Tuesday 26th May 2020

Dear Diary,

Long time no see. I hope everyone is safe and well. I feel as if decades have passed since last I penned this way. Like most people on the planet I’m suffering stress and anxiety as the Coronavirus Crisis grinds on. I feel as if I went to sleep one night and woke up as a character in a badly plotted, unfinished, dystopian apocalyptic novel. There have been so many changes to daily life. It’s mad. Getting used to being incarcerated full time with the men folk hasn’t been easy for so very many reasons. It’s been like a nightmarish glimpse of their retirement. In fact when it comes to it I might have to get a job outside the house just to lessen the chances of bludgeoning them to death in their sleep. I can’t wait for lockdown to end completely, if only so I can join the stampeding hoards heading to the hair salons. Mind you, I feel guilty even joking about that. So many people have died, and are still dying. Having messy locks is nothing in comparison. Sadly, this isn’t really going to be over even when its over if you know what I mean. We’ll all have to be careful for months to come. It’s scary.

Anyroad, I haven’t just dropped in to complain. Sorry, but I’m on the cadge for cash I’m afraid. Yola has upped its package prices yet again and to be frank I’m not selling enough to cover the higher costs. I decided to have a little fundraiser by releasing a stand-alone chapter 'Daddy Valenswines' - here's what I say in the Forward:

While working on Revs it became clear if I included every little thing that happened over the time period then the book would never get finished and if it did it would challenge Marcel Proust’s ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ to a gobshite contest and win.

I decided some stuff warranted elaboration and some required only passing mention - like Valentine’s Day 2009 for example. At the time I gave a rough account of the event under the heading ‘My Darling Daddy Valenswines.’ Rather than just leave it on the cutting room floor, so to speak, I thought I’d present it as a stand-alone.

I also have an ulterior motif for regurgitating it - cold hard cash.

Yola has upped the cost of its packages yet again. At the moment I’m not selling enough to cover these higher costs, hence this money grabber, or fundraiser if you prefer.

The site has to earn its own keep or I end up in deficit, which essentially equates to paying folk to read my junk and that’s kind of sad and loserish. I’m not asking a lot, less than the cost of a Starbucks latte. Hopefully it will garner enough to keep me online a tad longer, or at least until I finish Revs.

For those interested the link is below. I thank you.

Wednesday 27th May 2020

I’ve already shifted a few copies of the ‘fundraiser’ chapter. Thank you so much to all who have bought a copy. It’s appreciated.

I’ve had offers from long-standing and kind-hearted fans to help out by purchasing multiple copies. Thank you from the heart of my bottom, you are very sweet, but please, please, don’t feel obliged to do that. One copy will suffice.

If what I write sells enough to cover the cost of putting it out there then I’m okay with that. It validates my fantasy/delusion of being a bonafide author.

Besides, you need to save your cash for when Revs is released, as I will be charging 500 quid a copy in respect of how many years of my life it’s taking to write the fucking thing, and all the blood sweat and tears shed along the way. (Just kidding by the way.)

Take care, fluff bunnies, stay safe, wash those hands and do an Alan by bleaching the shit out of every surface at home. (But don't do a Trump by drinking bleach for God's sake.) Let’s hope successful treatment for the evil Covid 19 comes along soon.

Friday 29th May 2020

Lockdown will officially ease in England from June 1st. Things will start a slow return to normality. Some are predicting its too soon, a case of wealth over health, and will bring about a second wave. Time will tell.

Bumbling BOJO and his Tory cronies haven’t exactly put in a stellar performance when it comes to management of the crisis. From testing to PPE to carnage in care homes and mixed public messages, they’ve been a fucking disaster.

Latest fuck up is a furore about Bo’s mind controller (aka adviser) the sinister Dominic Cummings. (A guy who looks like a creepy super villain from a graphic novel.) Apparently him and his missus have never really been in lockdown like the rest of us, not even when they developed symptoms of the virus. They decided to hop in their car and drive several hundred miles from London to his pa’s farm in Co Durham because they needed a baby sitter. What did it matter if they spread the virus to the local yokels! Mr Cumm also claimed he had to make the car journey to test if his eyesight was working properly - begging the question, should you be driving a car if you think your sight is dodgy due to a potentially lethal virus? Talk about a Mad Max moment.

Calls for Cummings to resign have been ignored. He also refuses to apologise. The press are having a field day about one rule for the elite and another for the plebs. We shouldn’t be surprised. Hypocrisy is part of the Tory creed. When this is over, the entire Tory cabinet should be nominated for Covid Cunt awards.

I’m looking forward to having a proper talk with Eileen closer up, instead of standing two meters away as if I’m a leper. I want to give her a hug and sit down at her table enjoying coffee, cake and chat.

I’m also looking forward to getting shot of Father fucking Brown. In case you’re wondering, Father Brown isn’t some visiting cleric who got shut in with us when lockdown happened. Father Brown is the title of a TV show. One of the things driving me nuts about the men folk being home is daytime telly. Dick, Mr Goggle Box, has been the worst offender. He tuned into an episode of Father Brown one afternoon while lounging on the couch claiming to be on a tea break. For some bizarre reason he became hooked, maybe because some of the characters remind him of his relatives. The prog is set in the fifties in an English village where the poor folk know their place and the posh folk rule. Father Brown is a sleuthing Catholic cleric who solves murders with the aid of his parish secretary, Mrs McCarthy, as well as local countess Lady Felicia, and Sid, her chauffeur. It’s all jolly hockey sticks and high tea.

Since watching that one random episode of FB, Dick has made it his business to hunt out and watch every episode from series one through to series eight. To make matters worse, Shane jumped on board somewhere around series three when he took a breather from working and wandered into the lounge where Dick was glued to an episode involving a cursed Egyptian mummy. Sitting down next to Dick he asked what he was watching and in next to no time was on his way to being a fellow FB addict. Being a stickler for protocol he refused to watch the series out of synch and insisted going back to series one, episode one. Dick didn’t complain. I did, but no one listened. I accused them of turning into couch potato devotees of box set telly, but they told me to be quiet because they were trying to watch Father Brown. Escapism I suppose.

I can’t wait to have dominion over my territory once again. I long for an immaculate lounge and a silent TV set. Having both of them work from home has meant a ton more work AT home for me. Roll on normality, I say, but with caution.  I shall do what our glorious PM suggested and ‘Stay Alert’ though what a ‘lert’ is has never properly been explained, thus making it harder to stay one. I shall do my best.


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