Day 83. Oh, for god's sake. This again. (24/3/19)

(Soundtrack: Anna Burch's album 'Quit The Curse'. My mate Paul recommended it on Facebook, because his mate Mark recommended it to him. And it's a bit boss. Detroit singer songwriter. Sort of pop folk with splashes of 60s bands. Reminds me of early Bangles. Like, really early Bangles. Before Walk Like An Egyptian made them pop stars. This is a very good thing to be compared to. Enjoying this. This is how we learn about new music nowadays. Same way we always learned about it, just not in the same room as each other.)

6.10pm. Sunday. Just opened a bottle of Blue Moon Belgian White wheat ale. Because I can. Because it's in keeping with the rest of the day. Relaxing. Unpressured. Didn't get up till ten. Bit of shopping. Went to see my mum for a bit. Came home, watched a couple of episodes of Season 2 of Line Of Duty: we're catching up, never got round to watching it.

Watched the last three of season one last night, first two of S2 today. It's really good, isn't it? How come none of you ever told me?

I mean, it has some of the same issues I thought Bodyguard had: people have expositional conversations in interesting places just to make the talking heads a bit more interesting, characters make odd decisions that people in real life would never even consider so they can move the plot along. And then they kill a major character and you're hooked.

And Keeley Hawes is predictably brilliant. The writer's playing with my head, I like that.

Went out last night. Put the last full stop on last night's thing and bought my ticket to see a lot of very fine people play the entirety of The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars in a very fine bar/cafe/record shop. Live music, it's great, isn't it? I miss doing that. Honestly, I spend my life about five seconds away from starting a new band. And calling it Pointy Birds as I've threatened for so long.

Or The Sasparilla Juggernauts, as nobody would allow me to in 1985. Yes, there's a mis-spelling in there. There was a mis-spelling in Vanilla Beserk and nobody ever corrected us. I'll get away with it.

And you might think all this is just waffle to avoid making a point of any kind. And you'd kind of be right.

A mate of mine said, as I was leaving the venue last night, "write about this, don't write the politics stuff."

So, in terms of writing 'about this': nine piece band on stage, two guitars (one electric, one acoustic), piano, bass, drums, sax, five vocalists taking turns to deliver one of Bowie's many masterpieces. And doing it very bloody well. Magnificent heavy blues arrangement of 'It Ain't Easy', a signpost that some of the audience possibly didn't know the entirety of the original album as there was a group that decided gabbing over the beginning of Rock'n'Roll Suicide was a valid idea.

It's Rock'n'Roll Suicide for christ's sake. You don't do that.

And that's the "write about this" bit covered; here's the politics:

I come out and get 4G back and it appears that Theresa May is being ousted. They love a` good oust, the Tories. Never forget that 'the blessed Margaret' who they revere so bloody much wasn't voted out by the public - oh to have been part of that happening - she was removed by her own colleagues. Left Downing Street in the back of a car, shedding a tear. And the papers tried to convince us that this was humanity on her part.

Typical Tory. The only tear ever shed is self pity. No sorrow for those who suffered under her scabby policies, just sorrow at losing power. Scum. One of the most hideous, most damaging people that has ever lived.

Which obviously brings us right onto Theresa.

On the day that what quite definitely looked to be about two million, but the papers told us was hundreds of thousands, people demonstrated in London to establish the blindingly obvious idea that Brexit is a pathetic fallacy cooked up by racists, bigots and chaos capitalists and should be revoked immediately before we do even more damage to the country, the Tory Sunday rags lead with the 'news' story that Theresa may be cast aside (which is fine by all of us with any sense) and replaced with Michael Gove (which quite definitely isn't).

Chequers this afternoon was supposedly witness to a showdown between May on one side and the toy nazi buffoons of the ERG on the other side. Johnson, Rees-Mogg, Davis, all attempting to convince her to present her timetable for stepping aside and accepting the need for a no deal Brexit.

It's odd, isn't it? The only type of Brexit that means that rich people can't fiddle their taxes as effectively any longer is a no deal. And the rich bastards are trying to make bloody sure that happens.

But those who still support the leaving of the EU ridicule the idea of a march to demand a second chance to think about this and claim nobody will be happy until the elite has had its way.

The elite.

The elite.

Who do they think the elite are? Is it me? A left wing working class man in his fifties living in a part of the country where far too many live in poverty and have a life expectancy that is much more reduced than the majority of the country?

Or is it the multi millionaires with the private expense accounts and the offshore accounts to protect their share portfolio. Is it those who are able to claim public funding to renovate their castles or is it the students struggling to survive on the loans that they receive to fund their living expenses while trying to create a better life for themselves and building a massive debt before they've actually started working.

It's the latter isn't it? The Elite is the university educated left wing. We know this because the equally, or more expensively, educated right wing have told everybody that this is the case.

Nigel bloody Farage - one of the other worst people to have ever lived - has told the country time and time again (in access he should never have received) that the left are the elite. While he stands in a literal gold elevator with his mate, the equally hideous racist, President of The United States.

And people believe this garbage.

Jesus.

So, there you go. The politics bit. Basically repeating myself ad infinitum trying to make sense of the stupidity of huge swathes of the British public while talking, largely, to/at people who already agree with me.

And if that isn't the definition of Mumbling Into The Void, I don't know what is.