To Tweet-or Not to Tweet--are people who use Twitter called Twits?

Now there's a question for you. I've been calling people twits for years (more polite than calling them idiots, but there you are...). I'm clearly very late to the party, which began-how many years ago? I've stayed away from Facebook, even though I've got an account (I check it once a year, if that. I don't trust it.)

So the big news-apart from the punch-ups and violence over petrol shortages (seriously. People will fight over anything!) is that I'm thinking about opening a Twitter account. No Instagram, or any of the others-I'm going to become a Twit. And there's a good reason for that: Twitter seems to find more Twits to follow other Twits. Or whatever.

Anyone who has followed this for awhile knows the story of the four cripplers (Hilary Longhurst. Sophia Grigoriadou, Phil (not very) Bright, and the Spawn of Satan himself: Matt (fucky bucky buckster) Buckland). Two of them are still at the Royal London immunology department, trying to see how many notches they can put on their belts for killing or crippling (or both, in reverse order) their poor, unsuspecting patients. I told the story, but I think that I should go more public about it. After all, I complained to the British Medical Council and was informed that nothing would be done unless I died from my injuries. Huh. Doctors protecting each other-much like lawyers, and politicians. Revolting.

So I decided to go to the court of public opinion; that's really the only court (in this country, at least) that counts. Word of mouth works.

Last year I wasn't blogging. I was too sick to do much of anything (anyone remember Covid?), and I returned from the hospital one morning in early September (having had my infusions) to find that my flat was badly flooded. By "badly" I mean that the bathroom and kitchen ceilings were flooding so badly that they were in danger of collapsing. Who wants to walk into a room and have the ceiling fall on your head? And trying to get someone from the landlord's office to fix it was the start of a year-long nightmare. I will, at some point (it isn't finished yet.), tell you  the whole story. Anyone with a landlord who is a total a***hole will know what I mean. 

The entire situation was a year-long complete nightmare. I reported to the Ombudsman, who is supposed to be an impartial adjudicator; I reported to my MP (the Parliamentarian for my area). I reported to everyone except the media. So now that I'm nearing the end of the saga (with absolutely no luck so far), I've decided to tell you the story (if you're interested. I'll warn you first), and to sign up for a Twitter account and blast it all over the internet. I think I'll call it "Whistleblower" with a few numbers, or dates, or whatever-to differentiate between my account and the other (probable) thousand or so Whistleblower accounts.

I will let you know when and what it's called, and let's see if we can get some form of justice for others who have been through the similar torture.

With that news, I'm off to Starbucks for a flat while. I'll be walking. The local gas stations are still shut due to-no gas! And people are fighting. Beating and stabbing each other. Over gasoline. So much for everyone trying to help anyone else. Lockdown is surely well and truly ancient history.

Space Junk - from Disgruntled in London

 Marcus Aurelius wrote: "When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. They are like this because they can't tell good from evil". I add to this: brain-dead, obnoxious, rude, badly-mannered-and yes, they can tell good from evil. They just couldn't care less, because they're that selfish. And incompetent. 

I obviously have had the experience for a lot longer than you would think-but I'm still here because the bloody NHS nearly killed me, so I am now unemployable. I'm stuck in Brain-dead Britain, the land of the savages. <sigh> I do make fun of them as often as I can. Which is daily, as you would expect. How these people ever made it past puberty is a mystery.

It's been two weeks of Murphy's Law in action since I wrote last time-two weeks with the 20th anniversary of 9/11 in the middle. Twenty years-how incredible it is that it's been 20 years, and we still haven't learned anything. Everyone is still hating everyone else. I couldn't even watch the CNN coverage of the ceremonies back home. I remember exactly where I was on the day. It isn't something that I will ever forget. But I do wish that they would stop making all the innocent people who died into heroes. They weren't heroes. They were ordinary people who went to work, expecting to do other things afterwards, never expecting to be the victims of mindless terrorists. Ordinary people seem to be the ones who are targeted by the insane. Why? I suppose because they are easier to kill. 

So many things have been rumbling around in my head-usually in the middle of the night, when I'm supposed to be sleeping. We have- how many thoughts in a day? And most of them are dismissed as useless (because they are). I call them "space junk". I would love to be able to selectively eliminate the useless from the useful; it seems to be perfectly normal for thoughts to go in and out. Now I joke that I'm living in a place where the people have nothing in between to stop them. 

Well, that's my duty of slagging off the Brits done for today. I'm going to Starbucks.

To Shag or Not To Shag: That is the Question

 Did I get a lot of flak by saying that everyone should get shagging? Seriously-has everyone lost their sense of humor since the pandemic began? 

The story about Betty is absolutely true, by the way. And, to quote the late, great Joan Rivers: It's been so long since I've had sex that I forget who gets tied up.

The interesting article I read just a couple of days ago-in one of the trashy, daily, free papers (that is part of one of the tabloids, so obviously everything they write-if you can call it writing-is a load of bull), is that there seems to be a growing movement called "femcels": women who have decided to claim celibacy. And here I was extolling shagging...what an oops! Foot lodged firmly in mouth-again.

I'm thinking about all the terrific women I know who have decided to be a lot more discriminating when it comes to having sex with just anyone. Femcels. Great name and even greater idea. It isn't just a question of self-esteem, self-confidence, self-worth; it's also an issue of personal safety. Don't go anywhere with anyone you don't know. That should be obvious, but for some reason, it isn't. Why go with some stranger-or relative stranger-only to have him use your body as a toilet? 

There's a huge problem over here with date rape-and a massive alcohol problem, where women are picked up by private taxis (think Uber) and end up in a ditch somewhere, with no memory of how they got there. And, according to the "femcels", guys will just take any port in a storm (as it were. Awful expression, but so true) when the woman they fancy is clearly out of their league. Before men start howling, it's probably the other way around, too. But my concern is women who are too drunk, or on drugs, or otherwise incapacitated-or just have no self-esteem, so they find themselves fair game for predators. 

At the moment, that's pretty much the latest. I've been part of a nationwide study of people with CVID- hereditary CVID- to find out whether the vaccines work on us. Because we're born without functioning immune systems and have to have regular antibody replacement, the efficacy of all the vaccines has been in question. And a few days ago, I received the definitive answer: two shots have a negligible effect. Even the booster, which I'll probably receive anyway, will be close to useless. 

I'm one of very few people who insists on wearing a mask, who tries very hard to maintain social distancing, who still continues to wash my hands and keep strict hygiene methods-but I seem to be one of very, very few. I'm a bit shocked - and very disappointed - that so many people think that everything is back to normal. It isn't. I have always maintained that the Brits are total idiots, with no manners, brains, or consideration for anyone but themselves. These eighteen months have been absolute proof that I'm right. But the fact that I now know that I have no immunity makes life very interesting indeed.

Zombie Apocalypse 2.0 - and senile body parts

 Nope-not dead yet.

Only six weeks have passed since the last time I wrote. It has been an eventful six weeks, I can tell you. 

I had a colonoscopy and gastroscopy; the surgeon wanted to remove and biopsy some polyps. Really, I think that he just wanted to shove a garden hose in both ends. You haven't really lived until you've had a bloody big hosepipe shoved up and down. First, they take a hose that looks like it's big enough to water their garden. Then they spray your throat-and they cover you so you can't kick them, even though you really want to do so. Down goes the hosepipe, they push it around (maybe they like pain-as long as it's someone else's), find the polyps, and chop. Lovely-when they yank the hosepipe out, you can't talk for two days (which makes some people incredibly happy), and it feels like a brick is stuck in your throat.

Then they take another hosepipe (at least, I hope that it's another hosepipe. The NHS is so broke, maybe they rinse them off and reuse them. Or worse-they don't bother rinsing them off). Then they give you something to relax you. It still hurts like hell, and it takes about a week to feel less dazed and confused-but they shove the thing up the backside and push it up as far as it'll go. Imagine how happy they are to see a polyp-and then chop it out, close the area, and finally pull the hose out. 

Now, really-all that pain, even with sedation-I will never understand why on earth anyone would be so crazy-or masochistic-to even entertain the possibility of having anal sex. Seriously, Anal sex??? The bloody garden hose was so painful that I would have started kicking if I could have moved. No way would I ever let anyone get near enough to shove anything up my ass. A scope every three years is enough. Ewww....

That was the excitement (if you call that exciting) of the past few weeks. People are still avoiding wearing masks, the idiot conspiracy theorists are bleating about the governments putting tracking devices in the vaccines, morons are dying-other morons are taking the relaxed (non-existent) cautions as excuses to go and kill each other (and a lot of innocent people, too), and it's back to business as usual. I've finally learned to keep my head down (especially since dog owners don't clean up after their pets. Nothing like having to dodge big-and I do mean, big!- piles of dog shit if you want to walk up the road), avoid looking at anyone in the eye (that's an invitation to have the crap beaten out of you, according to the NHS), and generally keep my mouth shut. 

The funniest thing is what I saved for last-mostly because I like to crack a joke every once in awhile. After the past eighteen months, we need all the humor we can get.

I was walking up the road last week, heard my name called, and turned around to see an old neighbor-called Betty-walking toward me. I still keep in touch with some people, but Betty and I has lost touch. We went for a coffee, and caught up. It seems that her husband left her for a younger model (typical of him, he was a prat), so she started shagging his son. His son, to clear things up, is her stepson, so that was probably okay-and it drove her ex to distraction, so it was definitely okay.

Betty had been to her gynecologist a few weeks before the ex dumped her for a thirty year old (same age as his son), and during her examination, the consultant pronounced her problem: she had a senile vagina. Yes, I did say a senile vagina. I couldn't stop laughing-and her remedy for her senile vagina was to have as much sex as she possibly could. Seems to have worked. She was with her stepson for nearly five years. 

There you have it, everyone. If you don't have sex for a few years, you will end up with a senile vagina - so the moral is: get shagging.

Now, if I could find someone with his own hair and teeth, and who could speak English, and who is in his 50s- hmmm....