“Golden Sky” Vol.16
Friday 13th, a stroll in the sun and an over dependence on bread and circuses
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Friday 20th May 2022
“Rhetorical Questions Round a Rectangular Dining Table Vol.14”
Friday 13th, a stroll in the sun and an over dependence on bread and circuses
Hello, and may I extend to you a hearty introduction to the “Well it was Friday 13th and the worst of all possible circumstances and there was a societal occasion afterwards which for most people would be a breeze but for me, a little less so, and I spent 36 hours in the beautiful company of my ex and a combined time we haven’t been cooped up together for over a decade, and we walked around a centuries old castle on the following day and we didn’t feel like killing each other and well, we made it back home just in time for me to watch my football team win yet another football final and all in all the 36 hours couldn’t have gone any smoother” edition of a couple of days in May on the sunny south coast of England amid my usual self induced existential dread, societal anxiety and all around need to question my very being on this upside down rock hurtling through the vastness of a universal and unfathomable infinity.
And why not?
But we’ll get to all of that and so much more shortly. Firstly, and as it has been some time since my last rhetorical communique here I feel we must catch up on the news, and those caricatures of humanity that continue to populate our collective consciousness. Elon Musk was buying Twitter, is buying twitter, trying to reduce the value of Twitter so he can snag it on the cheap or he’s being the ultimate arch villain Twitter troll, easily in plain sight and far from any bridges under which to hide. As Elon steadfastly refuses to buy me some pie after watching the film “True Romance” together, I still refuse to fully engage with him. I’m a hardliner, and until I can gaze lovingly into the whites of his eyes and see the human sparks that merely quoting “You’re so Cool!” can induce, I’m keeping my powder dry. But the whole spectacle is far funnier than the kerfuffle and mother of all distractions that is Johnny Depp and Amber Heard arguing over who shit on whose side of the bed. Who needs distractions such as these when you have Elon Musk promising, in fact publicly announcing, that he’s an absolutist for free speech, and being shouted down as some kind of Fascist! Imagine, joining a social media platform for the first time and the custodian/owner/majority share owner welcomes you by allowing you your God or, if you prefer, universally given right as a free human being, to your own, and absolute, free speech? The bloody takedown of Elon Musk is going to be far more brutally entertaining than anything Johnny and Amber, or even their dogs come to think of it, can provide.
The “Ministry of Truth” has come and gone, or to quote it officially, “paused”. It’ll be back, and under a different name than the horribly Orwellian “Disinformation Governance Board”. We have something similar here in the UK but they’re brazen enough to place the individual into the BBC! What larks! It will return in the USA though, and with another crackpot TikTok singing lunatic, screeching at the top of their lungs about how fine and dandy it is to just add in their comments at the end of a tweet perhaps, or on the bottom of your Facebook post, or even the bottom of this article maybe? We are not far now from these very things, with a social media platform employee effectively adding “What they really meant to say was….” at the end of every entry into the abyss, the dark matter of the dark web or that quiet void of most people’s social media experience.
And who needs that?
I just never realised that free speech came with a caveat, a social media editor and fucking “fact checkers”?
And who fact checks the fact checkers again?
It was announced here in the UK (19th May 2002) that a final total of 126 fines have been issued against Boris Johnson and the party happy partygoers in his putrid party. One hundred and twenty six fines for contravening the very rules and laws they implemented during their ruinous, outrageous and perfectly dystopian and Orwellian lock downs when, aided by vast quantities of cash funnelled to compliant Media organisations and lest we forget, their “nudge units” and “Behavioural Insights” teams, they scared the living wits of the UK populace. We could delve into deep conspiratorial waters here but even skimming the surface of this dark and stinking pond is enough: These odious charlatans implored, cajoled and threatened the UK public to be scared witless of a disease they took zero notice of.
Remember those disturbing images of elderly ladies being handcuffed and led away by Police for having the temerity to sit on a beach and simply enjoying the rays of the sun and the simple joy of watching the waves roll on by?
Please don’t ever forget this.
Please?
Here in the UK we had Government Ministers, TV talking heads and radio presenters repeating mantras such as “don’t hug granny” for fear of passing on a virus or a disease when these vacuous and deceitful creatures did not believe a single word that was tumbling from their lying mouths.
All granny wanted, damn it, ALL of us wanted, was that reassurance of the warmth of an embrace from the human family. That hug that says “I’m truly loved”. That was denied.
On a criminal scale.
I have long contended that these caricatures of humanity that dominate our telescreens all lack a real sense of human warmth. I’m reminded of the Jaws quote, with Clint describing a shark’s eyes as “lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eyes” and my tongue isn’t in my cheek when I draw this comparison to the agenda sellers who regularly appear on that rectangular box of doom in our collective living rooms as well as our collective consciousness. Boris Johnson isn’t a shark of course and rather, according to the in depth analysis only an English Private School Education can seemingly provide, a “Big Dog”. Considering his size, perhaps it’s for the best that this particular dog didn’t take a shit in Johnny and Amber’s bed?
The obvious follow up joke here is that he shit in all our beds during the past 2 or so years, but that’s an easy gag and best left to others don’t you think?
126 fines or not, Boris Johnson will remain at the head of the sinking ship and I’ve posited on Twitter on far too many occasions that he’s deliberately taking down the entire UK Fleet with him, but we don’t have the time here to discuss this further today. Boris is toast just before or at the next (s)Election and Knight of The Realm Keir Starmer will ride to the democratic rescue and take the UK even further down the road paved by the current USA President. Blue/Red. Red/Blue. It’s an easy game to spot and I’m amazed no-one else does. The Empire marches relentlessly on. It’s a One Party State for a centralised One World Government.
Hooray!
Talking of which:
This weekend sees the gathering of the great and the good in Switzerland to ratify the World Health Organisation’s “Pandemic Accords” (wrongly called “Treaty”) but nonetheless, if your country, and the UK surely will, sign up to these accords then among other treats in the Fascistic goody bag will be the decree from upon high that a pandemic has been declared and well, every country has to lock down or enforce similar measures. From Timbuktu to Kathmandu, a single, rigidly enforced mandate will apply to all. One size fits all apparently?
Much like their medicines.
Two of the top five funders of the World Health Organisation at the time of writing are the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and GAVI (The Vaccine Alliance). The Gates foundation also funded GAVI into existence, so again, without delving into the darkest of conspiratorial waters, one man, a successful creator of Information Technology systems remember, is now the largest continual voice in the field of medicine creation (medicine creation!) and worldwide (worldwide!) response to a pandemic?
And how about 5,000 police, a rumoured 7,000 strong military and a no fly zone above the the evil meeting place of these evildoers in Switzerland?
Hardly screams “Leaders of the Free World” now does it?
The world’s gone stark, raving mad. And then ex President George W Bush confirmed it:
“The result is an absence of checks and balances in Russia, and the decision of one man to launch a wholly unjustified and brutal invasion of Iraq”
“I mean, Ukraine”
George W Bush, 18th May 2022
And the audience laughed at his horrific gaff.
Laughed.
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I’ll bring the news section to a close with a hearty shout out to all the XX chromosome beings out there, and those pesky beautiful ladies and women that I can’t help myself from falling in love with! As we all know, the very ability of these ghouls and goblins on our telescreens to confirm exactly what constitutes a “woman” is surreally up for debate despite the thousands of years of evolution we’ve experienced up to this point, but no, should you wish to get a politician or public personality crawling into the cracks of a floorboard ask them how they define a woman?
“Birthing People” and “Chest feeding” continues to be a barbaric insight into our rapidly failing species, but I noticed that the term “Womxn” was back in vogue so I thought I’d show a little solidarity to all the sisters and mothers and grandmothers and grannies and women out there.
Ever feel as though you’re no longer welcome in this brave new world ladies?
If you read on, which I surely hope that you do, you’ll see that the remainder of this article will be primarily a brief ode to joy for four of the most precious women I’ve been incredibly fortunate enough to bump into along life’s highway. This journey begins early on Friday 13th with a devoted fan of all things horror, a nervous brother, two identical strangers, and a beautiful lady code named “Buns”.
Buns and I set out at an ungodly early morning hour on Friday 13th due to my expected inability to sleep and unnecessary worry of the clogged up highways and byways of England. We got lucky, reaching our destination with plenty of time to spare and with a chance to revisit an old haunt of my younger days. We’d returned to my hometown, or the outskirts of it, and found time to stretch our legs with a quick stroll around a yachting and marina outpost just outside of my hometown, Portsmouth.
“Port Solent” has seen better days and has barely changed since I visited there in the mid 1990’s to see an anniversary screening of “The Exorcist” at the then, very top of the range, multi-screened cinema complex. The marina has been the venue of many a work and social night out of far too many memories ago, one of which was a blind date in the mid 1990’s that saw your humble narrator so excited, anxious and nervous that my date was finally “The One”, I barely moved a muscle during the date all whilst sitting cross legged outside on the waterside walkway and when it came time to leave with the newest love of my life, my legs collapsed underneath me into an embarrassing heap!
But it’s the journey rather than the destination or rather, there was a more pressing destination than a quaint harbour side relic to another century, and the journey that saw us both reach that beautiful destination was as pun intended plain sailing as could be. Considering the fact that Buns and I don’t speak from day to day (or if we do it will relate wholly in regard to our beautiful teenage son) and are a decade now passed our final separation, 36 hours together, and both with our own individual societal anxieties thrown into the mix, was a laughably outlandish venture even for us. But we wandered around and marvelled at the yachts and boats and millionaire’s lifestyle on the outskirts of my old hometown and despite the unseasonably cold south coast morning, I couldn’t have been happier or more content. I even admitted to the blind date story above as we stood on the very spot of artificial carpet that sits atop the boardwalk upon which I fell to this very day. As I said, very little has changed. But the young lady who’s heart I shattered into a thousand pieces but yet is nearly always there for me when I need her the most was with me on this cold, dreary morning beside the English seaside and this afternoon, she would flower and bloom into a beautiful ball of light in front of tens of strangers.
The afternoon story is my family’s to tell not me. In today’s modern lexicon it was a celebration of life, but it was still a funeral. Without wishing to be verbose (you failed a long time ago — Editor) or melancholic (insert joke here — Editor), it was a beautiful celebration of the life of someone’s Wife, Mother, Best Friend, Grandmother and among many other things, a human smile and sense of wonder that would light up the darkest of rooms. We celebrated the life of my sister, of whom I aspired to be from my earliest childhood memories and away from the more personal reasons that I retain close to my heart, it was because of the way my sister “carried herself”, presented her genuine self to the world and who had won the respect of two parents who blooming adored her to the moon and back.
The completely natural, organic and sustainable ceremony was so fitting as well as so well held together by my small extended family all breaking and splintering of heart. I have no idea how they held themselves together and suffice to say my admiration for them shot through the roof of the beautifully crafted and incredibly fully outdoor ceremonial building. My eulogy got a laugh in the right place and I hope the short story that no-one will have been aware of pre the ceremony went down well. It was the very epitome of who my sister was as a human being and how she looked out for her kid brother when they were both heartbroken so many Fatherly years ago. I missed a second planned joke as I let the gravity of speaking publicly get to me a little before having the honour of escorting a beautiful lady, a vibrant spirit and a bundle of human love to her incredibly peaceful final place of rest.
“Sisters, Sisters. There were never such devoted sisters” so goes a song from what seems like another planet from the madhouse we all inhabit these days. But it allows for the easy literary segue to my glorious Auntie and how she resembles the grand old lady that was her sister and my (and my Sister Viv’s) dearly missed Mum. I was so excited at seeing my Mum’s sister that I hugged her so tightly I feared we’d topple over! We couldn’t hug at my Mum’s own celebration of life a year or so ago and so this hug was a long time coming! As it would be for another of my sister’s sister’s, her daughter Shonagh. The namecheck is only out of respect for her sensational conduct and for being the Mother’s daughter (and sister and best friend and carer) and boy would my sister have been proud of her on that sombre yet beautiful Friday 13th.
Buns was rightly seen as another sister, a truism I know she holds close to her heart, and she was reassuringly incredible all afternoon and long into the evening. I could compile lengthy tomes on how beautiful she looked (and after a 4 hour car journey and getting changed in a toilet!) or how she smiled and laughed with everyone regardless of whether she vaguely knew or remembered the familial members present or if they were complete strangers. Or how I loved watching her chatting away with my oldest of friends and someone who had yet again came to pay his respects for a loss in my family. Or how she held court with my niece as the evening splintered into gender aligned groups. She ended the evening by stating she was honoured to have been invited to such an incredible occasion.
Kind of melts the heart that one, doesn’t it?
I could elucidate further on the Saturday morning stroll around the magnificent Portchester Castle but I hope the pictures here to tell their own beautiful story. I could admit that my family’s cancellation of the morning’s breakfast allowed for such a visit as well as (whisper it) allowing me more stress free time to journey home for the football final on TV. I could admit that. I could also admit that the hour or so we spent strolling in the beautiful early morning sunshine covering the south coast of England was just about as perfect as I could’ve wished it to be. I could certainly admit that too. Or I could admit that Buns bought me a glass bottle of Coca-Cola (if there are any executives from Coca-Cola wishing an endorsement from my client you might be surprised at how cheap he is — Advertising Editor) from a local coffee shop, and as we sat in the heat of that morning sun, a coffee, a glass bottle of bubbly loveliness and silly throwaway conversations and in-jokes between us, I was as happy as I can remember.
There are a cast of characters from this 36 hours that remain nameless, mostly male, and all loved for beautifully strange reasons. You’ll be pleased to read I made it back in time for the FA Cup Final, my team triumphed, lifted that beautifully iconic silver trophy, and I cried more than a little. It had been that kind of weekend. I was going to expand upon and question my current dependence on the bread and circuses put before us such as kicking around a bag of wind in front of 90,000 spectators in a modern day Coliseum, but where’s the fun in that? I’d also planned to write a lengthy piece on how I’ve accidentally fallen into writing about my football team in a season like no other and how, despite never wishing to delve into writing about a football team I adore for fear at how obsessive I knew I’d become about it, I’ve written some damn fine articles on that mighty team of mine dressed in all red. Sadly, however fine and insightful they may be, I’m 15 years behind the times when it comes to my long form writing ambitions.
Behind the curve and snookered behind the 8 ball.
A man of questions and frustratingly few answers.
Selah.
Keep asking questions folks.
Viva humanity.
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“Rhetorical Questions Round a Rectangular Dining Table Vol.14” can also be found lurking and cavorting through pages 256 and 269 of my recently self-published book “Golden Sky”.
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Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.