Claptrap ~ It’s Contagious!
Published: 31 March 2020
You could call it an ‘occupational hazard’ of social distancing and self-isolating, or, alternatively, you could refer to it as a resulting and highly unpleasant side-effect ~ syndrome would be good ~ this inexplicable urge not only to go cap in hand to the media to corroborate your worst fears about today’s news but, in a moment of vulnerability, to backtrack, to see what gems of wisdom you may have missed.
Trapped inside with the media
And so it was that I discovered this article from that most august of media outlets The Guardian. The headline ran, ‘For some people, social distancing means being trapped indoors with an abuser’.
I thought crikey, I am not reading that! I mean, I know they are anti-vanilla, but raspberry ripple across the backside by a fierce femdom dominatrix, not good advice if you are self-isolating. OK if you are your own abuser. You could chase yourself around the house and call yourself name’s, like fascist for example, whilst spanking yourself with a wet lettuce leaf.
But no, self-arselating is not for me. The butter paddles in the blanket box? I’m a collector, you see. I collect obsolete things, such as butter paddles, handcuffs, old school canes, liberalism ~ that sort of thing.
And I have a friend. That is a friend, by the way, not a ‘friend’. And he reads things that I would never read ~ not even if they paid me. And he told me that in most cases the abuser turns out to be a thick-set wife with her hair in curlers, wearing a florid apron, with all-in-wrestlers arms crossed (she’s modern, she’s got tats) whilst brandishing a rolling pin.
Her little henpecked husband, who has a thumbprint on his head and looks as if he has just been spanked with The Guardian (have a care! ~ if you look too closely you’ll see the newsprint!), grovels at her feet (she’s modern, she’s wearing building contractor’s boots) as his female abuser looks down at him (lovely!), whilst saying: “You will not go the pub!!” He replies, helplessly, “I can’t anyway, Boris has closed them all!” “That’s no excuse,” she roars, so loudly in fact that her false teeth escape self-isolation, adding “And stay away from him [Boris]. What sort of man would force husband and wife, husband and husband, it and other (she almost runs out of breath at this point, but not quite), to stay at home together!”
Phheew, I thought, and thanked my friend for warning me. Its enough to give some the willies. I started to look elsewhere, I mean for something to read in the media.
I skipped over the barrage of complaints about Trump saying something in Chinese. It seems that the only language he can’t speak is liberal, and arrived at a comment by the Indie (Windy or Indian?) relating to Nigel Furrage. He is, it seems, a ‘revolting racist’.
I clicked on the site and read beyond the first headline, it said, quite surprisingly: ‘Just joking we have to say things like this about this very nice man because he kicked our ass and delivered BREXIT in spite of our covert attempts to torpedo him.’
Ha! Ha! Sorry, that is not quite true. The onsite headline was: ‘Over the years, it’s become a widely acknowledged truth of British politics that there’s not many situations Nigel Farage won’t manage to use for his own political gain.’
Of course, with a little bit of editing: ‘Over the years, it’s become a widely acknowledged truth of British politics that there’s not many situations the Liberal media won’t manage for their own political gain’.
I decided enough was enough. It was either flick through an old copy of The Beano and read Dennis the Menace (his father was always spanking Dennis’ bum with a slipper, but political correctness stopped all that) or put on a policeman’s uniform and shout abusive things at myself through the letterbox.
“Evenin’ all!”
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