A land frozen out, people left in isolation and plotting to kill their neighbours for food and shelter, planning to burn all our books (except the Bible) and homosexuals for heat. Hoarding canned goods and wondering how long until it will be acceptable to form roving death gangs.
No I’m not talking about Brexit Britain, I’m talking about the cold snap we’re currently enduring in NI. Of course right now you’re probably thinking ‘A land frozen out… sure they’ve always been frozen forty years in the past over there.’
To that I would say, 'ha, up yours'. We actually have at least FOUR different time zones over here, duh: 1970’s, 1916’s, 1690’s and the dystopian future era of a DUP dominated Stormont that allows us to film Game of Thrones because they didn’t read the books in time to realise that there was a witch in it. And lots and lots of sex. Although the Bible is full of begetting so maybe they’re dead on with that sort of thing.
I’d predict however that as the DUP continues to cosy up to the Tories that it is only a matter of time until the Malleus Maleficarum is introduced to the curriculum in place of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, ‘science’ will be renamed ‘heretic studies’, and PE will be replaced with bonfire building. Letters in Irish to your gran in the Gaeltacht will first have to be coded through an Enigma machine to fool the purity monitors lest the Ministry of Thought drag you off to a nondescript concrete building on Rathlin Island to find out what you really meant by “I hope granda’s piles are better”. Meanwhile business studies will be irrelevant as you won’t need that kind of education to work in the dozen or so companies that bought the economy during the Brexit uncertainty. University placements will be determined by where your skin tone falls on UKIP sponsored colour cards.
That’s as political I’m getting as I haven’t been on Twitter in a few hours so I’m missing the latest reactions to the Irish Border Question as addressed by the EU draft Brexit document published today. I could probably guess: the Tories have no real solution that they can propose, the DUP are doing all the talking in the media, Jeremy Corbyn is trying to work out what he’s going to be accused of doing next, and the Liberal Democrats are sticking pins into a Nick Clegg voodoo doll.
Getting back to the cold snap Twitter has proved to be invaluable as receiving a reply from adult actress Nicole Aniston has effectively turned my bedroom into some kind of masturbation-powered reactor. Quantum particles have been popping into existence around my bedsheets so often that the Large Hadron Collider is now essentially an oversize Scalextric set that could be packed away into the Swiss secret mountain chamber with all the gold that mysteriously appeared in 1945.
Remember when they thought that the LHC would create a black hole that could swallow the Earth? Those were good times, and we basically decided we’d just turn it on for the craic. Then Dan Brown decided that he was going to educate everyone about anti-matter and threaten to destroy the Vatican. I’m not mocking… well, not really mocking. I’d rate Angels & Demons the second best of his books (Digital Fortress is my number one), I just felt he wasn’t giving people enough credit on the subject of anti-matter.
But then what would I know about what people really know about these concepts? Whilst my classmates were getting their first awkward fumbles in supermarket car parks I was at home watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and fantasising about an awkward fumble with Counsellor Troi. Probably why I sported a Commander Riker beard for two years.
Of course by now the call has went out to stock up on tea and biscuits as Barra Best wraps himself in a white sheet and stands atop BBC Broadcasting House chanting 'Hi ho hi ho, BBC weather yo' abuse at RTE across the road. He accepts that he's not impressive, hairy, or Australian enough to be Thor but Saruman is pretty badass too. And every man secretly wants to be as metal as Christopher Lee. I won't be making any other jokes about the white sheet because I’m giving American politics a rest.
Well, this post took a bit of a rambling journey, guess that’s me earning the name of the website. I’m off now to watch the survivalist documentary ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ so I’ll know what to do with my neighbours if the heat goes out.
A bit of exposition first about this post: I have a colleague in the creative industry (I am in it, shut up) who had a slightly creepy experience this weekend. She's a single mother, hard working, putting herself through Uni whilst maintaining her family and career, and is exactly what you'd picture if I was to say 'Irish beauty'... no, not the tracksuit, cigarettes and large bottle of cider along the Lagan towpath kind, that's only around a very specific part of Belfast.
So anyway, on Sunday morning a neighbour to whom she has never spoken landed drunk at her door at 4:30am hoping to make a call, because that's what ladies love, awakened from bed by a drunk guy who doesn't even know your name. Eventually after pissing off he came back at 5am to ask if she would like him if he was sober. God does love a trier.
After being my usual helpful self on Facebook (read that as 'not at all') I was inspired to write a poem in his honour:
I am in a boat lost far out at sea,
Surrounded by water yet there is none for me.
The sun rising on another dawn,
The fever of the night has not yet gone.
I need something to taste,
From this thirst to be set free,
And awake my soul from this melancholy dream.
Over there on yonder shore,
Is it a trick, mirage or something more?
Some fool of the light or maybe the brain,
A promise that I might be fulfilled again.
Streams of fire, sands so pale,
and cool waters pure for my thirst to sate,
To find this land could be nothing but fate.
Crashing on rocks and thrown asunder,
A hidden reef and waves booming thunder,
This haven of passion is not as expected,
my ardor, my thirst to be somehow rejected.
Yet maybe still the fates have conspired,
For hope there is in the waters below,
The fingers of the mermaid beckon me so.
Reaching out for that warm embrace,
I find myself now in another place,
A desert, alone, a shore with no name,
having lost my way to a growing shame.
Not merely for my journey
for I realise this land it belongs to me,
I have passed out at home, in a puddle of wee.
I did promise some dick jokes in my last post and this guy was being a pure dick, I like to be a man of my word.
I love you, I really do. Most of the coolest stuff comes from you, you have that endearing 'can do' attitude, and you really do try to always do the right thing even if it doesn't work out that way for the rest of the world.
And you, you've had your tits done and your teeth done, your hair has seen more chemicals than a BP oil spill and you've had so much laser eye surgery I'm afraid that you could melt me like Superman. And you've done that all because you think that's what it will take for me to love you back.
You don't need to do that, America, that's nothing but self-harm in another form. Just be the homely, straight talking country girl who could melt the hearts of us stodgy European cynics with our 'could do' attitude and history of making our problems everyone else's.
I want to help you break this cycle of self-harm that you're locked into, and I think we should start with maybe getting your toys under control. Now don't be getting upset thinking that I want to take your toys away, I don't want to do that. I like guns, I have two myself.
All I'd like to suggest is maybe a single page questionnaire before someone can get licensed; it only needs to have a couple of questions like 'Do you have a manifesto?', or 'do the words "kill the bitch" have a warm place in your heart?'.
I know that's easy for me to say, I live in that peaceful little backwater called Northern Ireland. We only had about 30 years and change of terrorism/conflict that more or less ended a decade ago. With that lack of commitment on our part what could I possibly know about the need to own an assault rifle in case Russia decides to invade through somewhere other than the White House?
There are a wealth of statistics freely available online proving that violent crime outside of actual war zones has been decreasing globally over the last 20 years despite the best efforts of the gun lobby. I'd post the facts myself but unfortunately I think that I had those files stored on the same server as Hilary's emails.
There, I picked on both sides, now we can maybe sit down and talk about how controlling guns just means a slight inconvenience for the majority in order to keep firearms out of the hands of the lunatic fringe? I'll even let you pick the coffee shop, so long as it isn't near a book store in Dallas.
Don't think that I'm some cheeky upstart lecturing you, it's not exactly like we have our shit together in Northern Ireland. We've got the largest party in the country who are so anti-gay that they wouldn't watch Star Trek because a fencing foil isn't the only sword that Sulu has had in his hand. And the second largest party are brought to us by the manufacturers of mercury tilt switches.
I hope that this little note hasn't damaged our friendship, America, I just don't like to see the one that I love hurt. But if things are going to go on the way that they are could you let the rest of us know if there is a 'safe word', just so that we know you are working on the global equivalent of a Red Room?
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That was a bit of a more serious post, but then I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do with this blog yet, though I'm expecting my first bit of hate-mail shortly. I like trying to make people laugh though, or smirk at the very least so I promise the next post will have a few dick jokes. Not about my own though, that would just make people sad.
Views expressed may not be representative of reality.