Shock. Horror, gloom & doom. Away for a few days. Off to dreaded Barcelona. Unwilling and unready but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, worse luck. I just pray to the sweet, patient mother of Bumba that I’ll be able to resist the irresistible urge to incinerate yellow ribbons. Or estelades. Or that red & yellow rag with the chicken in it. Or any other flag, for that matter. See you in a few days. PS. The quotation is from Lorca. There.
The Bug’s Lament. Here, as a free public service, is one of those useful, All-purpose Grievance Indicator tools I love so much. Just enter your gripe of choice along an imaginary line, anywhere you fancy, and you’re off!
Brexshit anyone? Incoming Spanish elections? Carles Puigdemont’s brain –or lack thereof? Turning Point’s tactics? The choices are endless, alas.
There’ll be another one along very soon so you’ll have even more choice of j’accuse gizmos. Since choices in general are getting fewer and meaner, I dare say this is better than nothing –if not much, I must admit.
Some info on Turning Point (know thy enemy…):
And one to mark the passing of a very nice man:
As I was just saying…choices are getting scarce. Farewell, Jeremy.
And this is for the pure joy of it. To remind myself that people can still be kind for the shear sake of being kind.
Anti-Valentine 2019. There must be an irony somewhere in the fact that when I’m in the Great Dumps the best solace comes from monsters, oddballs, dissidents, mutineers and fauna of that ilk. Thus with this year’s Anti-Mawk Festival. Too despondent to organize the usual alternative merry shindig, I was thinking of cancelling it when the Renegade Uncouth Larvae of the Final Void crawled out of the inter-dimensional woodwork and came to me with a maaaaarvelous idea: Why not have an Universal Day of Lamentation, Detestation and All-purpose Kvetching instead? See what I mean? Such a spiffing notion.
So, that’s what we’ll be having. The event will take place in and around the pond at Vicky Park. (In, literally, just in case the Deep Ones wish to attend –Bumba knows they have good cause to grumble, poor things) As usual, you’re all invited. You’ll all have free access to food, drink, drugs, shows, poetry recitals, communal defenestrations, workshops, effigy burnings and anything that might be going. This year, as a bonus, there’ll be a competition for the Best Carping of 2018. Prize yet to be decided but the toss is between a Garrote Florido (Flowery Club) and a fortnight cruise for two to the slimy canals that coil around the fringes of Unknown Kadath.
The gaudeamus, or rather the lamentates, will take place tomorrow, Wednesday 13th. Time to be advised, in Lemurian code, via the Today’s program, just to aggravate John Humphys or whichever State Stodge is presenting it. Keep your ears peeled, folks and see you all there, I hope.
Here, to put you in the mood, have a link to one of Tom Lehrer’s best on the subject of these ghastly “Whatever Day/Week/Year/Century” capers:
Warning. Transgression is the new law. Edgy is the new norm. Submission is the new rebellion. Internalized masochism rules supreme. The New Doormat is the new heroine. McSex is best. All is topsy-turvy and “we’re loving it”.
A recent(ish) survey on relationships in Spain amongst the 15/29 year olds revealed that a staggering average of 35% of women saw as perfectly normal/legit to have their boyfriends control their phones and social media. The ration of young males was even higher. I have no reason to expect that the picture this exposes is much better in our “enlightened” latitudes.
Make of this what you will. Meanwhile, as a pre-anti-Valentine card & rant, here’s a modest offering to all the women out there who still refuse to bow down to the new orthodoxies.
Keep the two insolent fingers at the ready, girls, lest you find yourselves, in a not-too-distant future, living in a reality that will make The Handmaid’s Tale look like a romantic picnic. Pregnant, barefoot and in the kitchen will be the least of your worries.
Red Teddy. For Venezuela.
Postcard from the icy outer marches.
You know that these are truly bad times when a big strapping MegaTeddy goes around carrying teddy bears of his own.
Indeed, these are times beyond awfulness, what with Brexit looming and the Imperial Mafias going in full tilt for a hard coup d’état in Venezuela.
Another Chile, another Guatemala, another Panama, another country that refused to bow down to the Masters of the Universe is about to be utterly destroyed, as opposed to merely being mortally destabilized over decades.
The vassal states, the European indentured peons of the God-appointed Owners of All the Earth, in a prodigious display of grovelling cocksuckery not seen since the grotesque invasion of Iraq, have all joined in the fun & games and piled up fire, brimstone and wilfully ill-informed condemnation upon (and in the case of our very own Vatican City of London, stolen the gold of) the legitimate government of a country that never was a threat to anybody. All except Italy, Bumba help us. And that’s why times are so bloody appalling, because the only dissident voice in that deadly chorus line is that of rabid fascists like the current Italian body politic.
The Empire is in a very bad shape, no doubt: paranoid, delusional, severely injured and increasingly discredited. The doctrines of Exceptionalism and Full Spectrum Dominance are tottering. The cracks are becoming trenches. And about time, too. But let us never-ever forget that there are few things more dangerous than a wounded, cornered or merely endangered big brute. And prepare accordingly. Предупрежден – значит вооружен, as a good friend of mine said once.
Here’s a very nice, very illuminating link to the current Venezuelan golpista shenanigans. (Thank you, B.!):
PS. Since YouTube has recently joined in the ever-expanding Circus of Censorship of Heretics, you’ll have to sign in to access this lovely doc. But is well worth it.