves points for every person on crutches they can knock over..,
Without my physio and my vestibular neurologist-who may or may not have me turned upside down in the chair I told you about some time ago-I'm starting to walk as much as possible again. And I had all my worldly belongings moved out of storage in East London to a storage facility that is much closer to where I'm living now. More stress. How adorable.
I decided over the weekend that I'm walking away from the unpaid job of tenants advocate. I did this for seven years, unofficially, got a lot of abuse and no thanks at all from the other tenants who live here. So why bother? As soon as I get this balance thing right -again- I'm going to start emptying out the storage unit. Charity shops will be thrilled, I think. Time to restructure my life, and that means getting rid of old stuff-and getting rid of nasty, negative people who have been taking up way too much of my time. By "get rid of" I don't mean kill off, I hasten to add. I'm going to be very, very busy.
Now, if I can stay upright until I get hung upside down, that would be pretty good.
Monday 28 January 2019
Brexit Shmexit-still alive, and suffering from Brexit fatigue (and flu)
So now you know how I started off this year. I didn't make any resolutions, of course. I would have broken them all the first week in January. Instead, I came down with the dreaded flu that has been going around. Last year I started with a very nasty concussion; this year I began with a month of flu. At least, the flu is gone, so I've got eleven months to make up for the lost first one. Too many people breathing, that's the problem.
And then there's Brexit, the dreaded word that sounds like a breakfast cereal. Whoever coined that word deserves to be gelded.
What a total disaster this Brexit crap has been. Everyone is fighting over leaving, remaining, what will happen if we leave, should we have another referendum...why not just have a referendum on all the battles that were lost in every war we fought? Just keep having a vote until everyone gets the result they want. How totally ridiculous people are. Here is an example of utter stupidity: two weeks ago I took a little break from the usual flu problem known as a universal law: what goes in must eventually come out. This is also known to all flu sufferers as "puke and poop". We get it in both directions, and if you've ever had the dubious honor of having the flu, you'll know exactly what I mean.
I made the serious mistake of listening to the news. It was Sunday. What exciting stuff happens on a Sunday? Well, some total idiot called Vince Cable (Liberal Democrats, I think he is now Sir Vince Cable. I just call him Sir Imadickhead) stated that more than a third of all sheep would be slaughtered if we leave the European Union. I just started to laugh. Excuse me? That's a third of the UK population. Slaughter the braindeads instead-Cable first. Seriously-people actually are stupid enough to believe this. And crap like this has been spread around for two years now; the people who are desperate to remain in Europe are the ones with fortunes invested in Europe. They clearly don't care about the citizens; all they care about is the fact that, once we leave, they lose money on their investments. What was that line from the film Wall Street? Ah, yes: Greed is good. For government ministers and all those invested in Europe, change that to Greed is God.
I have a neighbor who used to make jokes about Trump-although Trump is certainly no laughing matter. My neighbor was very condescending, too, asking why Americans voted for him. And now the shoe is on the other foot, as they say. I saw her the other day, we exchanged pleasantries (as you do when you are forced to say something when face to face with someone who is an idiot), and I couldn't help but go in for the kill. "So tell me", I said, so sweetly I wanted to vomit from the sudden surge of sugar, "how does it feel to be part of the joke known as Brexit? You've spent so much time sneering at Trump and Americans-and now, take a look at your country. The words "pot, kettle and black" spring immediately to mind, don't they?"
I've got no idea why she didn't see the irony-but the Brits have little sense of irony, don't they? In fact, Brexit has proven that they have little sense at all. I did tell you that the majority are completely braindead-and this is a result of centuries of inbreeding. Want to shag your brother/sister/cousin/parent/sheep/goats/cattle? That's what you get...
So I'm back, I'll keep you posted on all the latest news from Brexit Shmexit country. Right now, it's time for Starbucks. I wish I had stock in the company...
I don't know about anyone else, but Iceland is looking more and more attractive every day. I wonder if Reykjavik has a Starbucks...
And then there's Brexit, the dreaded word that sounds like a breakfast cereal. Whoever coined that word deserves to be gelded.
What a total disaster this Brexit crap has been. Everyone is fighting over leaving, remaining, what will happen if we leave, should we have another referendum...why not just have a referendum on all the battles that were lost in every war we fought? Just keep having a vote until everyone gets the result they want. How totally ridiculous people are. Here is an example of utter stupidity: two weeks ago I took a little break from the usual flu problem known as a universal law: what goes in must eventually come out. This is also known to all flu sufferers as "puke and poop". We get it in both directions, and if you've ever had the dubious honor of having the flu, you'll know exactly what I mean.
I made the serious mistake of listening to the news. It was Sunday. What exciting stuff happens on a Sunday? Well, some total idiot called Vince Cable (Liberal Democrats, I think he is now Sir Vince Cable. I just call him Sir Imadickhead) stated that more than a third of all sheep would be slaughtered if we leave the European Union. I just started to laugh. Excuse me? That's a third of the UK population. Slaughter the braindeads instead-Cable first. Seriously-people actually are stupid enough to believe this. And crap like this has been spread around for two years now; the people who are desperate to remain in Europe are the ones with fortunes invested in Europe. They clearly don't care about the citizens; all they care about is the fact that, once we leave, they lose money on their investments. What was that line from the film Wall Street? Ah, yes: Greed is good. For government ministers and all those invested in Europe, change that to Greed is God.
I have a neighbor who used to make jokes about Trump-although Trump is certainly no laughing matter. My neighbor was very condescending, too, asking why Americans voted for him. And now the shoe is on the other foot, as they say. I saw her the other day, we exchanged pleasantries (as you do when you are forced to say something when face to face with someone who is an idiot), and I couldn't help but go in for the kill. "So tell me", I said, so sweetly I wanted to vomit from the sudden surge of sugar, "how does it feel to be part of the joke known as Brexit? You've spent so much time sneering at Trump and Americans-and now, take a look at your country. The words "pot, kettle and black" spring immediately to mind, don't they?"
I've got no idea why she didn't see the irony-but the Brits have little sense of irony, don't they? In fact, Brexit has proven that they have little sense at all. I did tell you that the majority are completely braindead-and this is a result of centuries of inbreeding. Want to shag your brother/sister/cousin/parent/sheep/goats/cattle? That's what you get...
So I'm back, I'll keep you posted on all the latest news from Brexit Shmexit country. Right now, it's time for Starbucks. I wish I had stock in the company...
I don't know about anyone else, but Iceland is looking more and more attractive every day. I wonder if Reykjavik has a Starbucks...
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