Monday 3rd October 2022

October already. It’s supposed to be the season of mellow fruitfulness, but here in Blighty it’s more about escalating energy bills and rocketing food prices. You need a fucking mortgage to buy a tin of Heinz soup. We’re being ripped off blind by profiteering scum.

To make matters worse, we have Titanic Truss at the helm, a woman so evil that Satan issued a disclaimer denying any kind of pact with her. She’s been PM for less than a month and is well on her way to totally sinking the country. I can’t stand the cow. She's worse than Boris and that's saying something. Even Shane dislikes her politics. For the first time ever he actually switched off the TV when she was being interviewed on a Sunday morning politics programme. He said she has nothing to say that deserves listening to. He called her an arrogant and clueless ideologue. At least her and her sidekick, the odious Kwarteng, have been forced to acknowledge the tax cut bender they recently went on was a fucking disaster for the country. Him and Trussy have egg on their faces and I hope it sticks to the stinkers.

Enough politics, cos I know fuck all about it anyway. I have rabid opinions. Thank God I’m not in charge of the country.

As if life isn’t horrible enough, I got roped (emotionally blackmailed) into attending a dance event yesterday afternoon. Eileen’s nephew and his missus have numerous offspring and one of them, Janey, has an attachment to me. She’s eleven and she’s into dancing. She’s started competing, which entails travelling to far-flung scruffy venues in unlikely locations to prance in front of judges and be ranked. She begged me to attend her latest performance. She was doing her first ballet solo and she wanted me to see her dance.

Couldn’t I just watch her at Eileen’s house?

No. She wanted me to see her on stage, in her new peacock tutu and tiara and glittery make up. She begged, tearfully, please, please, please! I was doomed.  

It was sheer bloody hell. The venue was packed to the rafters with heavily made up little girls in sparkly costumes generally running amok. Their mother’s were utterly terrifying in their competitiveness, and in their determination to video their darlings on stage. It was like sequinned combat. I had to sit for four hours on a hard plastic chair, watching children of all ages dance to pre-recorded music. Some of them were crap - more like lumberjacks than dancers. You still had to clap, if you wanted to get out alive.

To be fair, Janey’s ballet solo was sweet, once she got going. At first she just stood there like a mesmerised rabbit and had to be encouraged to dance. She was ranked third in her category. Coming third out of three didn’t seem to upset her. I think she just enjoyed getting to wear a lovely costume. To be honest (and don’t tell the men folk or they’ll take the piss out of me) I was rather taken not just with her tutu, but some of the others. It was a tutu comp almost as much as a dance one. You could hear the mothers bragging about how much they had spent on the lavish sparkling creations. They cost a FORTUNE. Most of the kids will never make it as professional dancers. In the end all they’ll have are memories and bankrupt parents.

By the time it was over, I had a headache induced by the thunder of tap shoes on floorboards. I was glad to be homeward bound. Sinking into Eileen’s car, I gave a sigh of relief and said NEVER again! I’d rather go to war. She just looked at me and started laughing.

Well, time is moving on, so I’ll stop chuntering and move my arse. I have things to attend to. Ciao for now.


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