A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 12

16th November 2020

I am valiantly trying to stay awake. For the past week I’ve been sleeping only in fits for about 5hrs, then 4 and now 2. With sleep patterns disrupted it usally ends in a lumping migraine, which at about 3am I take painkillers for, loaded with caffeine. There is an obvious self-defeating cycle here.

So what to keep me up?

Wrote some more of The Book, sent off an extract to some agent, realising only after some tense mistakes and typos AAARGH. Typical, nothing’s ever really final.

Doing the rounds on the usual news fora helps. Some understated reportage on what is actually a milestone -the formation of the world’s largest free trade zone and economic block -RCEP (the snazzily dubbed Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership), which takes in China, Japan, S Korea, ASEAN, Australia and NZ, or 30% of world population and GDP. Riveting news I know. India walked out in November over pesky border skirmishes, but is currently an ‘observer’ member, pissed at the party and refusing the canapés, for the time being.

All in all it may well lift the world out of the current recessional doldrums, and the rather bad case of sniffles stalking the land. They all did a really big Zoom sesh in their bedrooms, with blue curtains yesterday, marking a fat line drawn under a period of economic uncertainty that’s played out behind our screens the past few years, and behind the pandemic. The global elite I mean, we are all set to get richer, and probably more exploitative too.

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This is due to the contrast with the TPP (Trans Pacific Partnership) that the Obama administration originally set up to pivot trade around the Pacific and away from China -straight into the US -but that Trump canceled in his first week to ‘protect American jobs’. It resoundingly appears he missed the memo that global trade isn’t a zero sum game. Missing quite the trick too in signing it to the economic dustbin without getting any major concessions from China to do so – a schoolkid or a dolphin could have foreseen that as a mistake. Well that must’ve been quite the knees-up in Beijing, after years of dread, global repositioning and sweaty nightmares clutching a teddy bear.

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Trump’s supporters declare he has an IQ of 145, a scientific gauging based on er, their online votes, albeit anyone who’s ever known him spurts out their drink and laughs for a good 5 minutes, occasionally howling and slapping a thigh. Before buying everyone a round of bleach.

Stable genius my arse. I give you, folks, the Leader of the Free World:

His whole trade war’s also been an utter failure, with the trade deficit higher than it’s ever been in history, and the extra costs and tariffs stumped by the US corporations. This is why China so wants the reign of Trump to continue despite the battling and immediate threats -as he’s utterly undermined in so short a span so much US influence that took decades to build -the UN, NATO, NAFTA, NTP, WTO, WHO, WHAT, WHERE, the Paris Accord, plus trade wars with besties Canada, Mexico and EU. Perhaps also why they’ve put off congratulating Biden and sending chocolates until yesterday, when it got too painfully awkward.

And the orange buffoon proves quite easy to outplay as he doesn’t see long term, then miscalibrates his own competence or performance (textbook Dunning-Kruger effect). Even North Korea easily sidesteps him with a few phonecalls about basketball. -He cripplingly panders to his own self aggrandisement and public perception, then replaces team experts every few months with sycophants and extremists, who have increasingly less of a clue and were never trained.

It’s quite the damning indictment of one’s ineptitude when your sworn enemy wants to keep you at the helm.

The unsaid thing is the Great Decoupling is a loss for America too. Even with China becoming no 1 (a scenario worse than death it seems in the ‘Murican mindset) it would have been a win-win still for the US. 1.4 billion more consumers to sell to more than doubles the entire Western or OECD market. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite the face. From Coke to Disney to tourism to coffee to cars to planes to wine to clothing to perfume to music to pizza to pills, American brands were deemed an automatic stamp of quality regardless of it (USA translates as Mei Guo in Mandarin, meaning ‘Beautiful Country’).

The fall from grace in the eyes of the Chinese consumer, that Apple or Walmart or Hollywood have recently seen, and who once dominated the market no matter what, has been a notable casualty. In short, the US that so excels at soft power will no longer be able to wield it. And the whole point that China was persuaded into the global economic system in the first place (Nixon, Carter and Europe instigating the detente and investing billions in Deng’s economic liberalisations) was they foresaw the huge potential of the world’s largest population one day buying their products, even from the ’70s.

It just seems to some they’d rather be far less rich than not be no 1, at all costs. And in the long run it will still benefit China, now becoming more self sufficient, ratcheting up its R&D and trade links to do so, making friends with its enemies and pivoting to its own vast domestic market to power it. -Whereby the scales have fallen from their consumers eyes that now realise that US products no longer have the cachet or quality, and instead fund their own even more. Overall making sure it can weather a global system without the US, rather than being intrinsically bilateral, and mutually influenced.


The same thing that happened to the ecosystem of the Chinese internet, social media and AI companies when the Great Firewall went up (a flowering of creativity, R&D and market share without the multinational domination), will be played out on every sector. It’s telling that the date they predicted China to overtake has in the past few years gone from 2040 to 2032 now to 2030 and getting earlier each time. By PPP (when currency fluctuations are taken into account) China already overtook in 2014 and is a quarter larger as the world’s biggest economy.

So now China wants to decouple. Biden and Xi have no choice but to stay the path, as who’s to say, four years down the line another American Hawk comes into power? China’s now in for the long run. Maybe that’s a good thing, or maybe we’ll just become one and the same despite:

The final point to make that all this trade with the US is only worth 2.4% of China’s GDP anyhoo. Don’t get me wrong China will be pissed losing points off its growth, but it’s a misconception to still think the West (particularly the US) is somehow bankrolling the country via cheap factory labour. China is now a majority services economy, its manufacturing is mainly domestic, dominated by hi-tech and robotised, and foreign trade is worth only 17% of GDP. -Of which the Japan-S Korea bloc is traditionally the largest partner, now followed by the EU.

Just don’t mention the war, or the Senkaku islands. Another bunch of oil exploration rights lonely outcrops China is intent on claiming thanks to ancient maps and the fact a Chinese penguin once lived there in 1495, or at least rested its flipper. And don’t, just don’t mention Tibet, Xinjiang, the Spratly’s, Doklam or Taiwan (aka Yiunouhu). Or modern ‘reeducation’ camps.

It appears increasingly state/ civilisation posturing is the order of the day; we are entering another age of empires, and this year marks the start. Where in the future a multipolar world between the US, China, EU, India, the Islamic Union, Africa, the Russosphere, ASEAN and LatAm look increasingly tetchy and islanded in one big dick measuring contest. Though still trading through a globalised economy and a polite smile, like a Ryanair stewardess with dead eyes beseeching you to buy a sandwich. The underhand GOT style politicking will be legion.

Oops, okay bit of a diatribe. I need to stop talking about the glorious fucking motherland. Bradford’s burning down (it’s city centre comprised of a tire factory, an aquatics store, a curry house and a chippy), Cummings has left the building, finally, and BoJo has the lergy again. A new vaccine by Moderna has a 95% success rate (UK’s ordered 5 million), though Trump’s still too busy denying he lost the election to roll out a plan to use it. The US death toll is nearing a quarter of a million, the equivalent to 625 plane crashes this year, with 10 million infected.

Oh and Will Smith’s just cancelled the Fresh Prince of Bel Air reunion. Priorities, priorities.

Meanwhile there’s also a new war gearing up in Ethiopia, with a breakaway Tigray province -highly worrying in a country of 102 million and several major ethnic groups, united under an ancient empire. The main groups -Tigrayans, Amhara and Oromo are now jostling in increasing restlessness, with several Ethiopian airports bombed by separatists and government forces alike, and massacres reported in Tigray itself.

PM Abay Ahmed won the Nobel Peace Prize last year for making lasting peace with Eritrea, another former breakaway. Now he’s bombing the Tigrayan capital, Mekelle. Hundreds have already died in the conflict and 25,000 refugees have crossed into Sudan, with thousands more to follow. Eritrea is also sending troops to help Ethiopia, and the conflict is in danger of spilling over and destabilising the entire Horn of Africa region: Sudan, South Sudan, Somalia (each already in their own civil wars), and Djibouti, possibly even Kenya.

Ethiopia, an ancient kingdom (and empire in its own right) is Africa’s second most populous nation after Nigeria, and was until recently an economic success story, the capital Addis Abeba chosen as home to the Africa Forum, or the UN of the continent if you like. It was due to hold the Africa summit this year, for its stability, newfound peaceability and rocketing growth. How quickly that facade has fallen.

It is the last thing the world needs right now. 2020, what a year. It is as if everything is culminating, we’ve had one ginormous shitshow, we might as well set off a few pipebombs and pipelines since the fire’s burning. The geopolitical sabre rattling is growing deafening, and defining, perhaps given credence by the stress on our economies, resources and plain competition.

Oh and dominating the tabloids right now? Clinton Cards, currently shuttered up by lockdown, is complaining that supermarkets like Asda are still allowed to sell greeting cards.

Cmawn fuckers, cain’t we just all geddalong? We kinda need a big fuck off Kum By Yah session, perhaps an Olympics where everyone gets a medal, painfully overdue and canceled for another year. Maybe this is just what happens when we don’t get all rosy and nationalistic together every four years, uniting against a common foe -we just take chunks out of each other instead.

Right now, for me, I’m here to keep the eyes open.

This below, on a slightly jarring note, has been a very welcome respite. You know, if you want a break from disaster. It embodies a lot of the year so far, and what we’ve been sleepwalking into for a few years now:

Enjoy.

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 11

15th November 2020

So have been updating yesterday’s entry (pretty much doubling it) which is terrible habit and that oft takes up hours. But was rudely jarred out the rabbit hole by the sound of a big explosion, echoing at about ten past one. I checked the window and no ballooning little mushroom cloud, the platforms utterly quiet and not one lingering scream of agony, or desperate klaxon.

Ho hum. Oh well, no delightful fantasy of a spot of excitement to break the day (roaring fire engines, police vans, cable news teams, possibly filming me rescuing a small, blonde child). J said he hears it at his workplace every so often and it may have something to do with trains. Perhaps crashing, or they’ve set off a firework at the pigeons.

It’s Sunday, which means the Day of Rest. Again. Albeit I did clean the flat and got J to do the kitchen. Later a sudden storm whipped up quite atmospherically, and thunder boomed, making me wonder if there’d been a random lightning strike earlier, from a cloudless sky. Made a curry, watched some people vlogging their holidays, vicariously trotting the globe before snoozing again into ponderous nothing.

And realising I currently, utterly am devoid of a life. The biggest part of my day so far has been a noise.

Rather a big part of my existence these days is all about forgetting I exist. News sites, architecture fora, armchair travelling, culture wars, kittens, fat people falling, animals being dicks, dashcams, industrial explosions. All plated up from my personal, algorithmically enhanced echo chamber.

Meanwhile, back in the real world the almost-distant state of Slovakia has pulled off a feat never before seen anywhere else on the planet -testing almost 70% of its populace over two days, and discovering over 50,000 extra cases among its 5.4 million people. UK sent observers to the huge process and are now rolling out similar to Liverpool, having learned from how one country can test a full half of its population within 24 hrs. The Slovakians used antigen tests which can give results in 15 mins, but aren’t as accurate -yet have proven very useful for smaller countries or catchments. It’s coming here in one form or other soon. Literally out of a movie, and a point in history to always remember. I can’t overstate how subtly important it will be -the beginning of the end.

Oh and on the subject of governance I’ve just discovered Chris Hedges. Academic, activist, writer-reporter, and cultural commentator who’s literally been through the wars and seen a thing or two about human nature, governments and institutionalised idiocy.

He mentions we are living in an era of corporate, totalitarian socialism. Whereby the banks and multinationals call the shots, and are supported by a corrupted state -a genuinely libertarian, capitalist system would’ve finished them off a long time back. Instead they get the money of the workers, equally divided. And get away with it by promoting a culture of illusion to the populace, one in which we replace hope and empathy with narcissism and hierarchy, a marriage of cool new social media and the cronyist establishment.

That selfie stick or Insta-feed, it’s a form of idolatry (Hedges is surprisingly religious still, perhaps from all the death he’s seen in the conflict zones). We are on the pedestal now as the new God, yet just as exceptionalist, judgemental and illusory.

Only found that in passing, and it speaks to me. So much. But it’s all very heavy for Right Now, and I don’t have an hour or three to give it justice, respectfully dissecting and disseminating, fact checking, shaking my fist at the skies and plotting arson. I know organising a revolution may very well be Getting a Life, but not when you just wanna watch Jaws IV The Return, swaddled in blankets and biscuits.

It’s been two full days since I actually had a change of clothes, drifting about in a bathrobe like a secure-wing patient. Hair’s a thatch and a big red zit mars the chin. I’ve resolved to go out for dinner, to make some Dutch-Indonesian chips, an invention from immigrants on that side of the Channel. Chips from the Chippy, which I’ll ladle with peanut sauce, mayo and raw onion.

Don’t care what anyone says, tis a thing of beee-yoo-tee, and a bed for my face.

However this El Dorado will involve me picking a costume, as Londoners can be wont to do, sorting the hair, a shave and concealer on my head in order to brave the Great Outdoors. Arrrghhh. As a great philosopher once said, ain’t nobody got time for dat.

It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s wet, but I gotta work for it. I do enjoy my own company a great deal I’ve discovered, it just takes hours to get rid of the niggling guilt at the back, like spiderlegs in a cranny. Or the sense that someone, somewhere out there is judging me, as I lie in bed for 5 hours smelling of wee and squirrels.

To get the place empty, short of an ebola outbreak I lie in wait, week after week for that perfect storm. J has left for the night to see his other half, A has decamped for the weekend to his art studio (a garage in a friend’s house). So finally, I have the flat to myself to cavort in, streaking from room to room in human skins, drinking from skulls and farting openly, gloriously.

I’ll be watching some horror flick likely, stuffing my face. Bring it on.

Update: Just got back in. I found myself something to embellish the chipfest. A trifle. A MOTHERFUCKING TRRIIIIFLE BITCHES, reduced in Tesco’s. Am literally delirious.

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 10

14th November 2020

Well, turns out, it’s the weekend. Who knew?

Last night was another one on the tiles, or at least a bench in front of the fountains, where I cooled a bottle (always wanted to do that). Al and D pottered over from the other side of the Common and we proceeded to get though two alkie trips to the local Turkish (I think actually they’re Kosovan), complete with cocktails. A little light beer, cider, vodka, whiskey and tequila to loosen the jowls and chatter teeth in the cold to, with so, so much to say.

I was still up at 4am with J, dissecting a friendscape which by all counts looked populated with bitchiness and drama, straight out of an arrested development of art school (Goldsmiths). So much social commentary, narcicissm and agitation to go with postgraduate competition, and the fact no one in their circle of mistrust was still an artist. Thus loaded with bitterness.

We concluded he needed new friends, and I told him it wasn’t him. Friends don’t steal money, belittle, make one feel shit and drop each other at the first whiff of a better offer, often mid-event. There are two types of acquaintance, one the people you may hang out and enjoy a razzle with -fun, games, laughter, bitching, who’ll use you to prop up the numbers, and that you do likewise. Then there are the people you trust, who may be as much fun as a whelk, but you can rely on, and know their ways to navigate by. And which you’ll be there for, and vice versa. The trick is to know the difference, and don’t ever blame anybody but yourself if you confuse the two, expecting more.

Also feel free to find those gems that can bridge both.

Ah, the enlightenment of alcohol. I’ve discovered something about last night’s cocktailcoction in series, and should’ve written them down like a recipe. Till morning they embalmed me with non-stop energy, seriously like a Class A buzz, with nary a hangover to write home about (though I did wake at 1pm). Rum n coke working like Red Bull, as the new need for speed.

Highlight of my day, other than snoozing for much of it was tearing myself off the bed-bound kitten, map and food porn, and making Vietnamese spring rolls (the clear rice paper variety). Stir fry some sesame seeds, garlic, broccoli, leek and brussel sprouts with caramelised peanut and oyster sauce. Then throw in raw pea shoots, spinach, and diced carrot and onion, plus the leaves of a remaining uncooked sprout -the best thing about Vietnamese grub is the freshness, the mix of fried, caramelised and raw. Fry some chicken breast (tikka masala straight out a packet) with a dab or three of peanut sauce, and chilli. Coriander.

Dopp the lot into the rice flour pancakes (stiff as a reed, but softened for a few seconds in hot water) and smear some Thai sweet chilli like a drag queen’s lippo. Fold and roll. The last step was where I fucked up, they ended up looking more like giant fat maggots than bespoke cigarillos. But SO good, colour through the grey. There’s been blowing a storm all day, and it’s been nice to be inside and get glowsy by the box.

Gave some to J but he declined after the one, I don’t think he’s a fan of pea shoots.

It’s been great to socialise again, but I do wonder when it’ll be a norm once more to be merry indoors, in a crowd, with hugs, and not a CGI spectacular. The R rate has gone down to 1.1-1.3, which means for every 10 people infected they will on average spread it to 11 to 13 others. Although this is better news, daily infections have gone to an all-time high, at nearly 27,000 new cases yesterday. Deaths were 462 (though down from 595 the day before), and we’ve crossed the 50,000 milestone.

D, who is a civil servant (the spy variety with poison dart pens I like to think) reckons the government will be reluctant to return things back to normal once we’re done. Not back to bingeing, drunken violence, hate and sex crime, plus STD transmission that’s all associated with alcohol and is particularly high in the UK. No more clubbing, pole dancing, glassing. The last time I popped into the Two Brewers in Clapham, instead of the usual queues, lights and meat market, it was a vision of a few lonesome tables doing a pub quiz. It might as well have been the Working Mens’ Social Club back in Cockett, Swansea -glory days.

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Back in the day lights out and last orders at 11pm was a collective effort to Blackout the cities during the Blitz. It was however extended when the govt saw what wonders the effect had on society, crime and health. But then we just started binge drinking straight after work instead.

I never did get the chance to witness Infernos a few doors further, one of London’s worst rated nightclubs and legend of bouquet de air freshener, existentialism, spilled vodka and tears.

The sorry instance in Berlin of the punters sitting cross-legged on the dancefloor, socially distanced but vogueing away to the beat, may be the closest to er, coolness we get, legally, for the next year. But tbh it’s not that big a price to pay -we have to remember that, you know, saving lives is worth it and a good thing.

So bottoms up to humanity, stupid and errant and lacking perspective as we are. Go fucking fly a kite. Go dogging.

Am watching Enola Holmes, a bodice burning, apparently feminist yarn on a big adventure. Trying to hammer home the message by usurping every sexist, Victorian trope expected of a young laydee -but while fussing and pandering to it, and worrying far too much what they think. Her working out clues (pretty much scrabble) is jawdropping evidence of her intelligence, against all the feminine odds. Playing tennis indoors and breaking their own expensive shit is the gloriously anarchic two fingers to the establishment.

And much of it is devoted to her swooning still for some suitably dishy marquess-marriage-material while being Sherlock’s little-known little sister. Oh bless me ‘eart, a Marquess. A Marquess fer bleeding sake! Makes me just wet myself at the thought, of him getting ensconced on a trainy chase from working class villainry, which is how they meet. As per norm with the aristocracy.

It makes you wonder if the writer would ever have allowed the ensuing escapades and shenanigans if he was genuinely some coal-smudged barrowboy without any hope of an inheritance. It just wouldn’t have had that frisson of excitement, investment and je ne sais quoi perhaps, that endless wads of cash romantically provides. It reads like a Mills and Boon version of the Sufragette movement.

-Don’t worry though, she decides him merely a passing fad in the end, ha ha! Take that Queensbury!

Methinks she doth protest too much haunts this film throughout a derisory script and blunt screenplay, often when she breaks the fourth wall and confides with the audience like in Fleabag. But without the tongue in cheek, or humour. The film ultimately lacks layering, subtlety, or realism.

But the backdrops are very pretty and atmospheric (though the scrubbed facades and Californian skies hint at an Industrial Revolution that never happened). And actor-wise it was quite pleasing to see some national treasures finally coming out as the Brit they were never allowed to be, whom many assume to be American. Yes, don those corsets and breeches! Free yourselves, I beseech thee.

Like Tom Hardy, Idris Elba, Emily Blunt, Jamie Dornan, Gillian Anderson, Kate Beckinsale, Riz Ahmed, Charlie Hunnam, Lily Collins -the list goes on. Pretty much every star of a certain youth, who never touched JK Rowling, but made it big from playing the caricature Valley Girl, Manhattanite or Baltimore Hoodster, often opposite each other.

So once on home turf they go all plummy -that strange girl from Stranger Things (Millie Bobby Brown), Superman (Henry Cavill, who J finally conceded he’d swap a Regency book case for a night with) and the hawt contestant/ carer from Hunger Games (Sam Clafin). They each play it up to the edge of camp, enjoyably so, helped by titillating costumes and the dusky presence of Helena Bonham Carter, getting back into the period typecasting of her youth.

But now Enola’s doing Ju Jitsu. Against her mum. No, really.

Pray for them.

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Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 9

13th November 2020

I stayed up till 3:30am last night feverishly reading the last 200 pages of Donna Tartt’s The Little Friend, following the trials and Tribulation of twelve year old sleuth Harriet Cleve Dufresnes. She’s intent on finding the culprit behind her brother’s murder -a little boy found hanged from a tree. Beautifully garrulous throughout, Tartt is a former Pulitzer winner, and goes to great lengths to portray a Deep South simmering with faded elegance and painful, ongoing history in a 1960s summer of growing the fuck up.

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To say wish fulfilment is never scored is quite the understatement, one never sees those wrongs righted, those fallen by the wayside resurrected, or justice for the utter cunts that deal the hands, with a two-faced society complicit. And one never does work out who the perpetrators really are after 700 fuckery pages. But yeah, it’s all about the duplicity of a community -the gossip and intrigue, the love and humanity, the divisions and markers, interspersed with Tartt’s own hints and dead-end distractions. These are devices designed to confuse and allude (such as a large, foreign hat placed on a bed, that’s gotten the net alive with finger pointing at those described as bulbous-headed). It invites the reader to suspect characters exactly as the stricken community does, going about its shitty business in a charade of social niceties and hidden daggers that change lives.

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Thus we hypothesize and suspect, employing our in-built prejudices to outline one from another. Was it the disgruntled housekeeper? The over-charming boyfriend? The absent father? Cleverly done -Tartt has gotten us to betray our own biases in pointing the finger, the very same ones that cause such ruckus within the community. But the point is, like life, we will never really know what lies beneath every complex mask and life event. There is no certified killer -to reveal that person would undermine the point of the tale despite betraying the premise.

It very much reminds me of the futility and frustration of life, that isn’t a Hollywood re-telling. Translate our lives onto screen and they’d employ a much better looking actor, atmospheric strings (possible a lone piano) to our saddest moments with a blue filter, confetti, whooping, possibly clapping passersby at our happiest, sun-drenched piques. After finding The Meaning it will end tidily on a high note, you walking a hilly street with a view and newfound bounce, before the camera pans to a suitably epic panorama.

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Last night I dreamt about the time my uncle (not really an uncle but a family friend) was deported suddenly, my hero gone in a day. He was young, a student, handsome, sweet and visiting only every so often that I’d spend days in thrall, annoying highly no doubt with tickling and stories, and him being the first person to read one of mine. In retrospect a father figure since Dad was sick and sitting in the armchair all day. Never really thought much about it over the years except that I kept a hair of his in a small brass turtle (weird) and that I chased the taxi down the street and he put his hand on the glass (sad). All before it went fast downhill and life and grief and spots and rehab came on full blast. Saw him briefly again in Malaysia when I was 15 and we’d both changed, and ignored him for the most part out of shyness, as he chatted in the other room. Later the family lost contact, he moved to Mauritius last we heard.

In the dream I acknowledged it as one of my greatest losses, despite having far, FAR worse happen and not ever really thinking much about it since. Woke up ‘crying’ (the kind where you’ve been streaming hot tears for hours but then wake to find your eyes dry and face scrunched). It was an undeniably sad instance, but not that bad in retrospect nor memory. Perhaps a marker between more innocent times. It’s weird how the subconscious comes roaring back after so long – I mean seriously has it been playing hide and seek for 30 years? Festering in some Freudian sock drawer behind the empty trajectories of modern life, from the new realities after childhood?

Ko Liang, if you’re out there, leave a note.

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Life just isn’t tidy, paced out or packed with meaning. Nor with fulfilment, justice or orchestras. No distinct beginning, middle and end, despite plenty of annoying ad breaks. It just is, the trick is to surf it or be a fucking mermaid (though the plodding, entirely unmythical manatee might be a better, albeit unprettier role model).

Quid pro quo Clarice: did you know manatees -aka sea cows -are so chill they’ve become abnormally good at evolving? These dudes know the meaning of life. Normally stress and evolution (read: change) results in cancer, dampening the rate at which a body and bones can morph. Manatees, so large as to have no natural predators and not really into vicious infighting can now turn their heads 360. Imagine one of them adorable blubberboxes suddenly, creepily swivelling its head round to look at you.

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But then came modernity, whaling and speedboats.

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Dreams leave a stain. I’m intent though to change things today.

Talk to A more who pretty much resides with trusty laptop in the kitchen now. Take out the rubbish, buy some Udon for some Japanese carbonara thing I saw on the internet and have friends round for a round in the garden at 7. It’ll be cold and dark with a pandemic on but the beer will surely cheer.

The curtain’s opened for once and life feels too short not to change it.

dav

FIN

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 8

12th November 2020

Met a friend for a bevy today, socially distanced though not distant, parked on a bench in the swanky Coal Yards development of Kings Cross. Remember when it was the ginormous Bagleys nightclub where I’d spend many a schoolboy weekender dazed and confused, a narrow, booming warehouse of four dancefloors with a capacity of 1,000 punters each, who’d greet the sun a wasteland of marble eyes, and tongue chewing.

A lazer fantabulosa inside but grim wreck of a joint beyond -bombsite of Victorian industry, skagheads and prossies, though today it’s morphed into a civilised parade of designer outlets, mixed with overpriced food (sarnies starting at £8.50) and coffee, so much coffee. The roof dutifully lifts off halfway and meets a neighbouring canopy like two giant slugs getting it on in the low light. Now everywhere closed of course, with the restaurant kitchens glowing like lanterns in prep for the dinner delivery shift, or training attentive, be-hatted staff behind the glass. How it’s changed.

We watched the preppy locals swarm out for the school run, laughing at a seriously awkward moment when a lone 7 year old, perhaps with needs, parked her bike and sprawled herself across the bench, slowly nuzzling into a complete stranger from behind. Occasionally staring up at him. He was frozen in terror and pretending none of it was happening, while we whispered Heeeyyy Daaaadddy between ourselves. I know it was wrong, poor guy, but exquisite.

Ah, Britain, how I’ve missed you.

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But all in all we spent a good few hours over some cans of cider, and an unctuous set of kebabs, catching up, reminiscing old times, decrying the days of our lives and talking about whether we were all just sociopaths -a common worry to many but unwarranted, because if you were such a nutter you wouldn’t be worrying about it. You’d just pathologically be it. Also, if a tree falls in a forest, does it make a noise? If a sociopath doesn’t act out, and abides by our society’s rules, are they a sociopath?

I think we all can be on that spectrum, knowing full well how to lie, steal, beg, borrow, cadge and sleep our way to the top -if we need, or just plain decide to. We know how to lie convincingly, portray a mask, inveigle our way through the politics and backstab others from confided-in harbours of safety, or subtlety. We know the full gamut of hatred, jealousy and tactics in competition. We do not really applaud the success of others, but feel it as a robbing of our own corpus behind the smile. But it’s one thing to think it, possibly even feel it, and another to do it.

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And even if one does do it, it’s one thing to carry it out -then question yourself after in a private moment -another to do it without a second thought, ever. Thus the question is: if someone acts like a sociopath, regardless of the knot that is the soul -are they still a sociopath? Another more stark, easier question to ask is, do you motherfucker, enjoy destroying other’s lives? Do you find it hard to refrain when given the chance? Do you understand love?

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Anyhoo, there is a test out there, among many, and a lot of entirely normal, nice folk find they score on the spectrum even if they don’t enjoy a round of social sabotage. It appears the hangover from our predatory days (you only need to look at the behaviour of cats and why they’re bastards), when we exploited the weak or you know, chased them down to rip their throats out, still lingers in much of the population.

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Also in our social set up: trained for years through hierarchy the minute we venture a schoolyard that first time, then followed up with a lifetime of standard business practice that’s an aria to managing exploitation for a bottom line -notably, yourself. The fact by the time you’re hitting the higher Finance end those well on the spectrum are as high as 1 in 7 (rather than 1 in 200). And from personal experience, via a stint in the echelons of a City skyscraper -corridors echoing with evil and connivance, cackling over child sacrifice -I’ve definitely seen it. Where narcissism nurtured such a belief in their capabilities they’d laughably hold meetings to declare their ignorance and openly backstab those who were missing, showing the stereotype so true.

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All these millennia where we’ve staked out territories and discovered ownership has had a staining effect, imbedded down the line. Where it became duty to kill all strangers (to protect one’s own), to stamp out difference (lest it infect a new norm), to rid one’s newborns of deficiencies (lest they pass onto new generations), to maintain the hierarchy or die on the dagger, or keep up the pretence at all costs. The triumvirate of self preservation, manipulation and upkeep is what instills such people into power and their endearing values into a culture.

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We still see it in our less regulated niceties today, from media tropes to the freedom/ anonymity of the net inviting every opinion, consensus and darkness of thought. Look at the toxic rain of comments, insults and bickering on just about anything, especially before they got everyone to register names or identities. We like to think we are good people, but what will we, can we do when not even God is watching, and never will?

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This is the result of nature and nurture combined, whereby for too long the psychopathic and sycophantic in league have created many a cultural trait. Control, ambition, power, judgmentalism -rising through the ranks to instill their ways -the Trump administration is a good example of enablers lighting the way for self serving buffoons. Who get to wield out their fantasies over the cultish following they engender among the easily led and selfish -hundreds of millions strong.

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Anyhoo, we surmised we weren’t sociopaths in the end, I was way too empathic (it’s almost a problem) despite knowing full well how to be an unhinged, murderous bastard when cornered, B too much of a romantic despite putting himself first. And the fact we’re almost pathologically nice guys.

Well, we would say that if we were nutters.

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But then a fat bloke plonked himself down, exposing his builder’s arse to the extent my mate took a pic, to share with his loved ones. We surmised the man couldn’t feel the bite of the cold due to it being so furry. I also think alcohol numbs the front part of the brain, the one associated with critical thinking and empathy. Given the fact he would likely have lamped us one, or been very ahem, butt-hurt, I wonder if we would have tried to throw chips into it otherwise. I like to think I wouldn’t want to hurt the unfortunate fella’s feelings, but then I am writing about him to all and sundry on a public forum.

But man, you shoulda seen it, like pumpkins in a sack.

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So, right then.

Now, honest to god, I don’t know whether I should mention the more sobering note hereon. To sign off with? To break the narrative -or add to it?

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Anyhoo, fun and games aside, lovely day we’re having and all that, the shadows lengthen, reminding us of a monolith that can’t be ignored, not really. Time to go in again.

I’ll sign off, yeah – ignore the rest. I mean, who really cares any more?

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year Day 2.0 Day 7

11th November 2020

The Beast of Lockdown

Hello. I am here to moan.

  1. Three day headache has now progressed into migraine.
  2. The drugs don’t work, they just make things worse. Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown.
  3. I am still in bed.
  4. Have spent most of the day updating the website, about three hours work.
  5. The house is trying to work out who’s turn it is to clean via walls of silence, and it’s becoming Game of Thrones, with mops. I’d literally just fucking do it myself but that would entail another round of secreted politicking not in my name.
  6. Body clock is up the spout – sleeping at 1am, waking at 5, sleeping again at 7, awake again by 9. And repeat.
  7. I have bags under my eyes, skin looks crap. Positively ageing in the mirror.
  8. It’s cold, all the time. They need to invent heated socks. J likes things at a toasty 15C or he’ll melt apparently.
  9. Had a weird dream, in which I was my sister/ mother and burying their brother/ son, the former me. Which was a pile of my clothes. I think in the world of magical Freudianism it’s some premonition I’ll lose my job.
  10. Another weird dream in which a nasty as fuck woman drowned my sister and I tried to drown her in revenge. So much rage.
  11. Cannot find Bad Moon, B-movie of the day to watch anywhere on the net, that I promised myself as a treat.
  12. I’m barely talking to anyone in the household, and the one person who does want to talk I’m monosyllabic and unwarrantedly pissed off with all the time, for no good reason. Watching the box in silence while he occasionally man-screams (sneezing/ laughing/ surprise), which is something to get used to, bless him.
  13. I’m not reading any more.
  14. The Great Orange Dolphin plugging the White House won’t give up his post, and is blitzing every institution he can take down before he submits.
  15. There’s a pandemic on.

So, Bad Moon. An escape.

There’s something to be said about ‘exoticism’. When hearing the word, it tends to bring up visions of the tropics, non-Western, ahistoric. Think a jungle tribe, beaches, waterfalls, orchids, bright colours and clinking beads. Possibly an emerald encrusted totem with dancing girls on a pyramid worshipping a volcano.

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Yet there is only so much you can get from the one viewpoint so far afield. Being constantly an outsider in my own country, there is a modicum of detachment one can employ, wherein you look at the world around with new eyes. I’m not gonna say the bleak carparks of Asda or the typeface of the platform read suddenly take on a Westeros aspect, but one can look at the cold northern climes as just as exotic. Think spires of snow-clad conifers, mountain vistas, furs, fires, cabins and medievalism. The blanched, angular features of the Sami tribe, firelit, over legends of the great forest. Just ignore the beer cans.

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But yes, werewolves. That’s pretty much what I woulda got from that. Lovely. Fuck Santa.

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The Great European Forest was an Amazon-sized blanketing of thick woodland that once covered the continent -in the UK it was as high as 97% of our land, now dwindled into nothing. Only 17% of new growth has returned in patches (and mostly in regimented, monocultured rows with little biodiversity), that make us one of the least wooded non desert /ice countries in the world -even Greece and Spain double our count, and only Ireland is less.

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This great blanket was a forest of the mind as well as body. It was dangerous. The last remnants of it lie on the Polish-Belarus border, notably the Białowieża National Park, that demands a guide at all times. Here, it is -unlike most wooded cover across the continent -unmanaged by man. The trees stand perilously close, liable to fall and break limbs off at any time, creating a humid, strangely warm atmosphere. It’s haunted by outcasts both human and animal: hunters, loners, bison, lynx, bear, boar, wolverine …and wolves.

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Now wild wolves have only ever documented one human kill in modern times -that of a female jogger, mauled to death and partially eaten in 2010 Alaska. Other deaths were due to rabies, and another incurred through liver damage when an unfortunate was pushed to the ground. But back before the 1920s they were blamed for thousands of deaths, in France up to a hundred were killed a year, and India up to 700 annually in the 19th Century.

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This was a forest that gave rise to much of the European psyche for centuries to come. Don’t stray from the path. Don’t go out at night. Don’t be curious, don’t be fooled. And don’t talk to strangers (maybe try and kill them, as per your duty to the community).

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Along with this mindset came the legends and tales, notably collected by Hans Christian Anderson and the Grimm Brothers in their respective Mitteleuropean locales -think adversely dark chapters like Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, the Snow Queen (our sanitised retelling being Frozen), the Three Little Pigs -each entailing familial betrayal, shadowy monsters and gruesome death.

This I find utterly enthralling. And exotic.

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Werewolf legends in Europe appear to have sprung up sometime in the 1400s, and may have been a reaction of Christianisation repackaging older pagan myths into tales of woe, savagery and evil. Echoing the mass persecution of witchhunts, that took out 100,000 lives at a time when women began to demand more equality, the curse of the werewolf outlined outcasts and loners as ones to watch, alongside blame for genuine serial killers. It’s said the insanity caused by a fungal infection of wheat and rye -Ergot, stemming from cool, wet springtimes -can be blamed for some of the documented instances of lycanthropy. Causing the sufferer to hallucinate persecution: from ‘dark and horrible beasts’ to feelings of one’s body not being their own. The sensation of burning, aka St Anthony’s Fire, with tingling limbs and extremities leading to the idea of a shapeshifting form.

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Other explanations throw in the intensely sweet, black cherries of the nightshade/ belladonna plant that resulted in similar poisoning, plus the usual gamut of rabies and schizophrenia. Not to mention the seasonal hormone changes a full moon emanates (plus a light for psychopaths to hunt by). It’s said murder rates rise on a full moon, A&E wards get overrun, and that arson doubles in New York.

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Anyhoo, back to un-reality. Many myths in England correlated with the accounts of those caught and tried as Werewolves. That they were wandering the woods when the king of the forest, or the Green Man (aka the Devil through Christian lenses) gave them an ointment, their soul in exchange for everlasting life. When rubbed onto skin it sprouted thick hair and feelings of magnificence, invincibility, and bloodlust. To this day the old pagan god of the Green Man/ Herne the Hunter lives on in one of the most popular pub names across the country.

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Although by 1670, when lycanthropy had finally been relegated as a ‘disease of the brain’, there still remained instances of predation by spectacular, wolf-like monsters. Most infamously, the Beast of Gévaudan killing dozens of men, women and children in a 50 mile vicinity between 1764-67, where many witnesses described a wolf-dog hybrid. A 1987 study estimated there were 210 attacks, resulting in 113 deaths and 49 injuries; with 98 of the victims partly eaten.

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The first attack was reported in 1764 when Marie Jeanne Vallet was tending cattle in the forest of Mercoire. She saw the beast come at her but the bulls charged, keeping it at bay. They then drove it off after it attacked a second time. Shortly afterwards the first official victim of the beast was recorded: 14-year-old Janne Boulet killed near the village of Les Hubacs.

Throughout the remainder of 1764, more attacks were reported across the region, noting that the Beast seemed only to target the victim’s head or neck.

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By late December 1764, rumours began circulating there might be a pair behind the killings. This was because there had been such a high number of attacks in such a short space of time, and many appeared almost simultaneously. Some accounts suggested the creature was seen with another such animal, while others that the beast was accompanied by its young.

When it finally came to the attention of the king, bounty hunters were employed to hunt the local wolves. It took till September 1765 for François Antoine to shoot one measuring 80 cm (31 in) high, 1.7 m (5 ft 7 in) long and weighing 60 kg (130 lb). The animal was identified as the culprit by survivors who recognised the scars on its body inflicted by victims defending themselves. The wolf was stuffed and sent to Versailles.

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Antoine stayed in the Auvergne woods to chase down the partner of the beast and her two grown pups. He succeeded in killing the female and a pup, which seemed already larger than its mother. At the examination of the pup, it appeared to have a double set of dewclaws, a hereditary malformation found in the local Bas-Rouge or Beauceron dog breed.

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However, on December 2nd, two boys were attacked suggesting that the beast was still alive. It tried to capture the 6 year old, but was fought off by the 12 year old. Soon after, successful attacks followed and some of the shepherds witnessed that this time, or this beast, showed no fear around cattle at all.

The killing of the creature that eventually marked the end of the attacks is credited to local hunter Jean Chastel, who shot it at the slopes of la Sogne d’Auvers on June 19, 1767. He used a home made bullet combined with silver, which is where we get the legend from. The post-mortem report showed the belly contained the remains of its last victim.

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In 2013 an Animal Planet documentary concluded it was probably a long haired hyena, based on illustrations of its bones and the accounts of it being able to eat through bone (hyenas have the strongest bites among terrestial predators), bred to kill by a disgruntled owner.

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Other theories suggest Chastel the culprit, if not a liar after the prize money. Or a wolf-dog hybrid made larger by the phenomenon of dysplasia, when genomic imprinting from both parents creates abnormal cell growth (hence why lion-tiger hybrids, or ligers, are the biggest cats in the world). Also that these were just isolated incidents by several animals, possibly the same pack that switched merely to hunting humans. It ends of course on a question mark, but inspiring legends for centuries after.

And thus here, now, un-embodied and morphing into the wilds of history I lose myself in detail and myth. It is a welcome respite.

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I think I’m going to settle for Silver Bullet with Corey Haim in one of the most Eighties style films out there. Based on Stephen King’s novella/ graphic novel, Cycle of the Werewolf, which scared me silly as a kid. Even if it is set firmly in a modern world, a bombastic pop culture offering, it still has that added dimension of everything the cold forest can instill, into atavistic waters.

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The original book has intensely creepy imagery, that draws everything on that, even into a modern East Coast setting.

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All thanks to Bernie Wrightson, master illustrator of the macabre. Literally just bought his Frankenstein tome to cheer myself up, that accompanies Mary Shelley’s masterpiece.

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Mary Shelley’s mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, aka the ‘Mother of feminism’ finally received a statue today. Born in London in 1759, the author and radical promoted equality of her gender, and wrote The Vindication of the Rights of Woman. -But whose career was cut short: she died in childbirth.

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Her daughter, aged 15 was spied by celebrated poet and enfant terrible, Percy Bysshe Shelley, praying at her mother’s grave, whom he immediately fell swooningly for. Abandoning his own pregnant wife (who would go on to drown herself) he took his new lover to the shores of Lake Geneva, where locked down by bad weather they held a competition for scariest horror story. At the age of sixteen she then jawdropped the establishment with her tale of the undead, a corpse cobbled from stolen parts and executed criminals, and murderously innocent to the horrors of the coming world: science, society, modernity.

I will save this for another dark day.

The statue however. A decade in the making and at a cost of £143,000

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It’s come under fire for the need of a naked body, depicting the activist in flagrante amidst 90% of the other statues in the city, male and almost always clothed. She’s also laughingly tiny, atop a silver, undulating form meant to inspire the movement of female bodies beneath. Rather than inspiring the struggle it is unintentionally a reminder, that plays into the rules of the established order it seems.

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Anyhoo, enough about forests, werewolves and social justice. And thanks for listening -I’m trying to say rabbit holes can save us. That there’s more to it out there than the usual navel-gazing perspective all the time, which only ever throws up a darkened existence in the world.

Getting a life, just with wolves involved. Onward.

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 6

10th November 2020

Yesterday I found out I’d lost a highly lucrative stint that two agencies had approached about, to be in a Braun ad for the Asian market -Taiwan and Japan. £33K -more smackeroonies than I’ve ever known -evaporating instantly, and a rehash of my plans on throwing money over the bed and laughing manically, before putting a deposit on a sun-dappled life.

It didn’t help I can’t grow enough stubble on the jaw and have an ugly, gurning smile; should never have sent that last photo. Not that I was ever realistically in the running -but all those clean cut plans, and catalogues flipped through, felt heavily pissed on. I then showered, shaved (finally), washed the hair and dolled myself up, all to go shopping in Lidl. Trundling through the aisles feeling frail and old but all bespoke, and willing to fuck for affirmation. Ended up blowing £60 -six-ty pouunds! including a three fish bake (£6) and a vintage six-pack of cider. Which is breaking a rule I’ve adhered to for the past few decades: never drink at home or alone, ever since I was necking two bottles of Vermouth daily (the greatest alcohol to £ ratio) in front of the box, to feel invincible to life and the Teletubbies.

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But I’ll save it for going out, planning to meet a mate in some muddy pocket of London to drown my sorrows, despite we live in opposite ends of the capital. Saw a B-movie about a cop battling alcoholism and er, a werewolf somewhere in the American midwest. Which was a spirited sojourn into shouty catastrophism over crumbling structure and rather reminded me of being back at Werk. The Wolf of Snow Hollow is a subtle comedy valiantly acted, despite a low budget, slightly off screenplay, and the death of Robert Forster mid way. Director, writer and starring protagonist Jim Cummings of Thunder Road fame (much feted in Sundance and Cannes in 2016) reprises the role of a disintegrating cop who proves he’s not just a pretty pin-up. Albeit almost too pretty, like a fashion model fighting off a rather big alsatian for an edgy shoot. He’s probably had to battle this his whole life, to the point of fuck it, imma just do this myself, to the tune of the tiniest violin.

I mean c’mawn just look at that.

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Cummings does go to lengths to portray the individualism of society -a tad too luridly in how every oar is ethusiastically thrust in, and how that really fucks up investigations, or anything resembling project management. It is of course to be taken tongue in cheek and provides much needed humour to a cold Rockies backdrop, but everyone throughout is so ludicrously self serving, finger pointing, angry, gossipy, needy yet obnoxious it takes a toll on those who endure it in real life. No longer artistic hyperbole -it is what’s wrong with the world. But it does have its moments, from corrupt cops trying to give sorry presents to insulting member’s wives at the lovey-dovey AA meeting. At some point, life administered, our Mounties man mentions things were better at Abu Ghraib.

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Acting out comes thick and fast, from his randy, escapologist teen daughter to spitting, accusatory mourners to mind-numbingly thick townsfolk intent on a witchhunt, it all adds up to sex cop’s ongoing meltdown. I am now a fan of this guy, notably his outlook on society which we could share many, many intimate vodkas over, possibly at a lakehouse. I’d positively go wibbly if ever we went for the same bottle in the supermarket and our fingers you know, accidentally brushed. Or he came and stalked me round the mysterious dells of Clapham Junction and the NHM SHOP LONDON SWIE 6SQ ENGLAND 0800 696969 and I’d pretend not to like it.

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So, there isn’t a great deal of scares, though the one that did make me genuinely jump came from a thrown beercan. This film isn’t meant to be a horror, which comes as a side, but I’ve found in general I’m pretty much immune nowabouts to getting fear off a screen. Horrors these days are far too formulaic, riddled with cheesy jump scares of fluttering birds or people brushing past to the sound of giant screeching strings. And monsters that don’t really act like monsters (unrealistic: slowing down when cornering prey, crap at chases, always getting up again), hounding victims so stupidly frail it’s frustrating (she who runs falls, is investigative of fear while calling loudly, gets lost within seconds in the woods -usually via a leaf litter slide, only ever hits the thing once when it’s down).

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I’m no longer scared by women and children with white face paint, large eyeballs/ mouths, complex skin conditions or bad hair days. Furry man-suits, rubber faces, pointy ears and dribbling teeth. Sex party costumes. People who are transparent, or clad in steampunk. I’m genuinely more frightened when watching fat people on youtube jumping for rope, or teens having a laugh with wheels. At least you know what happens is going to play out the way it immovably will, in real time, in real circumstances and reactions, that strikes it closer to home. Real pain right there.

The horror

The horror

Outside it is of course such a disaster we’re living in. When they made the 2011 film Contagion the ultimatum was to create something as true to life as possible, rather than take the tried and tested alternative of going all big guns blazing with deadly little monkeys, as in 1995’s Outbreak. In which er, Dustin Hoffman tried it out as an action hero, with fellowised midgets. Maybe that’s why the monkey was so dinky.

Come on, Hollywood.

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Contagion instead tracked the spread of the invisible virus (rather than use a cute capuchin stand-in to materialise the end of mankind), killed off its protagonist A-listers randomly as any virus would, and portrayed its heroes as entirely normal folk without burnished six-packs willing to give their lives -and all to a backdrop of society barely keeping it together. And so it has come to pass. Motherflipping has it indeed.

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News of a relevant vaccine and that everything will be back to normal by Spring is keeping us waiting in bated, slightly laboured breath, and starting to rattle the cage already at who gets it first. Unemployment has hit 5%, which is actually much better than expected, though its hardest hitting to the young, already lumped with a zero contract future before all this. Domestic violence is again at crisis levels and kids apparently are forgetting how to use knife and fork, as relayed by the BBC in desultory, tutting tones (okay in reality it’s about kids reverting back to nappies and no longer bothering to read since school’s been out for so long).

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Keeping our head up, above water, above stooping for the last beer or stooping when we don’t get it is the battle scene that’s really playing. Just getting on with it, and trying to exact a slobbery, slothenly form of happiness behind the drawn curtains is work enough. Who gives a shit if kids eat out of packets in front of the telly, it’s not actually causing harm, unless it is all crisps and corn you terrible deserve-to-be-downtrodden parent you!

My shining saviour will come in the form of a proper B-movie methinks, while stuffing nachos in my face (can give up on the diet now, which can fuck right off back to celeriac hell). According to the Top 13 werewolf movies, I should check out Bad Moon (1996). “Half Man. Half Wolf. Total Terror.” Can’t flipping wait.

Time to live again, renewed.

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Oh, and Jim, if you’re out there, call me.

Yesterday

Tomorrow

A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 5

9th November 2020

It’s 2pm and I’m still in bed. The vagaries of lockdown life is that I opened the curtain for once and noticed how very grey it all is, and how very yellow the tree outside has become, positively autumnal. A also made us French onion soup ooooh-la-la! Though I didn’t hear when he called it and the bowl ended up cold (crusty sourdough with melted cheese n everything) till 10pm. He’s on another soup drive, ever since a friend advised him to celebrate what and where he is, rather than harking for a sun-dappled Mediterranean lifestyle all the time, that makes him jet to Barcelona or his native Greece to sit al fresco, then pine for more once back here.

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The trick in life is to make the most of what you got. They say there’s no such word in Mandarin as ‘disadvantage’, the closest in meaning being ‘opportunity’.

So now hopefully it’ll all be a celebration of warm fires, snuggly blankets and a good read before Sunday roasts, though all of that is hard to come by tbh. A rarely ventures into the living room, our fireplace is purely decorative (it’s a Sixties tower block fer Chrissakes) and wedged shut with a TV, it is indeed freezing but no day blankets to be found (duvets only) and him being a vegetarian means roast is off the menu. Reading is through a scroll. So instead we have soup, in the kitchen, with a view over the carpark.

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The man was injured after being hit by a car outside the Tesco store on Olive Bank Road, Musselburgh.

I will steadfastly avoid the news that will likely suck me up for 3 hours straight (nasty bug doing the rounds I hear, and someone won an election). Instead will attempt to venture outside to do some foraging later that’ll be the highlight of the day, and my existence. I will study the aisles of canned goods as if I’m front row at Balenciaga, push my trolley like I’m doing the Promenade des Anglais, bleep my purchases like cross-fit on Venice Beach.

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Such is life right now. Checked out the latest big budget animated offering from Dreamworks (and Oscar winning director Glen Keane) on Netflix, Over the Moon, which was meant to go out in the cinemas surely. BEWARE SPOILERS

The moon gazing bunny is awful cute, and that lil glowing pangolin fella too, you wanna squeeze to death right there -he really doesn’t feature enough once she gets off the planet and into the realm of the bright and adorable. For the cartoon is divided into two halves, one very earthbound, sciencey and a little morose, involving family tragedy, growing out of childhood tales, and not-so-wicked stepmoms, with all the psychological fallout attached.

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And the other half is a contrast, that they mostly hid in the trailer. What bursts onto stage are psychedelic otherworlds not just in look and feel, but storyline. From bouncy planets, spaceship frogs, hare wizards, and interstellar music vids to the fact many tropes hark back to our protagonists mind, her thoughts and fears. The little pangolin dude even points it out at some stage though the film never overtly admits it. -Which does make one strongly suspect the little girl’s going through a psychotic break, possibly in a coma from trying to fly a tin can off the surface of the Earth, or the onset of schizophrenia. Or you know, she’s dead and it’s the afterlife.

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The storyline, like Frozen, does seem to randomly zap around like a flourescent bean (to go with the talking mooncakes): saying hello to a semi-villainous Moon goddess living it up as the ultimate influencer, having a Mad Max battle with what suspiciously look like the Angry Birds, a half brother whose raison d’etre is er, running into things (and how that conveys his love of his new sister), and said pangolin banished for a thousand years into the dark for singing a lonesome song (but that’s suddenly alright at the end and they hug). The random streak of light that ribbons about, breaking shit in half is also quite the device whenever needed, though it has no grounding in anything sciencey, folk taley or cultural ever. It just is, and there to exact threat whenever needed, eg mid-chase, or eating up important valuables.

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It’s all based on the legend of Chang’E the Moon Goddess (that now lends her name to China’s exploratory rockets), trapped there with her pet rabbit, yearning over a lost love who’ll one day rescue her. We may have the Man on the Moon in the West, they have the Rabbit on the Moon in the East.

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Unlike the last live action Mulan and its much derided litany of cultural errors written in by a slew of White folk in Disney, Dreamworks didn’t repeat the same mistake, by hiring Chinese writers and producers throughout (as after all, it is a co-production between Netflix and the Chinese arm of Dreamworks, Pearl Studio). Thus there is indeed a semblance of accuracy to the backdrops on home ground -not a wide-brimmed hat or toy factory in sight -and her cutesy traditional watertown is even accurately portrayed as the tourist sight it invariably would be. The family selling pastries to the passersby, the High Speed Rail link being constructed outside, the mix of old and thoroughly modern (and money-making). Even an employ of the hanfu trend in the tourists, which allows them to historicise the surroundings even more.

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Once off terra firma though and pretty much all of that goes out the window, though the sinic shapes, patterns and colours do give a passing nod, and the dresses the Goddess wears were designed by Guo Pei zhooshing up historically accurate clothing into pop princess format. A drag queen’s dream. The ultimate battle, played out as a lurid ping pong tournament is a bit much though, culturally heavy handed and cringingly portrayed as sport of the gods.

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The film ticks off every bracket in the Disney formula to make a bestseller. Yes there is that One Song (maybe two) they will try and plug for years as a money-making belter for every pre-teen ever, like Frozen and Moana. There is that storyline that will try to make you cry, (when you realise who certain characters really are) like Up and Toy Story. There is that picture-perfect utterly unrealistic setting like every animated village ever, and there is that deleriously cute and affable sidekick that steals the show, like Mu-Shu and Sid. -But overall it does pull it off, by dint of all the cultural nods and Easter Eggs. Kids will love it, discerning adults may be a bit confused but warm to it. You will by the end wonder whether hares and rabbits can reproduce together.

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Anyhoo, off to the great outdoors again. It’s been a good five days, it might as well be a moon mission indeed, involving putting whole clothes on and a shave.

I have a strange new diet it seems, manifested through the current body clock. I fall asleep by 1am, from the glow of the laptop (living room’s too cold to stay for more than one film). And I’m never hungry in the mornings, and since finding out that the ‘most important meal of the day’ was made up by the cereal pluggers, I tend to skip it entirely. I will only eat when I’m hungry and if there’s nothing worth munching I just won’t do it (like every fucker’s ever said, what’s the point in filling the hole when you’re not enjoying it).

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But then by 11am, after three hours of scrolling or writing I tend to fall asleep again. Awake again by 2pm and it feels like morning once more – no longer hungry -and I’m still at it till well into afternoon. Till finally I start to feel the rumble, weighed up enough to get wincingly out of bed into Arctic air. Then I stuff my fucking face. Snacks, teatime, then two dinners in series, of whatever I wanna. I’m strangely losing weight, worryingly so. I think it’s a version of the 5:2 where you starve yourself for 20% of the week and gobble the rest, I’m just doing it daily. It’s a mix of that plus the French Lady’s Diet, which is the idea you only eat haute/ nouvelle cuisine of the highest taste and expense, and savour it all so slowly you feel full and can’t afford anymore anyway.

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My entrée at the mo wants to be chocolate brownies but I’m gonna have to go out for, into scudding weather. This new diet I’ll dub the Lazy Fucker Way. -Aware of getting my sensitive cultural idioms right here, Zen is pretty much boredom and cold right?

But you know what? Fuck Diets, that’s what it’s gonna say at the end of my bestselling cookbook and guru guide to living. No one’s got time for that, life too short. And if we have too much on our plates right now, might as well eat it.

The Chinese also have another saying to get through life. Wise man say: hánxiào yǐn pīshuāng -to swallow the bitterness/ arsenic, with a smile.

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A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 4

8th November 2020

It has come to pass. At 4.30pm yesterday CNN finally announced it would ‘project’ the winner of the US presidential race as Joe Robinette Biden Jnr, 46th President of the United States. Other networks followed shortly after, and Fox News finally caved last. Biden himself found out from his grandkids. It was his third attempt at the office, each try marred by personal tragedy such as the deaths of his wife and son -but it paid through in the end: at the age of 77 he’s the oldest US president yet, and the most popular with the highest amount of votes ever tallied, in his name.

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WELL DONE AMERICA. Thank Fuck. Thank Pizza God. And well done Vice President Kamala Harris too, the highest office a woman has ever held in the country, and a person of colour on top (her father Jamaican and mother Indian). Beau, Doug Emhoff, will be America’s first Second Husband and the first Jewish person in that role. She becomes officially the most powerful woman in US history, though others point out the power behind the throne was often the wife, such as Eleanor Roosevelt and rumoured Hillary Clinton (back when her husband was busy adjusting uniform standards with his protein stains). CNN quipped that the Republicans and their channels will have to learn, ultimately, how to pronounce her name -‘Kommla’ not ‘Kamarla’.

Finally democracy can rehabilitate its own good name after four years in the wilderness, the bit where it went round shitting on everyone and starting fires.

The streets of every major US city celebrated, with CNN’s announcement igniting spontaneous rounds of applause, whooping (what else, where else), car honking and pan banging across the nation. A carnival atmosphere attempted social distancing (face masks, personal bubbles) but soon gave way to crowds marching and dancing in unison while waving banners, state and rainbow flags, the latter increasingly a symbol not just of LGBTQIA support but social diversity and unity.

The new Civil War has not come to pass, though counter protests also took hold, but rather muted given the majority of supporters were either too busy distancing themselves from the loser, watching in dazed silence at the news, or drinking themselves into clifftop oblivion. Trump was busy on a round of lone golf, having thrown in his Belgian lace hanky at the final hour, though he did find time later to continue the claim he’d been the true winner, and been robbed.

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One can imagine The Great Orange Dolphin, swaddled now in silk comforters, a spherical mound beneath the bedcovers but for that cold glow of the phone light, watched by guards as Melania furtively, ecstatically packs her things, whispering febrile Slovene in the dark -the remaining staffers crumpled, heads in hands outside the door. Kayleigh McEnany, mascara dribbling, chain-smoking, calling faintly through the keyhole.

Her view is of a slashed painting of George Washington, golf club imbedded, lording over scattered copies of The Art of the Deal and DVDs of The Apprentice Season 3. Every curtain closed throughout the wing in utter silence, but for one torn and hanging by a thread, the other leading into the huge bundle of Versace bedding. A globe that opens out into a display for alcoholic beverages and discarded Big Macs burns surreally in the corner that no one is bothered or high ranking enough to put out.

And far, far away a loon calls into the night.

Trump looks unlikely to give up from cold dead hands, given that if he ever gets past first stage, he’ll be looking at a beckoning spell in prison, from his incalculable tax-dodging alone. Orange is the new black.

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This is a turning point, a page to be flipped after so much domestic and geopolitical damage. A return to support for the Paris Accord that aims to stem greenhouse gases, to NATO and WHO, battling right now the worst crises since WWII. To a nation riven by racial, religious, generational, political and class divides, between the haves and have-nots, the 1 percenters and The Rest, the urban and rural, the north and South, east and west, natives and non-natives, Black and White and all in between. Diversity is strength in numbers, in duality and pluralism, not diremption trammeled into so many lines through political chicanery for the pathologically selfish and threatened. To climb the ladder then burn it behind you should never become cultural creed.

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Okay, enough soapboxing, we’ll have much more of that in the next few days. The transition period is a whopping ten weeks, and inauguration in January by all counts. For the time being lets hope everyone settles down, puts away their hunting rifles and camo, and concentrate on the task at hand -not just political change but the giant viral cloud threatening the world in the greater scope of things.

Yes, that.

So, MINKS.

Cute little fuckers. Minks apparently are a new biohazard, spreading a fancy mutation that’ll be harder to vaccinate against. Outbreaks earlier in Spain and now Denmark have seen all their captive populations culled by the millions, and a global populace now wobbling about whether a zombie apocalypse might actually manifest, as we all secretly know it’s bound to happen one day (though the WHO did respond in saying it was entirely normal and expected to have differing zoonotic strains).

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It remains to be seen whether our farming and hunting practices require a sea change, increasingly seen in the last new human viruses and global pandemics -SARS, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, MERS, HIV, and Ebola. Due to the size of the human population now, 7.8 billion and counting, we should maybe all just go veggie -the risk is rising alongside every year we grow so exponentially, at 200,000 extra babies each day. The mountains more of meat we will need to feed those lives adds ever more risk -throughout history every time Man gets jiggy with Nature we correlate with a new round of infectious, incurable disease. Such as Bubonic Plague or Smallpox or Spanish Flu (that actually originated in a Kansas farmstead), coming from rats and livestock when we began farming then mass-farming, then industrial farming.

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But then:

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But then

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But then

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Ah, the dichotomy of individualism. We know we shouldn’t do it, we know it even kills other souls without mercy, yet we do it (sorry about that). Democracy or benevolent dictatorship? Anarchy or Facism? Shame culture or guilt culture? I decide, or we decide?

Our world is built on hierarchy, a form we like to think is about efficiency. We just haven’t worked out how the mad scramble to the top is meant to impose order, that the fact no matter where we are in that jungle we will always be in competition, between the winners and losers, and invariably the vast majority will always think themselves the latter. That life will not stop and take a breath (or at least a laboured final few, possibly via an ICU) unless that Hell Is Other People In Competition ever lets up.

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Okay, like I said. I step down from the soapbox, and will myself rummage through the fridge, pausing then nibbling on pieces of packaged death, like any member of a guilt culture is wont to do. Because I’m worth it.

Anyhoo, for what it’s worth, nice one Mr Biden. You big baby squash your facey baby you x. I may now light a candle, and sway in the spirit of collective beatification. So please now, heal the world.

Make it a better place.

For you and for me and the en-tire human race. There are… people dying, if you care enough for the living, make a better place for you and for me.

Save it for our children ye-ah!

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A Journal of the Plague Year 2.0 Day 3

7th November 2020

So back in 2007 four year old Madeleine McCann disappeared while on holiday with her family, likely abducted or dead. At first a small story it soon ballooned to headline news when the first tentative algorithms of the media world started noticing how much clickbait the horror show was providing. At some point the Daily Express realised it was shifting multiple more copies when it plastered her face on its front page, and to make an easy buck they then devoted a following 82 headlines to her unfortunate demise, regardless of the toll it was having on her family, including pointing the finger at them.

The tabloid circus, rubbing elbows with The Sun, Daily Mail and Daily Mirror in a frenzy of photographers, camera-men, well-wishers, trolls, PI’s, PR reps and pushy reporters generally kept up the ante in ever more lurid, sensationalist declarations throughout every leaked/ invented step of the investigation.

Child Goes Missing While On Holiday

Missing Portugal Girl: Evidence Uncovered

Missing Portugal Girl: Suspect Implicated

Madeleine McCann: Portuguese Man Questioned

Madeleine McCann: Suspect Released

Madeleine McCann: The Dog

Madeleine McCann: Car Evidence

Madeleine McCann: Car Evidence and Sniffer Dog Totombo

Madeleine McCann: Totombo Has Mysteriously Disappeared

Madeleine McCann: POLICE ABOUT TO MAKE STATEMENT

Madeleine McCann: KILLER TO BE REVEALED

Madeleine McCann: THE NET CLOSES IN

Madeleine McCann: MOTHER QUESTIONED

Madeleine McCann: PORTUGEEZER FINGERED

Madeleine McCann: WE FIND OUT TOMORROW

Madeleine McCann: WE KNOW WHODUNNIT

MADELEINE MCCANN: LIVE COVERAGE TO START

MADELEINE MCCANN: THE BIG REVEAL WITHIN HOURS

MADELEINE MCCANN: LOOK WE’RE JUST GONNA CALL IT

MADDY MCCANN: LOOK AT THAT – POLICE CLOSING IN

MADDY MCCANN: POLICE CLOSE IN ON PORTUGEEZER

MADDY: WE’RE GONNA REVEAL THE PORTUGEEZER

MADDY: TOTOMBO FOUND

MADS: TOTOMBO’S STORY: REVEALED!

MAD MAD MADSTERS: LIVE COVERAGE TO COME OF POLICE CLOSING IN ON PORTUGEEZER WITH HELICOPTERS AND EVERYTHING AND TOTOMBO SITTING IN FRONT AND IF WE DON’T REVEAL WHO IT IS WE’LL ALL KILL OURSELVES TOMORROW

Erm. BIG TITS BELLA REALITY TV STAR SPOTTED SHOPPING

MADELEINE MCCANN: LITTLE GIRL GOES MISSING ON HOLIDAY

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The paper was later sued by the McCann family for £4million.

Talk about blood from a stone. Well. To segue this slightly unsavoury analogy to today, this is what the mf US election result feels like. It’s Day 5 and counting still, literally. It’s hard to work out why it takes a day to add up 85% of a 140 million strong ballot but 2 days to do the last few percent, even if it’s mail-in and military abroad. On Thursday Nevada’s last county was so slow to the uptake, perhaps through diminishing energy of volunteers, that all staff went home when they found out they were missing a sharpie or something. The local governor went to bed and turned her phone off. You can imagine the 13,000 voice messages the next day from terse officials, Men In Black, internet crazies and local yokels.

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The sheriff apparently left one: ‘Look this here Right Honourable Thelma Louise Stacey, we gonna git a Civil War on our hands if y’all don’t pick the fuck up! Woman ah said you gotta git! Git!‘ He said that, really, by God of journalistic integrity, maybe.

Almost all front pages of major news sites across the world now feature a sliding scale of red and blue, moving inexorably to a midpoint at which first to it wins. It is very, very much like the Grand National, but with trillions at stake, 393 million civilian-held guns and the world’s very best snails to run the course. CNN’s headlines have morphed from one imminent declaration of a win to another for about three days now, as once the very last of Pennsylvania (notably the city of Philadelphia) gets counted it’s an impossibility for the opposition to take the crown.

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The headlines marched on unabated:

Biden Gaining In Pennsylvania

Biden Takes the Lead in Pennslyvania

^I saw this one just after Biden was declared the winner on November 5th by Decision Desk HQ, a data service used by many of the agencies for election data, that tallied up Pennsylvania was won. However the next day there’d been no such declaration in any major sources:

Biden Closing In On Victory

Biden Edges Toward Victory

Biden Nears Victory

Then finally, late at night CNN changed it to:

The World Waits

As if it too was finally getting tired of the shitshow Great Show. ^Just before beddy-byes, yet woke up this morning 8 hours later and still:

Biden Near Victory But Counts Continue

Well sometime today anyhoo. Though they have been calling it for 3 days now and nary a soul has had pattern recognition enough to not stop watching. It has helpfully been punctuated with events, such as the bomb scare, zombie attack and militia arrested heading toward the Philadelphia counting stations, not to mention the protests and celebrations round the country. Twitter is astorm with recrimination, meltdown and public spats, notably from POTUS himself and his followers, some paddling frantically away from the floundering monolith, others shoring up that even if he does lose there’s always the media empire he’ll command from his safe Floridian base of Mar-a-Lago.

On that note, I once subtly re-edited the Mar-a-Lago wikipedia page on his golf palace to imply he was unnaturally obsessed with dolphins, in every room (flock wallpaper, statues of them spinning, hologram paintings). I got a very terse reply back when they corrected it.

Miami-Dade county is where many Latinos (notably Cubans who once fled the Castro regime) surprisingly came out in force to clamour for his support, regardless of his Mexico Wall and public labelling of them as criminals and rapists. The kind who consider themselves the right side of White and the Democrats as dangerously Communist. They tend to be pulled to the front at any media event, so as not to reveal how racist the party really is (the token Black people are rumoured to be hired stand-ins). Note fella in bottom corner, who may or may not be looking at them as paid impostors, working out how to push them off the stands, or admiring that purdy light fixture behind:

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This it’s said had always been the plan, as hinted at in Bob Woodward’s 2018 exposé Fear: Trump In The White House. -For him to become the next Rupert Murdoch, asquat a huge Fox-like network of right wing media. He was never meant to win the Presidency, but retire safely without the need to you know, be the leader of the Free World and all that, but heckle from the sides and rake in the billions in support. The network in question being the One America News Network (OANN) that peddles batshit conspiracy theories and with him at the helm, and his army of cultists, may make Fox News look like Mother Theresa’s pamphlet on saving foreign kids.

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All this while in Australia former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd is back on the ball. He has recently attained 500,000 signatures to investigate by Royal Enquiry the vast power and octopus-like reaches of the Murdoch Empire, that so dominates the country’s (and the world’s) media. It is the largest petition signed in the country’s history.

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It’s also really quite entertaining. Even Greta Thunberg, climate change activist and Nobel Peace Prize nominee had something to say, served best cold in waiting a year to reply to the time the Leader of the Free World publicly bullied a 16 year old autistic schoolgirl, drawing her a slew of death threats.

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And Trump’s official spritual advisor, Paula White, appears to be offering another act via a public meltdown in which she raps, speaks in tongues, stakes invisible snakes and calls upon the angels doing the good work in Africa and South America. Seriously watch it W T Fucking F??

Ah Pollyticks. So much to say, so much to exploit, so much to enjoy in this gift that keeps on giving.

In more important news I’ve realised I have a ‘quarantine haircut’. Google it and the usual disasters, mostly involving men, trimmers (or lack of) and the current trend of high fades erupt onto screen. Do please forget about the world and enjoy a light glass of vintage Schadenfreude 2020, before we all you know, fucking self immolate:

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I suspect I now look like that little evil fella in James Bond. He was called Nick Nack btw.

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Oh yes, and there’s a pandemic on. Business as normal and all that. On with the show, yet again.

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