Tuesday 12th December 2023

Here we are in December. It hasn’t been the best of years. There’s nowt but gloom and misery wherever you look. You need a shot of Valium just to build up the nerve to listen to the news. Wars, economic disasters, personal tragedies and climate change dominate, and that’s the good news.

Oh FFS, Gilli, I hear you cry! This is going to be an irrational semi-coherent doomsday rant, isn’t it? Yes, so either fasten yourself in, or run screaming for the exits.

I’m just saying. It’s like Armageddon is upon us. Evil is in the ascendancy. Extremists of one kind and another are causing societal divisions, and turning us against one another. I wear blinkers when I go out these days, for fear of offending someone just by looking at them. I have cards printed with a range of apologies, ready to hand out by way of appeasing people I’ve inadvertently insulted by parting my hair on the wrong side.

On the home front, we don’t have a Government here in the UK, or even pretence of one. The Twat Party (Tories) are too busy backstabbing each other to bother with anything as mundane as governing the country. Not that there’s much left to govern.  The bastards have brought Britain to its knees. The NHS is in ruins, schools and hospitals are literally crumbling away, kids are going hungry while wealthy MP’s feast on subsidised food and drink, and our rivers are full of human shit because the water companies serve only their shareholders. God forbid they spend money on updating Victorian sewers. Looking forward to getting a few cheery Christmas cards in the post? Forget it! Royal Mail can’t be arsed to deliver envelope items because there isn’t enough profit in it. Letters and cards are chucked in a corner and forgotten about.  Like so much else, RM should never have been privatised.

Fucking Tories. They’re hanging onto power, determined to abuse it for as long as they possibly can, so they can continue to fill the already bulging pockets of their super rich sponsors. According to the Twat Party, the poor and homeless are only poor and homeless because they’ve chosen to be so from sheer indolence. Bollocks! I can’t wait for a General Election to be called. Shane will have to put me on a choke chain to stop me savaging any Tory canvasser that knocks at our door. I don’t have much faith in any of the alternatives either. The country is utterly fucked.

Talking of climate, the weather in my portion of Old Blighty has been awful this year. We’ve barely clapped eyes on the sun. It’s been nowt but cloud and rain for months, so much fucking rain. The ground is saturated. I need a snorkel just to put the bins out. The world’s entire yearly quota of rain has fallen over our region. If only there was a way of redistributing it to needy drought areas, without some greedy corporation making an obscene profit from it. That’s the trouble with the world. Corporate greed. Fucking vampires, sucking the lifeblood from everyone.

There’s nowt on the telly to distract. A million frigging channels and subscription services and there’s sod all worth watching, or maybe I’m just not in the mood to be entertained. If you haven’t already noticed, everything is getting on my tits at the moment.

Well, there’s always Christmas to look forward to, Gilli, I hear you say. 

Christmas? Bah Humbug, I say!

Friday 22nd December 2023

Dear Diary,

I barely have time to scratch my arse at the moment, but I thought sod it, I’m having a break, so here am I, with a mug of coffee and a mince pie, typing away. I did think about delivering a Christmas message, like the King, but to be honest there’d be nowt uplifting about it. Hopes for peace on earth and goodwill to all have never seemed so far away. Yep, I’m still a miserable, bad-tempered bastard with fuck all Christmas spirit. Shane is on my case. He’s away at the moment, and I’m under strict instructions to straighten my face before he gets back tomorrow. My hissy-spitty mood hasn’t gone unnoticed in the quasi mansion.

Is there no good news, Gilli, I hear you say?   Well, I suppose a little bit. Shane actually jemmied open his bank account and paid for the central heating to be fixed, but only after Leo sarcastically offered to lend him the money if he was hard up. He also said that keeping your subs in sub-zero temperatures was above and beyond requisite sadism and bordered on plain cruelty. See, Leo does have his uses. The tenner Dick and me slipped him was well worth it. (Not really.)  I suppose it’s good to be warm at will again.

And that’s it for the good news really. We’re hosting Christmas this year, which would be fair enough if it didn’t involve Shane’s sister coming our way on Christmas Eve. To say I’m dreading it would be an understatement. Then we’re travelling down south to spend New Year with Dick’s (mad) family.

Dick is insisting on taking me out for dinner this evening, in a desperate bid to cheer me up, before he succumbs to an urge to stick me in a box with a ‘do not open’ notice slapped on it. He’s booked a table at my favourite Italian eatery. I suppose it’ll be a break from me having to cook and wash up. I’ll be doing plenty of that over the coming days. We’re also hosting a party tomorrow night, and I’ve got loads to do for that.

I’d better get on. I’m sure I’ll rake up some festive cheer from somewhere, if only to prevent Shane’s hand lighting a Yule fire on my arse. I’ll slap on some Christmas music to power me through my chores. Bawling out a few festive songs is a good way to get in the mood.

I wish you all a Merry Christmas, and hope the holiday is as happy as you can make it in whatever circumstances you find yourselves. Xx


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