Marmite

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’.

R.I.P Charlie Kirk. Up until two days ago, I’d never heard of him. I can’t even remember when I registered he’d been shot, whether it was via Twitter, BBC online news, or a WhatsApp from a friend. Whenever and wherever the breaking news, the ensuing articles, photographs, videos and comments snowballed into an avalanche very quickly indeed.

“There'll always be an England While there's a country lane Wherever there's a cottage small Beside a field of grain”.

Tax. Immigration. EU. Sewage (or should that be the sewage that is the EU). Climate change. Kate or Meghan. Fish cutlery. Marmite. I’m prepared for disagreements with friends (and not-so-friends) on most things, but not what hit me between the eyes last Tuesday evening.

Hubby came home on Sunday after a fortnight cycling in Germany and Austria. He kept teasing me that most of the 21 other participants were women. I didn’t mind at all – the photos showed how dreadful they looked in Lycra. Apart from one, whom he photographed while riding behind her. This probably explained the expense of the souvenir gift he bought me.

… after I’ve first lit the touchpaper, of course.  Not too long ago, I dared to coin the phrase ‘ bashing bats and nuking newts ’, in helpful jest. I’m now going to up the ante and talk about swatting swifts. Ah, swifts. They do what they tweet on the tin – they fly swiftly. Furthermore their numbers are, sadly, swiftly declining in Britain, partly as a consequence of our new homes being more airtight, and our old ones being retro-plugged. Swifts live in drafty places like eaves and crevices, so the decline in drafty homes has led to a decline in the swift population, so much so that they’re now on the RSPCA red list of endangered species.

There’s a soundbite doing the rounds that’s been repeated so often that many believe it to be a simple, straightforward fact, akin to 1 + 1 = 2: ‘The UK is one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world’. Everyone seems to adhere to it, even those whom I greatly respect, but I respect my instincts even more.

With apologies to Daphne du Maurier. Also, apologies if my controversial satirical blog sounds more like Bridget Jones’s Diary these days. I mean, really, really sorry. I went off BJD when I read somewhere that Colin Firth’s character was based on TTK when he was Director of Public Prosecutions before he came out as Big Brother’s evil twin and Lord Alli’s favourite. That and Hugh Grant remoaning all the time. Enough to put you off your Weetabix. TTK is so loathsome that I’m finding political commentary increasingly nauseating. I need a break. Having said I was beginning to sound like BJD, what follows is not exactly a diary of problematic romances but a romanticised diary of problems. 

I loved Friends , the American TV comedy series about, well, friends. Each show had a memorable moment, like the one about Rachel losing her engagement ring, and the one about Chandler flirting in a bank’s ATM foyer. Inevitably, the phrase ‘the one about’ became synonymous with the show. Part of its charm was its relatability; the protagonists were always falling out with each other or having a larff at each other’s expense or hugging or crying or being plain stupid.

I don’t like people being rude and hurtful but sometimes it’s unintentional, and that takes the edge off their ‘sin’. I have to caveat my opening sentence because I’ve been known to put my foot in my mouth without thinking, often when trying to be witty or playful. In fact, ‘Riddles’ was my nickname (one of many) at school because of my propensity to try and say something funny about almost anything, and not because of a physical resemblance to the Batman character. If the latter were the case, then one of my friends should have been called ‘Penguin’. There I go again.

Britain is blessed with a lorra lorra very clever people, don’t ya think? They have the answer – one answer – to all our nation’s problems; it’s not ‘42’ but it’s equally as daft. If the problem is how to save the NHS, then tax the rich. Build more affordable homes? Tax the rich. Achieve net-zero? Tax the rich. Stop all sewage pollution? Tax the rich. Improve educational standards? Tax the rich. You get the picture.

Last week, Hubby and I boldly went where the cannons are aimed (but regrettably not armed) out to sea. They’re England’s finest antique military hardware: a symbolic repulsion of the huddled (m)asses of fit, fighting-age impoverished males fleeing for their lives, at a cost of thousands of pounds each in sink-ready deflatables, away from a safe, wealthy, democratic terra firma.

Some time ago, I was diagnosed with a liver cyst  while being investigated for something else. No, not offensive Tweets but, given that Allison Pearson is a blonde, Lucy Connolly a brunette, and I (as of Friday) am a redhead, it’s plausible that someone will eventually try and present Two Tier Keir with my head (and hair) on a platter during one of his perverted fascist rituals. TTK, you see, has a fetish for threesomes. Indeed, TTK could easily stand for Three Times Kinky. His threesomes include: persecuted right-wing ladies, lost mayoral elections, U-turns, sovereignty sell-outs, and young Romanian males.

The debate that refuses to be extinguished: should game shooting be allowed or should it be banned? It’s another platform for impolite society’s handwringing, self-knot tying and moral grandstanding, while polite society couldn’t give a (s)hoot.

Why did I vote Reform? Well, I promise you it wasn’t to deliberately entice more ridiculousness from the left-leaning ‘maledicts’, who never fail to inspire juicy blog material, but it has turned out to be a fruitful unintended consequence. 

Whether I’m clad in jeans, over-sized shirt and no makeup while slugging wine at my neighbour’s kitchen table, or dressed to the nines to hob-nob among the elite, as Thénardier sang in Les Miz, I am queen of my own society. But the fact that I’m blogging about it is a sure sign that things recently went horribly wrong.

I sensed something different about Easter this year. I haven’t crunched any data or carried out a survey; rather, I’m flying by the seat of my pants, superglued to my broomstick.

If you haven’t been, go on, treat yourself. If you can’t afford to go, do something like we do: save up, play the lottery, ask rellies to give cash instead of tat at birthdays and Christmases, delay your house purchase, cancel your holidays, rob a bank.