Sunday, 9 May 2021

Spain calling. Everyone's favourite defector here. Well, things have calmed down since the hate mail accusing me of disrespecting the Queen has stopped. You know, all that stuff about Prince Phillip what was it a month ago? I feel enough time has passed to continue the story. Where were we? Oh yes, that time in the line up. The Duchess Theatre, Covent Garden. Or was it the Drury Lane? Cats was still on... Anyway, the bit I'm getting at is I was there waiting to get shot or knighted. One of the two. Prince Phillip was there, remember. I asked, ''what do you do?'' and he said, ''what do I do? I'm a Prince''. So I said, and you can believe me or not, ''we know what you are, your Royal Highness, but what do you do?'' There was a silence. He looked to the left, eyes staring at the carpet as if to wait instructions and I heard someone say 'move on'', or it might even have been, ''move him on''. God knows where this voice came from, maybe his ear piece ( would that be possible?) or maybe I am just ultra sensitive to these things. He started to move along the line but I can assure you he did it reluctantly. It was if he wanted to come back and resume the conversation. There was a point when he smiled and wagged his finger in my direction. Not in a threatening way. I almost expected him to say, ''lunch tomorrow. Cheeky mare... 2 o'clock. Rules Restaurant''. 


Across the road from us is a substantial piece of land that used to house the old military barracks and pharmacy. It could have been converted and rented to artists, clothes designers or anyone who needed a workshop but that would have been a great idea so instead the council pulled the whole lot down to make space for flats that in someone's head someone else might build one day. It's been a plot for several years and has become a haven for butterflies and insects and there is always a feeding frenzy above our heads in summer with the swallows, swifts and bee eaters tucking in. Throughout the year you can see the changing of the seasons as the trees come to life and die back again in winter. The downside has to be the summer when the sun is beaming away right on our front window for about twelve hours in an attempt to recreate Lord knows what but is the equivalent of sticking your head in the oven while it is on. Meanwhile every few years there will be an article in the local rag about how the authorities have permitted so and so to come and have a look, do some tests and what not. You think that at last they will build some flats and get on with things in your lifetime but end up no longer holding your breath. After some time I began to hope they would never build the flats as there must be an argument for leaving some urban areas to help with pollination and so on. Well, the other day someone from one of the far left parties put up some posters demanding the flats be built with lots of explanation marks. "Good for them!" I thought, but with some reservation as the realisation that the last thing I need is for building works to contribute to the endless noise we have here. Then the next day someone put up some sort of long, makeshift poster across the side of the aluminium wall put up around the plot. On it they had written, "Enough of your promises already Mr Soro!!!"  My immediate thoughts were, ''What the hell has any of this got to do with George Soros? They can't even spell his name correctly. Feckin' far left. Didn't take them long to blame the Jews. Always trying to shoehorn something unrelated just to scapegoat. Just as bad as the far right. Shitehawks the lot of them". All week I have had to walk past it, bit by bit tearing strips off, literally and metaphorically speaking, as I go along. Mr van de Ven had to talk me out of going down late at night before the curfew to scrawl, "learn to feckin spell ya shitehawking c#nts", in both languages. "Don't bother" he said. " These people are not worth it. Remember what your dad used to say? ''Don't get involved!" Good job I didn't, as it isn't George Soros they are complaining about at all, but a Mr Soro, The Minister of Structure, Territory, Mobility and Housing although part of me thinks I should have done. Anything to add to the present day madness. This is the minister when talking about the promised construction, asserted that everything was, "ready to begin this year" and in the next breath acknowledged that the work, ''could start next year''. That's the trouble with this country. People say opposing things in the same breath all the time. I used to think they were doing it to wind me up but they are prepared to do it to one another all the time. It's a kind of paradox. There is always some kind of unacceptable conclusion. And that ladies and gentlemen is why I live here. I fit right in!

Friday, 7 May 2021

Well that was fun. Just woke from a dream that a bunch of us heard a guy announce in Jimmy Cagney tones, ''look out for the sky rocket!'', and there it was. Just a dot in the sky. The Chinese piece of space shit falling to earth. Nothing to get excited about but we all watched as it then came in closer at speed. Suddenly no longer falling but careering out of control. In the background I could hear people laughing thinking it looked funny up there veering from left to right. All I could think about was, ''oh well, this is it I guess. Glad I never paid back that student loan''. The End.

Sunday, 11 April 2021

The BBC just called. Asking me, begging me, for some anecdote, however lame, just to fill the suspension of news. I thought long and hard and then it came to me. How could I have forgotten! It was a while back. In the theatre. We were all asked to line up. I thought we were going to be shot. Then I see him coming down the line. A familiar face. He got to me and before he had a chance I said, ' so Phillip, what do you do?'
Bloke on TV tellin the interviewer that Prince Phillip was not really racist, that he was always pushing you, testing you and so on. He said the prince was, for him, a great ''sparring partner'' and once asked, ''you believe don't you?'' Bloke says he replied, ''of course I do you daft cracker, I'm the Archbishop of York!''
Racist, xenophobic tabloid press write for decades about racist, xenophobic Prince Phillip, then when he dies tells everyone, 'you didn't really know him'.
The Times wrote that Boris, 'the cock', Johnson was 'pining', not for the fjords but for Chequers, 'his spiritual home'. So charming to think of him up there fiddling while Northern Ireland burns.