Marmite

A life-long monarchist, chain-stitched into my DNA, brain-washed from birth, ideologically incontrovertible, I’m actually starting to lose patience with some members of our Royal Family. While Randy Andy plays a part in my growing frustration-bordering-on-disillusionment, I might stomach his ‘indiscretions’ (plural) if these were the whole story – after all, every family has a black sheep (even if I’m not supposed to say that). But it’s others’ reactions and handling of the situation that displeases me as much as anything.

Despite being a bookworm with a penchant for 18th and 19th-century literature, I’ve only ever read two Jane Austen novels. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility . At school. I didn’t enjoy them that much. I remember skimming the romantic passages – never being one for chick-lit – and being bored by the soul-searching and self-reflection of the middle classes. First-world problems, Darlings. Get a life. I much preferred  1984 , Animal Farm , Lord of the Flies , Brave New World , On the Road , and bodice rippers my BFF found in her big sister’s secret hiding place.

Don’t ya think the title of this blog is redolent of a post-apocalyptic horror film? Personally, I think an alien bursting from my tummy might have been less gruesome than what actually transpired.

I could have said, ‘Tommy Robinson has won this one’, but that might have been too much for those who a) accidentally stumble on my right-so-far pearls of wisdom and are gibbering wrecks for the rest of the day or b) are compelled by their inner demons to keep revisiting my blogspot, akin to a junkie taking another shot of heroin. Here, I could have said, ‘akin to Thunberg sailing back to Israel for another bout of starvation, torture and humiliation’.