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Like everyone else in my generation, I have no idea where I was when I heard the news that Edward Kennedy had died. I can't even remember what town I was in.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
OPEN LETTER TO THE PEASANTS OF HONDURAS
Dear Peasants,
I don’t want to give you compassion fatigue or anything, but try to see it from my point of view.
I haul my weary carcass out of bed each day before I am rested, and get on a train with the other lame-os. Most days there are signal failures. I don’t know where they buy their signals, or why they can’t get some that work, but there you go. Some days the driver stays in bed with a bad back. No doubt you have such trains in Honduras.
Sooner or later the train will show up, if I stand there long enough, and I’ll waste the rest of the day in some stinking office up a tower, surrounded by oafs, scrotes, scrubbers, louts, buffoons, toadies, tossers, illiterates and football fans.
Mine is a pig’s life.
At lunch I sit in the shopping precinct and eat my sandwiches, washed down with five or six tins of cider. And as I eat my sandwiches and drink my cider, I open The Guardian, and see that there has been another military coup in Honduras. Or perhaps it’s the same coup as the one a couple of months ago. It is hard to keep track. Someone must know.
Either way, there doesn’t seem to be much that I can do about it, since Honduras is more than 100 miles away, and my influence there is limited. But reading about it has depressed me even more, and I was already as miserable as hell. The train, the office, the shopping precinct, Honduras… wherever one looks, this world is just a vale of tears.
Then I go back to the office, lock myself in the stationary cupboard and sob for twenty minutes, about Honduras and about my life.
I would be happy to donate £10 for the oppressed peasants of the Andes, or wherever it is, but I’m not going to read about it anymore.
I got my own troubles, Honduras.
Good luck!
I don’t want to give you compassion fatigue or anything, but try to see it from my point of view.
I haul my weary carcass out of bed each day before I am rested, and get on a train with the other lame-os. Most days there are signal failures. I don’t know where they buy their signals, or why they can’t get some that work, but there you go. Some days the driver stays in bed with a bad back. No doubt you have such trains in Honduras.
Sooner or later the train will show up, if I stand there long enough, and I’ll waste the rest of the day in some stinking office up a tower, surrounded by oafs, scrotes, scrubbers, louts, buffoons, toadies, tossers, illiterates and football fans.
Mine is a pig’s life.
At lunch I sit in the shopping precinct and eat my sandwiches, washed down with five or six tins of cider. And as I eat my sandwiches and drink my cider, I open The Guardian, and see that there has been another military coup in Honduras. Or perhaps it’s the same coup as the one a couple of months ago. It is hard to keep track. Someone must know.
Either way, there doesn’t seem to be much that I can do about it, since Honduras is more than 100 miles away, and my influence there is limited. But reading about it has depressed me even more, and I was already as miserable as hell. The train, the office, the shopping precinct, Honduras… wherever one looks, this world is just a vale of tears.
Then I go back to the office, lock myself in the stationary cupboard and sob for twenty minutes, about Honduras and about my life.
I would be happy to donate £10 for the oppressed peasants of the Andes, or wherever it is, but I’m not going to read about it anymore.
I got my own troubles, Honduras.
Good luck!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
How is it that NASA can put Americans on the moon, while in this country Sainsburys cannot even make a soup container that doesn’t explode like a ^#&*ing hand grenade when you open it?
As I type this, with tomato pulp all down my new suit, I do not love my country any less. But we have to be honest about our failings. As Benjamin Franklin said, the true patriot is the man who complains all the time.
On second thoughts, to hell with this country and its exploding soups. If Gordon Brown hasn’t sorted this by Christmas, I’m emigrating to Canada.
As I type this, with tomato pulp all down my new suit, I do not love my country any less. But we have to be honest about our failings. As Benjamin Franklin said, the true patriot is the man who complains all the time.
On second thoughts, to hell with this country and its exploding soups. If Gordon Brown hasn’t sorted this by Christmas, I’m emigrating to Canada.
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