Monday, 26 October 2015

How We Have Have Changed.

I was born in 1971. That might seem a long time ago to some of my non-existent readers. But when I was growing up, from the grotty junction of Barton Street in Gloucester, to Maescourt on Upton Lane, to Tivoli Road in Cheltenham, to Dagmar Road in the same town, we all knew our neighbours.

I was talking about this to my lover a few minutes ago. The 70s and 80s were profoundly different to now. I remembered Mrs Uzzell. She lived next door. I haven't thought of her for at least ten years if I'm honest. But remembering her, and how she used to make sure we all had treats from her hand, her face was summoned from a thirty year old filing cabinet, and I saw her again.

The 70s were a joy. Call me out on childhood if you must, but it was a time when to survive only one parent had to work, The 80s were harder. 90s... 00s were good for me because I had a successful business. But this decade has been a stinking pile of tory shite.

It seems to be getting worse. Every year, every decade. It is not just me getting older and more jaundiced, losing hope, angrier by the week. I just urge you all to fight for fairness in our society.

Saturday, 24 October 2015

So What Has Been Up?

Long time I know, non-existent audience. But even if I have to write into the void, then so be it. I shall go in reverse order.

Communicated with my parents today. That's always a healthy sign. Yesterday I got persuaded by my delightful Hungarian/Bulgarian shrink to attempt the Lamotrigine. Another one to eventually tick off as useless, but let no-one say I don't have an open mind. Been a grim couple of weeks, due to the anniversary of a family death. Went on the TUC/Peoples' Assembly march in Manchester. A pleasant day out, and no misbehaviour witnessed. Passed my WCA. I might have posted about that before.

Well, that's that. How am I? And more importantly, how are you all, if there are any of you left? Myself: well I mistrust the Autumn, season of mists and mixed states. Can never tell if I'm down or up to be honest. But like comb-teeth, it all evens out into a straight line. Worry about others more than myself.

Am I doing anything? No, not really. Have a hankering to write *that* book about the subjective experience of madness. After all, it's mostly written. Just a hell of an editing job.

What do I want from the future? Love, peace, security, happiness. Ha.

See? I have nothing to say of import. Fuck the Tories. Bless you all. Dx

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Pick Up Your Bed and Work

Some brief thoughts on the Tory Party Conference, the TUC/Peoples' Assembly March, and finally, some views on the Labour Party Leadership Election, and where things might be going next. Plus, a postscript on my experience of the WCA last month.

i. Tories. 

So all the vile, vicious, decrepit marrionettes have been spewing their bile and bigotry across the stage and the airwaves these last two days. And we still have Dave-I-Fucked-a-Pig-Cameron to come. We've had the Satanic Robot, gimp-suited and coke-addled, lying his brazen teeth off left, right and centre. We've had Grendel's Mother rise up from her lakebed lair, vomiting prejudice and stoking hatred against desperate refugees. We've had the Blond Beast, grunting and whinnying his tired tropes, his lazy jokes, and his pathetic homoerotic rugger-bugger metaphors for his ideal Britain. And now we've had the Arch-Fiend, Mahu-Modo, Nosferatu, the Ghoul, the Blood-Sucking-Jumped-Up Reinhard Heydrich, spitting on the tears and pain of the protesters, threatening to do the same but much, much more, congratulating himself on all his incompetent, flawed and evil policies: policies that have caused innumerable deaths. Oh, and I forgot Jeremy-That-Part-Of-a-Woman is too beautiful a word to grace him with... we should all work as hard as the Chinese. Suicide nets on the factories, anyone? Not to mention Liam-Slash-Pensions-Now-Fox, do away with the Winter Fuel Allowance and the Bus Pass, because the poor old dears will either be dead at the next or election, or so gaga they won't remember who made their lives a misery. (Excuse me one moment while I go outside and shriek at the uncaring skies.) The fact these miserable pieces of shit exist and haven't been struck down by lightning is certainly a compelling argument for atheism.

ii) Manchester March. 

It was a very amiable affair, despite what you may have read in the papers. One hundred thousand people walking through central Manchester, and one arrest for spitting, and three others for drunk and disorderly. Listen: how many arrests for D&D does central Manchester get on a normal Sunday afternoon? More, I'd warrant. Anyway, around 0.002% of people connected with the march were naughty. That means 99.998% were not naughty. And the egg-incident has to be, it must be said, viewed with some dubiety. Quite easy to slur the opposition by staging a scene. The weather was perfect, and the atmosphere electric. I felt very proud of the great variety of my fellow citizens.

iii) Labour Leadership.

I was involved before Our Saviour got on the ballot. I was in two minds: if it worked, and by a miracle we can change the country's attitude by 2020, then all well and good; if 2020 ends in defeat, we shall at least have wrenched the debate to the left.

We all know how its panned out so far. It's been quite fascinating to see the support Jeremy gets wherever he goes. Now it's time for some hard-nosed policy-making, and I would be the first to agree that there will have to be some sacrifices.

But I wondered the other day about an underlying strategy from the Left - one that I do indeed approve of - a strategy I might hesitantly call the Road to Calvary. Perhaps Corbyn is just setting an example for the Left (especially the young and enthusiastic new left). Perhaps he is intent on proving that democracy and reason and politeness and turning-the-other-cheek will fail against the entrenched vested interests of Capital, and that the inevitable disillusionment of all these newly enthused members might lead another step on the way towards revolutionary change. But this is just a wild theory.

iv) Postscript.

The image at the beginning of this post came to me, sweating, in the middle of the night following my Work Capability Assessment. I ordered the extra props there and then. Because being raped up the arse is a fair analogy to the entirety of the whole disgusting process.

I had expected that I would cope well, knowing my ability to project an air of false confidence. But I was wrong. I almost vomited with anxiety on the train, in the assessment room, and on the pavement outside the DWP office. Tears were shed by both myself and my companion.

This is the rub: to try every day to feel 'well', I try to believe I am well, to accentuate every positive aspect of coping with this foul and wayward brain. These assessments force your entire consciousness onto all your negative aspects, and lo and behold, studying yourself though that dark and pessimistic glass has a deleterious effect on your sense of health and capability. It forces you to see how shit you are at many things. It makes you want to extinguish yourself in despair at your own shortcomings.

However, I passed. A bitter moment of ironic self-congratulation.