If You Receive A Text Saying "99 Virgins Await" - Best Not answer!
'Q' apparently, is alive, and out there, for real!
Ordinarily, I would not be writing this, as I’m busy elsewhere for the time being editing another book for publication. Hence my absence. However, I have been gifted with further absurdities that, quite honestly, are far too good to pass up without comment.
While still recovering from the bottomless folly of grown men, for the most part, who, adorned with tattoos that fall a little short of spelling their home postcode, and ‘If lost return to sender’ in gorgeously coloured ink, did protest in Bristol, and other places, about an incident in Southport that provided the fuse for hysterical public disorder, so another breed of lunatics poke their heads above the parapet for their ‘Warhol’ style, five minutes of fame on the world stage of psychodrama.
It’s AmDram time, folks. Written, and played in reality, by a cast who, if Jim Henson were still alive would be cast as human Muppets. Honestly, I’m struggling to find a place to begin with so much to write about. Nonetheless, here goes. So today’s first ‘Electro-convulsive therapy’ treatment session is awarded to the Cambridgeshire County Council (get ready for this by gripping something firm) LGBTQIA Cx²- M&S, X-Y, P+Q x R, Z, D, E, F etc - group, or whatever, for a heap of bullshit regarding an alleged ‘gender-fluid dog. Well, so the story goes, a gender-critical social worker upset the nappycart after making “non-inclusive and transphobic comments” about the bloody dog of a co-worker.
Are you reaching for the alcohol, or Valium already? No, well, it’s still early on, so standby. According to news reports, a male from this group claimed that his Dachsund was “gender fluid” and that he puts a dress on the dog (presumably named Rover - or perhaps even Butch) “to prompt debate about gender”. During this, presumably heated debate, the term “symbolic violence” was used. A term that falls under the much larger, linguistic umbrella of ‘psychobabble’. A term that to less emotionally incontinent people translates as ‘bullshit’. I think you’ll find that’s Olde English in origin. Although accepted, I could be entirely wrong.
Anyway, as these kidults who, presumably being paid adult salaries, continued their meeting there were further emotional outpourings as nappies filled by the minute, with claims of “sleepless nights” “anxiety” “shaking in disbelief”, and that ‘by now’ old, if not worn out, chestnut, “traumatised” crept into the conversation, because just about everything is a bloody ‘trauma’ of one description, or another nowadays. Isn’t it?
Call in a social worker. Call in a therapist. Or, better still, call in a real adult, playground supervisor to sort these kidults out, perhaps. You know, someone with the skillset who’ll not be afraid to tell one and all to park their egos somewhere besides the refuse bins for collection later in the week by the binmen/women.
Oh, wait! Newsflash. It’s since been resolved by a normal, sensible, both feet on the ground, no head up the arse employment judge. At last, an ADULT!
Yes. Ruling in favour of the gender critical social worker, Judge Paul Mitchell, awarded her £30.000 in lost earnings, and £22,000 compensation for injury to feelings (ah, poor woman!). So, aside from the bullshit ‘injury to feelings’ part, it seems sensibility won the day.
Now, as much as I’m wholly against the idea, I am of the belief that we need a bloody good war, with missiles to rain down on this country so we get to a point of reset, and the previous story just adds to the reasons for. As I’ve stated in previous blog posts, as well as my book, humanity has long since lost the plot, and we need to rid the world of ego, bring people back to sensibility with everyone on an equal footing in life, and start again, united as one, without the label bullshit that has come to increasingly divide people so much.
Yes, war kills people. Fact. However, it also has a way of bringing people together, regardless, of race, sexual orientation, gender, and everything that splinters us like broken wood in smithereens on a demolition site. It was a couple of mornings ago when I stumbled upon a World War Two, music hall song titled “My Baby Has Gone Down The Plughole”/ When Mother Was Bathing The Baby - both variations of the same, and reminded me that this, and many other songs and comedy of that era were of very dark humour as that’s how people got through the most difficult of times with great stoicism. Whereas, nowadays people become oh-so offended and ‘traumatised’ at the drop of a hat, and there would be campaigns and complaints about babies disappearing down plug holes, and more because their egos have been challenged. Or someone has had to go to the expense of buying a box of Kleenex and it’s traumatised them to such a degree they’re being treated from symptoms of PTSD to depression.
Incidental to this, the Huw Edwards court case reached its verdict, and people were calling a radio phone-in to highlight their own experiences of historical, child abuse. Now, while I have every sympathy for those who’ve experienced this, how, yes how, is it possible that so many people in their thousands around the country are still holding their experiences up to fifty years later? Speaking as someone who trained in person-centred counselling, what exactly does this say about our mental health services? The sticking plaster on a broken leg adage springs immediately to mind. Putting it bluntly, if this country were at war tomorrow we’d be more screwed than refitting every home in London with a new kitchen.
Finally. Speaking of war. When I heard on the radio that Hezbollah pagers were going off with a bang, I was in two minds as to whether it was some redundant Arthur Daley stock they’d bought as a job lot, or ‘Q’ really did exist, and had been moonlighting on a package holiday abroad to the Middle East to top up his wages, tax-free, as the plot bore an uncanny resemblance to something we’d see in a 007 movie. I’m now waiting for the heat-sensitive Calvin Klein underwear that combusts when in contact with a sweaty ballsack, and it’ll be a slam-dunk for the latter, while those 72 virgins will be dusting off the cobwebs after all. Without a doubt, there’ll be no Quran left unturned in the hunt for further combustibles in everything from fountain pens to Middle East television, domestic satellite dishes, and receiver boxes. Mark my words.
Of course, a little closer to home Vlad the Insaner seems to be under the delusion that he can bomb Ukraine because he can. Yet, low and behold Ukraine retaliates in any way that compromises Vlad’s forces and it’s suddenly World War Three due to Ukraine’s NATO supply chain. What a world, huh, where the fetishisation of war by those with big egos and hungry for power exists.
Still, never mind. At least all we have to worry about in this country is the continuation of adult nappy production. For now, at least.
