Winged Grub. aka The Grub’s Lament. Once more, let the little ones tell you a thing or two about cooperation, connections and survival. Stay sane.
Cummings Is Goings. aka Cumming a cropper. I’m still pinching myself in utter disbelief but there you have it. He’s gone. Ding dong the beast is dead! Nice. Get the vodka out of the freezer and animate the will to fight. Still, do keep an eye on Her Indoors, the Symonds creature. Anyone willing to shag Boris Johnson to the point of actually breeding with him is not to be trusted. Eyes peeled, comrades.
Amnesia Sunday. aka Lest We Wake Up … and remember (if we ever knew) the real phoney reasons and mendacious justifications for that most wasteful, unnecessary and criminal of wars. Let the sentimentality and the cheesiness lull you into a sense of saccharine virtue and snug ignorance. Above all, do NOT connect this kind of events with what’s going on in the factual world outside them; and please do not notice that the show was barely on the road when one of our top brasses was already trying to boyscout the nation into being prepared for WWIII owing to the Chinese Virus and Putin’s interference.
This year I’ll refrain form quoting Wilfred Owen in full for the Nth time. Just this: that dulce et decorum est pro patria mori only as long as the moring is being done by you and your children and not by Them and Their children -and even those don’t take survival precedence over Them Themselves; remember Abraham.
PS. If you thought that these yearly rants are indication that I don’t care for those poor buggers who died in that war, and all the other stupid wars of empire bickering, who died only to fertilize the ground for the next conflict, think again. I do care. Deeply and incandescently. It also scares the living shits out of me that that generation bough, lock, stock and stinking barrel, the lies, the propaganda and the mis/disinformation fed them by their elders; just as the troops sent to kill, rape and main in Iraq believed that Saddam has tons of WMD because The Blair Witch and the Guardian said so. Bumba alone knows what this generation will buy. 🙁
Have a spiffing week.
Phantom Fireflies. One of these days a Dies irae the size of a small moon is going to fall on our heads like a sodding ton of bricks. And then both the black sheep and the black-sheep-shooters will run around in panic and despair and there’ll be much gnashing of teeth, although not for long, for the end will be very, very painful but quick.
And all the while, the Meat Puppets in No. 10 and its peripheral add-ons are having a laugh and just going with the flow, or, as they call it, “the scientists”.
And the good WeThePeople wear their little mostly-useless masks and stay home after dark and buy stuff from Amazon. And in their plentiful spare time they indulge in whatever degree of witch-hunting they can and call the dissenters all sort of unpleasant names. Torches and pitchforks and public Auto-da-fés in Hyde Park next, I daresay.
Welcome to the New Subnormal (soon to be Sub-Human). Have a lovely rest-of-the-week. And un po’ di mu’. Long time no un po’ di mu’… 🙂
Te tengo ke ver llorar, descalcito por las calles primo, por lo ke tu me has hecho pasar.
Hound of Tindalos & Little Fox. aka Dogged Fury. Practically paralytic with rage and virtually mute with irritation. Vex to the core. Annoyed beyond endurance. Yet we must endure and Beckett the storm best we can. Since I cannot speak, let the hounds howl and the little foxes gnaw at and spoil the vines of The Man. Resist. Bite. Chew. Have a nice week.