I’m about to admit a failing. Buckle up.
It has been increasingly difficult to write the funny stuff these last two years, when the world appears to be completely engulfed in flames. I’ve written as much and as often as possible, and tried to keep the ol’ pecker up in true Blighty style and not go too off topic. I mean, come on! You can’t be going around being all maudlin and talking about feelings and stuff when you’re British, for heaven’s sake. It just isn’t cricket……. Or swearily lambasting politicians and the current state of the political system – when you’re supposed to be talking about your failing fallopian tubes and hypothetical horrific parenting skills, can you? I’ve struggled to find the humour in most of what’s going on, and increasingly spend my spare time filling my brain with re-runs of classic comedies, stand-up, podcasts, pottering with plants and literature. It’s all I can manage. So, I guess it hasn’t been all bad……. and my nieces and nephews have been doing some very cool stuff. Ballet shows, sitting GCSEs, last days of junior schools and royal appointments, dontcha know! Their news keeps me buoyed. And then it breaks my heart that their future freedoms are being wrenched from them. So you know – swings and roundabouts.
I would really like to know when this current shit-storm is going to come to an end though. Or at the very least, ease up. I feel like I’m keeping a ball of abject panic just below the surface. All. The. Time. This is primarily to do with the impending ‘no deal’ Brexit negotiations, meaning I – and approximately three million other people – will be status-less. I quite literally feel like there is no ground beneath my feet. It can’t possibly be just me who feels hollowed out by the current sitch; that being the contents of the proverbial opened can, currently crawling all over the world. The worst worms being Trump over the water and Rees-Mogg in the UK. What is everyone doing to stay elevated? Drugs? Whiskey and loose women?
Whatever it is, do let me know……. maybe it will help to share. Or at the very least we can prop up a virtual bar, get virtually (or really) blasted and say, ‘love you, man.’