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Sunday 9th September 2018

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Say what you like about Boris Johnson but - and I know that some people don’t like him, but please hear me out- he’s a cheeky fucking cunt. And I am using “cheeky" in the sense of “enormous”. If he manages to pull off becoming PM by supporting Brexit and then opposing it, then in a sense we have got everything we deserve.
Brexit seems (surprisingly to everyone) to be going pretty badly. But a period of purge post-Brexit, where brexiteers are allowed to murder people they suspect of being remainers and/or not pure English men, was what we voted for and if we don’t get it there will be civil unrest.
It’s the will of the people. I mean not any more apparently, but that’s hardly the point. When we voted there was an overwhelming majority in favour of carrying out something that was entirely undefined and had no definitive plan and we made that vote based upon what ever made up shit everyone was pedalling, based entirely on feeling (on both sides). And it would be a huge betrayal of democracy if we didn’t go through on that undefined decision and also allow one of the people who was responsible for it all happening in charge.
2019 is going to be pretty interesting. If you’re not killed in the purge. And to be honest, it will be pretty interesting if you are.
A tweet about believing that Brexit meant a return to speaking Anglo-Saxon and deporting or executing anyone who refused to learn our language led me to recall the little old English that I know. In 1988 or 1989 the comedy sketch troupe I was in, The Seven Raymonds, decided for some reason to put on a Summery Mummery and perform the 15th Century Second Shepherds Play around the city. We travelled on a cart and would rock up at different places and perform the short play in Middle English front of confused and delighted people. It was one of those things that seemed effortlessly easy to achieve and sensible back in those student days, though now I marvel at our confidence. 
I played Mak, a sheep thief and the only line I vaguely remember now, partly because for a while I used it as an insult was "ye two are well feft, sam in a sted”. I assume at the time we knew what the words we were saying meant (but maybe we didn’t - perhaps part of the comedy was to try and interpret it as best as we could- though we weren’t taking the piss, we tried to do it faithfully enough, though with a few incongruous modern props). But I thought this meant “you’re fucked” but it actually means, you two are well-matched, under the same roof or something along those lines.
It’s one of my happiest memories of doing comedy and/or drama at University though. A stupid, arrogant and beautiful thing to attempt and as far as I recall we didn’t get beaten up by the townsfolk for being pretentious ponces. Me, Tim, Stewart, Mike and Emma recreating a 500 year old mystery play. We were well feft, sam in a sted.


Meanwhile today was a pressure chamber betwixt holiday and getting my arse back in gear. Catie and me tried to make plans to make our unsteady ship run more efficiently and I started to think about making efforts to get fit again. Last night as a last holiday hoorah we’d had a takeaway curry and too much beer, which given that I had intended to make touch down in the UK the start of my new diet, was a pretty poor start.
This morning I made waffles for breakfast and then a roast chicken for lunch. Again, maybe not the best diet food, but at least these were family meals, prepared by myself and I didn’t snack or drink any booze today. Not even at 10.20am.
And Catie made chicken soup with the left over chicken, which makes me very happy. This is the kind of frugal country living that I envisaged when we moved here. Here’s to our dreams of somehow managing to balance work, family, diet and exercise and have some fun times together as adults too. Though given how little I achieved in my three months of not working and how much still needs to be unpacked, I doubt we’ll hit all our goals.
But we can dream.


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