The End of the World as We Know It

This is a substantially redacted version of a post I’ve been ranting out of my fingertips in the last 24 hours. I may – or may not, who can ever say? – add in some of the rest of the material in forthcoming posts. I’m posting this for the sake of that minuscule handful of people that follow this blog that do not share contact with me elsewhere; those that do will know most of this story. It’s not that interesting anyway; I merely have a penchant for verbosely stringing things out. Uninteresting or otherwise, the material detailed kind of represents A Big Deal in the life of the present author, and indeed of those around her (most notably The Man, but others too). Apparently it’s the kind of A Big Deal that should be all warm and fuzzy! Apparently I am A Very Bad Person for not instantaneously recognising this indisputable fact! Apparently moral relativism is a poor philosophical construct! Apparently a lot of the ranting I’ve removed from what follows might have been related to attitudes of that nature! Apparently I will stop being facetious anon and get to the point! Hasta luego, and beware of the dog, the dog being a plethora of swear words (yes, old-timers, I’m back to my old self. Apparently).

[Redacted: lengthy introductory bollocks and content notes about cursing, length and a general tendency to vituperate. None of those things have abated (well, the length has, but to the uninitiated it will still appear long), but it’s enough for you to know that they’re there; wanking on about them for five years isn’t a particularly efficient use of one’s time.]

Anyone that had been reading up to and including my last post will know that stuff was by and large okay. That must have been pretty frustrating for those of you that enjoyed the misanthropic, fuck-everything rants for which I’d become mildly famous in our little community – despite being psychologically well, it was in a sense for me too. Being a snide bellend who was incapable of doing anything other than bitching out 3,000 words on top an electronic page of potent hate seemed so much more intellectually satisfying than writing, “yeah, life’s not making me want to set a Death Star on this dump of a planet!” (or whatever shitty euphemism was used in the stead of such a phrase). Nevertheless, that bland nicey-nicey Nice positive existence continued for a bit after I last posted. My work with MindWise (still ongoing, sort of – I’ll explain sometime) was rather excellent. The training was (is) of a high quality; I’ve met some great people; I’ve been involved in some very interesting projects; I feel that I’ve helped a truly worthwhile organisation (even if only in a small way). That’s Nice, and I remain glad of it, despite the foregoing invective about Nice. There is a place for Nice; it’s just that Nice for Nice‘s sake is not particularly interesting.

That’s Exceedingly Interesting and Everything, But I Actually Have Things to Do Here. Continue reading

You Wouldn’t Have Liked My Grandfather

My grandfather was an achingly intelligent man who died at the age of 85 after a long period of medically-induced dementia. Nearly 15 years later, I still feel the effects of his death profoundly.

You wouldn’t have liked my grandfather – not if you occupy what is, in something of a misnomer*, known as the political left.

Despite the background he came from (he was a farmer), he was a product of his time. His views on social issues in particular are completely at odds with everything I hold dear today; gay rights, reproductive freedom, co-habitation, defence of the vulnerable and ill, the right not to be persecuted for not being religious, yadda blahdeblah.

You would not have liked him if you knew him only for these issues. Neither would I.

But despite this, had you chosen to celebrate his death, I would consider you to be beneath contempt. I don’t particularly give a fuck if he wasn’t the single most influential person in the United Kingdom during some formative years of his life or not. If he had been, his convictions – however misguided they may have appeared to you and I – would still have guided how he conducted the power afforded him.

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This post is a pity-party of misery. You probably don’t want to read it, particularly if you’re feeling low yourself.

As of 8.15pm yesterday evening, I have existed on this planet for 10,593 days.

It means I’m now 29.

I remember once as a child, a friend and I talking about blokes we fancied. I genuinely don’t remember who I referenced in the conversation, but it was someone over 30 (I’ve always been attracted to older men. Indeed, The Man is 10 years older than me.) My friend posited that “30 [was] really old,” was I mad?! (Quite probably, but for entirely different reasons.)

I didn’t see being 30 as “old.” Much as still do as an adult, I’d sit there and imagine myself at the age I now find myself as someone successful, happy, witty, everything going for her.

Not as an overweight Venlafaxine addict with no career struggling with bills and state benefits and bi-fucking-polar disorder.

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1984 in 2012

Apparently* George Orwell once said:

During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.

I tweeted this quote on Saturday after reading this horrendous story:

A female disability activist had her home raided yesterday by South Wales Police who attempted to intimidate her into stopping posting comments on Facebook critical of government cuts and specifically the Department of Work and Pensions and their attacks on the rights of disability claimants.

In her own words:

I’ve just had the police forcing their way into my flat near midnight and harrassing me about my “criminal” posts on Facebook about the DWP, accusing me of being “obstructive”. I didn’t know what in f**k’s name they were on about.

As Tom Pride, the author of the piece quoted above, noted, this is the kind of policing one might expect in a dictatorial state, as opposed to a supposed democracy. And as @stillicides added, cliché or not:

…I feel like we’re living in 1984 right now – thought crime anyone? Terrifying, depressing, enraging.


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In Which I Defend Kate Middleton

I don’t know the Duchess of Cambridge; I have never met nor in any way interacted with her. She seems like a pleasant enough woman, but could be deplorable in person – I don’t know, and how would I? Neither do I care. She doesn’t affect my life in any particularly direct fashion, the usual arguments about the cost to the public on the institution of the monarchy notwithstanding.

But were The Man and I on a private holiday and I happened to lower my top whilst sunbathing, I wouldn’t expect pictures of me to be all over the internet and in shitty celebrity “magazines” and red-top rags. Why do the rules change for her?

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