So here I am, back in the Motherland. The Old Country.
I landed on Election Day. My jet lag that night saw me stay up for most of the results. Looked like Labour were going to smash it at about 1am, but by the following morning, the Conservatives had fucked it all up with a toxic combination of arrogance and stupidity. Now the country is looking down the barrel of a coalition with the DUP (homophobic, pro-life, creationist motherfuckers who are so utterly dumb, they think the world is 4000 years old and don’t believe in dinosaurs).
Good luck with those impending Brexit negotiations, you absolute fucking tools.
Anyway, welcome home.
Next up: Grenfell Tower.
79 dead at the last count.
Then Finsbury Park.
A reminder that not all terrorists have brown skin and shout ‘Allahu Akbar’, and that Farage and Hopkins etc. are basically hate preachers with with myWaitrose cards.
Speaking of which, I had forgotten how much the Royal Family is on TV over here. The poor bastards from Grenfell Tower are being given £500 cash and, later £5k per family into their accounts whilst Her Maj totters around with a handbag worth more than that. And the disturbing news coming out that the fire was most likely down to cost-cutting in renovating the exterior of the building to make it easier on the eye for the affluent neighbours.
And right now Ascot races in on. Pricks in tops hats and one-way trips to the glue factory for Masie the Thoroughbred who had an awkward fall.
Somewhere amongst all that bullshit, my short story collection, Pills came out. (Think it was the same day as the Comey testimony – FML.) People have been very kind about it, and it’s sold a few more copies that I thought it would. Check it out if you think this blog entry is too upbeat and you’re after something more miserable and profane.
But, really, Tweeting ‘Buy my new book’ whilst all this bullshit is going on makes me feel a little crass. And I may be an asshole, but I like to think that I’m an asshole with a bit of class, so other than calling Donald Trump a succession of rude names on Twitter (see – class), I kept my online presence relatively light.
One little pleasure was seeing my old friends. They’re still the same chain-smoking, hilarious bunch of people they always were. A short lunch turned into a 10-hour drinking session. It was like we’d never been apart. Beautiful.
I love my home and my country, but Christ, we’re fucking it up now.
At least booze is cheaper over here and they don’t mind serving you if you’re already pissed.