Friday 7th June 2019


Dear Diary,

We are living in dark days. Bad people seem to dominate the political landscape worldwide. Hard won rights seem under threat. Homophobia is on the rise again. Intolerance is commonplace with people at each other’s throats for the slightest reason. The elite are revealing more than ever their contempt for those who have little or nothing and their desire to annihilate them one way or another. It’s a threatening world and it’s disturbing me to the point of depression.

Oh come on, Gilli, get a fucking grip, I hear you say. Things aren’t that bad. Surely you can find something to be upbeat about? No, actually I can’t. From Trump masquerading as a President on our shores and the Tories masquerading as human beings, things are pretty shit in the UK. Take note, Trump: our precious NHS is not for sale, so fuck off! I’m just hoping that miserable Melania finds the courage to strangle her sinister spouse with one of those broad belts she likes to wear. I also hope that the slew of scum currently battling it out to be leader of the Twat Party slaughter each other in bloody gladiatorial style combat. When and if a victor emerges then I hope Larry, the Downing Street cat, turns into a ferocious lion and rips off their frigging head. As for Farage, that dangerous bag of toxin, I hope a milkshake laced with nitro-glycerine hits him full in his smug mug. A few less self-serving cun*s can only be a good thing for the world.

To make matters worse nothing in my garden is beautiful. Everything is under attack from vast armies of green and black fly. My honeysuckles have been decimated. There are just ugly bug-encrusted stumps where sweet scented blooms should be. I’m convinced this plague of insidious insects is a manifestation of Tory evil and a warning that unless we do something, all that is decent and good will wither away and never ending winter will be upon us.  It might already be too late. After all, it is June and according to the song, June should be busting out all over, and she isn’t. The only thing busting out in Blighty is bugs and chilly rain.  

By the way, if my remarks about presidents and politicians have offended anyone then let me say - TOUGH! I don’t care. See, even this usually sweet natured and reasonable houseboy is not immune to the nasty negativity sweeping the world. We’re all doomed I tell you!

Anyway, I’ll say ta-ra for now. I just wanted to pop in and cheer you all up.




Wednesday 12th June 2019

Good day, sweet readers, tis I, the houseboy, popping in for a brief chunter. Fear not, this isn’t going to turn into another maniacal rant, even though it’s still pissing down and cold as hell in my portion of Old Blighty. Mind you, it has to be said, I do love a good rant from time to time. It clears the sinuses if nowt else. Shane and Dick have adapted to my rants over time by growing earflaps that automatically drop down and seal their lugs when I start one of my tirades. The earflaps are backed up by palm power, as in the power to swipe their palms across my backside if I don’t calm down and put the brakes on my gob.

Thank you kindly to all who sent birthday greetings. Yes, I’m a year older and maybe a wee bit wiser, not always, but sometimes.

It never ceases to amaze me how many people from so many corners of the globe actually read my scribblings. I’m very nearly quasi-famous, a legend in my own tea break. One recent email (from a very nice Russian girl) made me smile as it mentioned a certain Italian cafe in Florence, a cafe named ‘Gilli.’ It’s not the first time someone has mentioned this establishment. It’s kind of surreal to think that more than one ‘fan’ has visited that particular cafe and spared a thought for me as they enjoyed coffee and cake. I do like all things Italian, apart from the Vatican of course, the headquarters of homophobia. Apparently, the aforementioned cafe produces little cakes inscribed with Gilli in chocolate letters. I like imagining the Pope popping into the cafe from time to time. I get a kick from picturing him munching on a cake inscribed with the name of a homosexual houseboy. Let’s face it he wouldn’t be the first Catholic dignitary to enjoy a homosexual treat, not that any own up to it of course.

Well, peeps, that's enough inane chat. I’m heading off. It’s time to start dinner preps, and also time to turn off the heating before Shane gets home and demands to know why the heating is blasting away on a summer’s day. He goes by the calendar not the temperature. Honestly, we could be knee deep in snow and he’d still resist turning the thermostat up - ‘it’s June, it’s fucking June, you don’t need heating in June! If you’re cold, put a jumper on.’


 

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