Prime Minister disappears up own arse

POLITICS | THE WRITER’S LIFE

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Image from B3ta

The supreme leader, Kim-Jong May and the Tories’ election campaign, was akin to watching a video of someone lighting their own fart, then ending up in hospital. Or a great day out at the seaside, marred by sand in the vagina. What was I saying about not politicising this blog?

I have never been so invigorated or involved with a general election as I was this one, and it’s reaffirmed my faith in humanity. After this election, I’m starting to feel I love my country again. One of my common chants when I was shouting from the left was, I voted Labour, because I’m proud to be British. A collective veil has been lifted and the British public have protested at having their intelligence insulted.

This was an election called by the Supreme Leader’s ego, so confident was she that the country needed her “strong and stable” leadership, a mantra which will be forever ridiculed and satirised. She panicked: She was shitting it about Brexit, her predecessor’s epic fail of a gamble. So she called a snap election in the arrogant misguided belief that she’d win a landslide majority, allowing her to bumble through her Brexit no-plan unchallenged. I still suspect that she planned to pursue a cowardly “hard Brexit”, almost completely severing ties with the EU, so that the UK became an annexe of Trump’s capitalist US. Then, with no minimum wage, those who sought to exploit a workforce would be given tax breaks by UK PLC.

And she might have got away with it, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids. The figures are blurry but there is no doubt that the mobilisation of young voters played a big part in May’s implosion. But the other starring role was Corbyn’s man of the people. I said some time ago that (like many others), I couldn’t vote Labour because I couldn’t see Corbyn as Prime Minister. But then I realised I was working with my conditioning of what a politician was. So what I saw in Jeremy Corbyn wasn’t a politician. Realising that was a good thing was the light bulb moment for me.

Now I predict that the Conservatives will completely collapse. The people have seen through a woman who won’t even dirty her eyes by looking at them. Her own party is in turmoil and there’ll be leadership challenges. Even if there are none, they are a battered and bruised after-party mess. She is weak and unstable, and she is unfit to lead a country into all that faces us over the coming years and months. The marriage of convenience to the anti-abortion, anti-gay marriage, climate-denying DUP will only cement the newly switched-on public’s opinion that this is a party in trouble, willing to do anything to cling on to power.

Corbyn is planning to scupper May’s Queen’s Speech: I wish him luck. He is becoming known as an unconventional politician and if that’s modernisation of our archaic system, he can only be a good thing. I predict the wicked witch being gone by Autumn and then another general election. Hopefully the voters will be sufficiently invigorated by the last one that they’ll get out and vote again in similar numbers. I can’t see the Conservatives’ campaigns team coming up with anything to slow the decline, and Labour already have a new momentum. I predict that we will see a Labour Prime minister in 10 Downing Street by October. And Corbyn is unassailable as leader within his own party now. Far better to have Obi-Wan Kenobi at No.10 than Emperor Palpatine.

The next prime minister is going to have their work cut out. I’m confident Jeremy Corbyn is the best man to give the most to the many, while still placating the remaining few. It’s too early to call Brexit and there are scenarios where a second referendum is called. Provided the public isn’t sick of voting, perhaps the national mood swing and the realisation that Brexit was sold on a lie, might alter the balance. But if Brexit does go ahead, Corbyn will ensure the best deal for all. And the other 27 states are itching to maul Darth Sidious. Everything can change, suddenly and forever. The coming weeks and months will be the next stage in the turmoil this country’s suffered for over a year now. The public are getting bored of it, but they’re up for it: Roughly translated, ‘Tories Out!’ I dread to think what Brenda from Bristol is thinking. But the UK’s shift to the left is a trend we’ve been seeing in Europe since Trump’s election. Recent politics has been some of the most explosive in history. The world still stands at a pivotal point, but it looks like it’s starting to lean to the left again.

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Image from B3ta

Funnily enough, a pivotal point for mankind is one of the many subjects touched upon in a book I’ve been writing. I may have mentioned it: It’s called Cyrus Song.

I am literally in the final few days of writing the first draft, before sending the manuscript out to test readers. It’s still looking good for October publication and a lot of people have said how much they’re looking forward to reading it. All I can add to everything I’ve already said, is that I’ve been banging on about it so much, it has to be bloody good or I’ll look like a twunt.

I met with two of my younger fans yesterday, when we spent one of our regular days together in Milton Keynes. Despite my levels of anxiety sometimes preventing me even from leaving home, Sundays with my kids are a well-rehearsed known quantity. Once I’ve smoked a joint to combat the anxiety, the day breaks down into manageable pleasant stages: I leave my box of a studio, perched on top of a coffee shop, walk to my local train station, past the workhouse where George Orwell lived for a while, and a fountain once sketched by Turner. A train via the Bowie lands of Bromley and Brixton, then past Battersea Power Station and into Victoria. Next, the old queen’s line (I associate it more with her namesake daughter: A proper feckin’ rebel) to Euston, and onto a Virgin Pendolino via Bletchley Park to Milton Keynes, with it’s herd of concrete cattle by Liz Leyh (Canadian artist). Why the fuck wouldn’t I want to put myself through all that? If it wasn’t to meet my kids at the other end, anxiety would stop me.

One side effect of constant paranoia (I find), is that you can get a mental vibe from a place. Although London and Milton Keynes have never been hostile, yesterday I felt a greater awareness of people to those around them. A ‘vibe’ is a difficult thing to enunciate, but it was a safe one yesterday.

The kids are really excited about Cyrus Song, mostly because I gave them roles as extras in the book. It’s a book for everyone, as people will start to find out when anyone reads it. I only need a few people to do that before I’m confident that word of mouth will kick-start the rest. For that reason, and for reasons of royalties, I will almost certainly self-publish the first edition. Thereafter, it depends who might pick it up, or who I send copies to. But like all of my writing, this book isn’t about making money, nice though that would be. This book in particular is the work of mine I’d like people to read, so that they can see what I can do. It’s a book with many messages and one which people could gain a lot from. I’ve almost written it, so it’s almost out there. Once it is, anyone and everyone can read it. That’s why I write: So that I’m out there.

If things go to schedule, I’ll have time to write a few short stories for the free-to-read markets to get myself out there too, while I edit the book. I have about half a dozen planned: Some more humorous sci-fi, a tale from The Unfinished Literary Agency, and a nasty, following on loosely from Helvetica Haus. The latter, and two of the former, are in The Perpetuity of Memory. There’s also a scene in another story in the anthology, where Bono disappears up his own arse at a concert, a bit like Theresa May just did on the international stage.

Strange days indeed (Most peculiar, honey)…

THE WRITER’S LIFE

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This week, the UK has started to dismantle the achievements of 60 years: A period of unparalleled peace in Europe, security and prosperity. Brexit is an epic act of self-harm, under a Prime Minister who has further divided an already fractured nation. And this week, I’ve been suffering one of the worst depressive episodes I’ve had in a while.

As others will testify, depressive episodes are really good at what they do: They come without warning, for no apparent reason. Sometimes they last for hours and others, for weeks. Then you never know how long it’s going to be before the next one, how long that will last, or how severe it will be.

Panic attacks are like being mugged; anxiety, like being stalked; and an episode, like having all those assailants and stalkers in your head at the same time. Then they all sit there: They sit around in your brain, sipping tea and stealing your biscuits like there’s no tomorrow, chatting away about your life, and never knowing when to leave. It’s like a trip to a scary place; a mental place, far from home. Then you watch the departure boards, as trains and planes are announced, then cancelled. You’re lost and stuck. This one’s a youngster: Today is day three. Welcome to my brand of depression.

I don’t have the luxury of what some might call “triggers”, any more than I have an early warning mechanism. There are always things to maintain and entertain an episode though; things which might not normally bother me, if I knew what normal was: Things like failed Amazon deliveries of my books, when their system tells me I’ve signed for a package, then I have a burden of proof negative, trying to persuade them that I really didn’t receive my goods. And at the moment, I have an excruciating tooth ache, which is as varied in its severity and duration as any depressive episode; ergo, I’m constantly on edge about when the next attack might be launched. And my local Tesco Metro didn’t have any sea bass, which is what I’d planned for dinner tonight. First world problems I know, but ones which affect me more than they should. Because they are now in the “Unknown” or “Unaccounted for” pile in my mind: Lost, with me helpless to do anything, except expect a possible resolution sometime. But not knowing when that might be causes me further anxiety.

My depression, the tooth ache, the deliveries and the unavailability of fish, all conspire to take an already low mood and systematically hammer it further into the ground. Sometimes the only thing to do is sleep, which is difficult with chronic tooth pain. So I get over-tired; a condition I once thought the preserve of fantasist parents. So I suffer insomnia. Once, drinking would have been a solution but it’s a testament to my resolve that I don’t lapse.

This too shall pass. And it will, as they do. And although I’ll go back to simply hiding it and others will think I’m okay, I’m not. At the end of each depressive episode, you lose something; They take something out of you. Even though it’s barely perceptible, after each episode, you will never feel as good as you did before. The new happiness plateau is lowered, permanently.

Of course, there are valued sympathetic friends but many of them get the other problem: That being clinically depressed can often mean you don’t want to speak to anyone, because you don’t know what to say. Depression can be unfathomable. Then there are still the others, who feel I brought it all on myself. My depression is deep-seated, originally triggered by a robbery at knifepoint. Then I drank as a coping mechanism and the drinking took over. Then I lost everything. I suffered many things which induced PTSD out on the road. It was a rough ride. But it was my fault in the eyes of some. And it’s that which has resolved me to get rid of more of those people permanently from my life; to erase them and deny their existence. To paraphrase an old friend, who wrote recently on social media:

Because the most depressing thing of all, is Brexit: Sorry, but I’m going to find it hard to talk to or engage with those who voted for it. They’re fools. I’ll certainly find it hard to forgive them for what they’re doing to me and my family. What they’re doing to their own? Well, that’s their affair. Perhaps that will change and I don’t like the fact that I feel negative towards them for this. But I’ll absolutely never forget it. I don’t think any of them have or had any clue what they were doing, except those to whom chaos was the only desirable outcome (who are just evil – I don’t know anyone like that I hope, that’s the Dacres and Hopkins and Farages of this world – true scum that we don’t need on the planet, let alone in this nation). But they’ve associated with, and driven the agenda of, howling degenerates, racists and bigots like that with their vote.

For the record: I don’t stand behind it. I won’t stand for it. It’s the biggest act of civil stupidity I can think of in recent times, in a supposedly major world economy and state. Where once I was proud of the United Kingdom, it is no longer that: It’s broken, divided, and I’m ashamed. As soon as individual EU citizenships become available, I’ll be near the front of the queue. I wish Brexit hadn’t happened, as much as I wish my breakdown hadn’t happened. But it’s happening, and I can’t stop it, any more than I can end a depressive episode.

They are brilliant at metaphorically flooring you, and keeping you on edge otherwise, with paranoia and anxiety about the next attack. Previously, they’ve landed me in hospital when I’ve overdosed but this one has come with a psychosomatic condition, as they sometimes do: Uncontrollable vomiting this time, which kind of insures against keeping pills down. So I shouldn’t be bothering any doctors this time: Every cloud.

A discomfort I can barely explain

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Little man on top of the world

Despite having everything I could hope for, there’s still a tension to life which I can’t quite grasp. This is not a new thing. It’s one of the many products of depression and anxiety, PTSD, personality disorder…

I really do have everything which my modest needs require: Food and shelter are taken care of in a way which others might take for granted, and so may I have done once. But I know how fragile any situation can be, and I remember how easy it was to gradually slip off of life’s ride. When you’ve been a tramp, even basic human needs become gifts.

I’ve been at the studio for exactly a year, with all indications that I’m now on a rolling tenancy and likely to enjoy many more years here, as my two neighbours have. Private renting comes with its own inherent anxiety, when a tenant is at the mercy of a private landlord’s personal whim. My own landlady is a social one, in that she accepts housing benefit tenants for the properties at the more modest end of her portfolio. The studio is very comfortable, well decorated and maintained, and no more than I need. The reasonably low rent is one which my housing benefit covers.

The fridge, freezer and cupboards are full. So for that matter are the biscuit barrel, the crisps basket, and the Minecraft Darth Vader Paul Auster mini bar (another, long story). I’ve usually got weed to chill with too. Just lately I’ve had more days when I actually feed myself than not, which is some kind of progress. Sometimes it’s as though I just buy food to look at it, or for other people to eat. Now I’ve got back into an old habit of planning meals. So often in the past, my indecisiveness was such that I’d grow tired of thinking about food and just not bother: Irrational, but just another part of the cocktail which makes my brain what it is. If I plan meals in advance, that part of me saves the indecisive one having to make a decision. It’s part of the fun mix which is my borderline multiple personality disorder.

Even though the studio is small, it’s crammed with the things I love: Films, music and books. It’s not so crammed as to look like a mentally ill hoarder lives here; Through the keyhole would reveal a cool, cosy little place: That of someone who likes their own space and who is perhaps somewhat eccentric. It’s been likened to Sheldon Cooper and Leonard Hofstadter’s apartment, albeit smaller: I’ll take that. And in the corner by the window is the desk, with the typewriter and all of a writer’s tools, on and around it.

I’m content with my writing at the moment. I’m pleased with the three books which are out. My children’s story at least is getting good reviews in the marketplace: It’s helping people. I only wish that some of the people who tell me in private that the other two are good, would post reviews online. I find it frustrating and unfair that I spent three years writing my anthology and it would take five minutes to post a review. That sense of entitlement is another part of my frustrated mind. It’s the part of many depressives which allows them to crave contact with others, only to then push those people away.

Now that I’m free of editing for a while, I can devote more time to actually writing, which is what I’m paid nothing to do. As such, I’m having fun with some new stories. I’m practising a way of working which my more successful and wealthy peers employ: Experiment, play, throw away. This will sometimes produce a daily output of a few thousand words, which will then be consigned to the slush pile, or become something else.

I’ve invented a new character: A kind of Lewisham Tank Girl. She’s involved in one short story I’m writing at the moment and could well be a recurring character (in no more than three, before I have to consider another novel). One day I might do a head count of all of my characters and perhaps write something fun which they can all be in. I fear some may harm or kill others: Experiment, play, throw away. I’d first need to re-read everything to see who’s still alive.

So I have relative security in my housing situation, and as much writing as I can fit in until I’m no longer able to do it. I have things to look forward to in the short term too: This weekend’s monthly visit to Milton Keynes, to gallivant with my children; and a lunch I’ve arranged for my parents on their Golden wedding anniversary a week after. This is something which makes me want to grab all those old friends who dropped me when I was drunk. I want to grab them by the necks and show them that everyone who was affected by my illness, is cool with me now. I worked hard to rebuild those relationships, so that now everyone gets to actually enjoy my company, rather than fear it. I will live with the guilt for the rest of my life: That’s the price I pay for sobering up. But I haven’t lapsed and neither will I. Those around me know how important they are to me and if I returned to drinking, I would lose all of that.

The lunch with my parents is just a traditional Sunday roast at my local: Not a place I frequent, but it’s been very pleasant on the half dozen or so occasions I’ve visited in the last year. So I’ve booked us a table, so that my parents can enjoy a the tradition of Sunday roast, as they do, and my company, which they now do: They’ve told me so. They’ve also both told me that they’re proud of me. Well, I’ve come a long way and it was fucking hard, but I did it because of them. But I can already hear the friends I no longer speak to: “He’s taking them to a pub. Oh, right…” Well, fuck off, those people. I am an alcoholic. I am a functioning alcoholic. This is not to say that I just about manage not to soil myself; It means that I can go to a pub and enjoy a social alcoholic drink in good company: Company which I do not crave with those who still judge. That’s part of the life sentence; a penance I must pay.

All those people I should be kissing.
Some are here, and some are missing.

There’s plenty on my mind, which I’d like to share, only to illustrate how frustrating my life can be. There are things I wish to say to people; Things which I would gladly air in public, but then I have to consider the other parties. So those are conversations to be had with other people, or more than likely, just with myself. Or in fiction. Because with words, I can destroy people. But I can also do a lot of good with my writing, not just for myself. This month’s royalties will just about cover the cost of the lunches with my children and my parents.

So everything is good for the most part. But still there’s that discomfort I can’t explain.

And that’s what clinical anxiety is: It’s irrational, it’s that niggling doubt, not a fear (that comes with the panic attacks), but an unease about something which may or may not be there, like a presence. The important thing is, it’s always there. And one of the reasons for that is those who still think ill of me: I’m sure they’re happy. But that’s paranoia and insecurity.

All of which is why, when I’m asked how I am, I’m just okay. It’s easier that way.

It’s just because…

THE WRITER’S LIFE

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I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m sitting here now, listening to Suzanne Vega and drowning in my face. This doesn’t happen to me. I actually think it’s because so much that’s good has gone on recently in my universe. I don’t mean my own success in publishing books, but family things. Things which I wish I could write about, but then I’d be judged for being somehow sanctimonious. Truth is, everyone who’s still in my life agrees that my breakdown was somehow for the best. Freedom of information only goes so far and anyone who still doubts me would see I’m telling the truth. If they bothered to ask. Ask my family and friends. It’s paranoia. That’s all it is, and that’s one other little cunt I need to kick, punch or headbang into submission. I suppose I just want to kick some heads, or content myself with words.

Never mind that I donate any royalties to causes more worthy than me. Nor that I will never stop helping troubled teenagers while those who think too fucking wrongly think there’s something “wrong” going on (in your fucking head, cunt. Come and swap places). No matter that I’m supporting someone who’s got a bit lost and found themselves almost where I was three years ago. No, fuck all that. I’m a cunt. If I’m a cunt in your mind, then I’d like to remain as such. Because ignorance doesn’t recognise ability. As for my mind, you are gone: You are dead and you never even existed. Who? I forget.

And although I brush it all off, like so many other things, the constant feeling of being watched never leaves the paranoid android. I have plenty to say to those who abandoned me for dead three years ago, if only to say I don’t blame them. In any case, sometimes the quiet suffering prompts something. So I took to Facebook with a late night introspective:

Like many others, I’m okay. I don’t expect to be asked how I’m doing, because I know that most people fear the reply. Truth is, I’d rather I wasn’t asked. Same goes for many others.

We know we’re impossible to understand. I’ve got an IQ of 147 (I’ve had it measured at UCL) and I don’t understand it. I’m a writer, and yet I still can’t convey it truthfully, despite my many words.

We have good and bad days. We never know which will be next, or when one will turn from good to bad in what could be the last blink or beat.

If there’s one thing which can truly break a human heart, it is the human brain.

I don’t expect anything from this. I’m posting in the dark hours so that few will see it. I’m just like the rest who are governed by their minds’ inability to shut the fuck up.

We don’t know what we want. We don’t know how to tell others how to deal with us. We treat people like we don’t care, when we crave contact. But we don’t know what with. We only want contact on our own terms, when it suits us. We are fucking impossible. No-one can answer our questions and we know that we’re frightening.

Don’t pity me. I just hope that my ability with words has enabled some to read this far and think a little deeper. Those of us with depression do that all that time and we need a conversation. Why the fuck would anyone sane want to try to have a conversation with a mental? Why would you try to engage with someone who just kicks you away?

No, we don’t know either.

But this is how it feels, right now, and all the time, before we finally decide to break. The headline picture speaks many words: Not as many as I wish I could write, but it goes some way.

I don’t know why I decided to just cut and paste this, but I did. Like the rest of this blog, it was done for one reason I suppose: So that it’s indelible and so that I can tell people, “Just read my fucking blog.”

Just, because. I don’t know.