I noticed some footage of Mrs Thatcher on the television on Friday shot during her ‘glory’ days when she sold off all our national assets, destroyed trade unions, fired on retreating ships and completely and utterly fucked up my education by making so many cuts I wound up being taught the wrong syllabus in three separate subjects in a freezing warehouse by actual criminals and perverts. I kid you not, the deputy headmaster of my school went down for burglary and the PE teacher went to prison for, well, fiddling with nippers.
Senile dementia is a funny old thing. Like cancer, the common cold, the shits, it is a random assassin, similarly, the severity and the effect it has on its targets is entirely undirected –some people become benignly childlike and gently confused, others became immensely distressed and scream at cups of tea for hours on end before having a 24 carat fit and attacking anything with a face.
In 2002 Thatcher became patron of the Alzheimer’s Research Trust primarily because she’s riddled with it (self serving old fucker anyone?). What I’d like to know is why aren’t we privy to 24 hour rolling footage of her going about her daily business as we were in her heyday? I feel we’re being denied our rights as subjects to her wilfulness when she was prime minister. It only seems fair that all the individuals, and their families and friends of those that suffered at the hands of this dreadful crone, should be allowed to see her pissing herself in an armchair, for example, or walking about with handfuls of her own excretion (or someone else’s, I’m not fussy) or just crying herself to sleep because she’s forgotten where she left her Golly.
My weekend was quiet, it contained all the right elements of what constitutes ‘a weekend’, drinks with friends, shopping trips for food, lots of cooking and what have you, but made unique because of the killer bike ride I had yesterday. The Black Bitch is like a new machine after its service, this has been mentioned before but I’d not had a chance to properly test it on A roads. Yesterday I did, I even managed to frighten myself testing lean angles on my new stickier-than-Bostik tyres and blasting away from junctions with such ferocity I though my bollocks were going to burst. By the time I arrived at my folks I was physically shaking with my IQ reduced to Peter and Jane, it felt sublime. As I parked up my dad came running from the house, ‘quick!’ he said, ‘the World Superbikes have just started…’ I rolled back my head in ecstasy, he may as well have informed me that Sarah Beaney was lying prone upstairs all a-froth insisting I sate her lascivious libido prior to going down to the pub for a month.
The first race of the season heralds the dawn of spring and, for me, the New Year. Dad and I watched reverently as young men put themselves in abject danger for the sake of victory and for our viewing pleasure, you come off one of these a bit wonky and you’re not going to break your leg a little bit like a footballer might, your head can come off. After a few minor tweaks to my machine, with dad’s help, I rode home feeling alive and victorious, almost as if I’d conquered the winter single handedly.
When I got home, as I was preparing supper, Myfwt popped downstairs to get something from the car when she bumped into Cunt. Apparently he began to apologise profusely for his selfish and unreasonable behaviour with regards to making a fucking racket by gitishlessly twanking his strungs and crakeing like an amplified Scrub Bird. He wasn’t pissed, he wasn’t in the grip of some psychotic episode… Myfwt said it was genuine enough… I’m not buying it for a second.
Is it Metal Monday already?
Classic post-Ozzy Sabbath… turn it up