Nothing surprises anymore. To twist the Hicks line, stay uncomfortable Britain. Keep watching your screens (as I type through one). Keep watching panel shows and those cake cunts. Keep drinking. We’re good at that. Always hold your own drinking. Don’t let the side down. Keep taking drugs. We love drugs, we’re good at those too. Mmmm, drugs. Is that a drug you’re thinking about? Cushty. Would I like some? You’re too kind, only a British human would intuit my wink reluctance.
The cooking shows are like the Location Location bs dopamine hit of a few years back. Food porn. Impenetrable levels of cultural flab where the only sane response is to go insane. Except - sex. And drugs. Is that sex and drugs you’re thinking about? Confession doesn’t matter here, get right on one matey. We don’t do orgies like the French, we go dogging. In the rain.
Agency. Where is it? Is it possible to even recover in an age of mirrors and Amazon, or cue Ken Loach moment, are we all fucked? I’m not pessimistic, but sex and drugs. Insert something about the EU. You can’t fuck a multinational hyper-structure can you. You what, we fucked the EU? There? Brutal. We showed those lazy, feckless people. Like the Irish. And those fishing pirates from Spain. I’ve got Granddad’s shotgun, just in case the Germans lose it again. Don’t tell anyone. It can be our little secret, wink. Licensed. I’m not mad, noooo. Hope for the best and plan for the worst. That’s how granddad got through Normandy. Air loom legacy from the WAR.