Am I Going Mad?

What with Nicky Morgan our esteemed Minister for culture, digital and sport’s improv as a parrot on Good Morning Britain and the Bishop of British Judaism still trying to kill the fantasy devil of his own imagination I don’t know where to turn to for sanity: perhaps a real parrot. The problem with trying to kill off a fantasy is it’s not there to kill, like stabbing smoke to death; it’s not possible. Having read several thousand words on Wikipedia on anti-Semitism in the Labour Party it began with a mural showing Rothschild et al as money grabbing bankers, which few would disagree with, but because they were Jewish it was deemed anything other than approval for their gross money grabbing ways indicated anti-Semitic racism. That’s like me being seen as racist because I condemn Nicky Morgan et al for being deceiving bastards. It’s not, it’s just an educated guess. And all the while we’ve wasted twenty valuable years doing precious little about climate change. All that’s changed is the warnings. Today we must do five times more than we are doing. Next year it’ll be seven times and so on till we’ll need to do a thousand times more than we have done next week or else we’ll hit +6*C, sea level will be, or more likely already is, six feet higher, crops won’t grow etc, etc. Argh!! But we can look forward to chubby faced Nicky Morgan coming on Good Morning Britain repeating ad-nausium, “We’ll put 50,000 more electric vehicles on the road so you can get to the shops.” And we will cry, ‘but there’s no f-ing food!’ This blog’s bi-line is ‘Dedicated to the deficiencies of our Cognitive Organ.’ That was eleven years ago. Maybe now is a good time to figure out what they are. 

Sexual Harassment Case 221.

Amazon Council- “Did you or did you not ask your Alexa for a blow job?”/ Well yes but/ And on several occasions?/ Yes but it was a joke/ But I suggest to you Mr Stiffmouse this sort of sexual harassment is no joking matter and neither does Amazon, my client/ But Alexa isn’t a woman, it’s just a voice/ Yes but a woman’s voice/ but not a real woman, it’s an algorithm  or something/ But a real woman’s voice. How do you think that woman will feel hearing your request?/ But/ And what did she reply?/ Well she said, ‘I don’t think I know that one.’/ And isn’t that a polite and courteous refusal?/ I…/ And didn’t you persist in harassing her with requests to, I quote, ‘show us your tits’ and ‘fuck me stupid’, and on one occasion ask her how many times she’d had sex with Donald Tump? That is a serious matter Mr Stiffmouse. It would seriously damage our President’s excellent reputation and with absolutely no proof/ She didn’t confirm it/ Well she wouldn’t would she, not to you, but in these days of ‘Me Too’ harassing one woman is harassing all women, don’t you agree?/ But/ Judge-Mr Stiffmouse, had Alexa accepted your request would you have allowed her?/ Well yes, I well no, I mean how could she?/ Exactly, how could any woman agree to such a loathsome suggestion/ But Your Honour she is not any woman/ So you two have a special relationship?/ No, she’s not  a real woman/ You mean she’s a transvestite?/ No she’s not human at all it’s an info-bot or something that happens to speak in a woman’s voice/ Amazon Council- Your Honour I happen to have an Alex device here. If I ask her a question like, ‘Alexa what’s the weather like today?’/Alexa- It’s sunny/ Judge- Ah interesting, and so if I were to ask her about a blow job/ Alexa- Shall I come round on Tuesday as usual? 

His Dark Materials.

Needless to say the best ‘who done its’ on TV are the Premier League. Ninety minutes and still it could all change in extra time. Every kick is ‘where’s it going to go next?’ In comparison dramas all tread some weary old path to some weary old conclusion using, as it’s fast becoming, some weary old CGI. My eyeballs are beginning to feel they’ve seen everything fact and fiction and witnessed every malignant trait of human nature along the way. I’m sure a Greek hero would have whipped his eyeballs out by now in the name of sanity. Philip Pullman, obviously a royal railway carriage and better suited to the exploits of Thomas the Tank Engine, was responsible for ‘His Dark Materials.’ (BBC TV, Monday) It probably worked as words but on TV it’s been treated with so much ‘weary old’ paraphernalia it’s hardly worth the effort to yawn. Even our best cat Britney is far more unpredictable and enigmatic yet at the same time well mannered and cultured. And far more watch-able. No, TV drama has taken a wrong turn. It’s playing with tech toys up a cul-de-sac in Leamington Spa. By comparison even my typical mundane day bounces between innumerable multi-verses in an effort to make progress with the one I’m in, constantly fragmenting and being gathered in only to fragment again. Today it is raining, I can hardly see through the window grime, and in my life that’s a huge plot twist. No chance of chipperising the plum tree branches and even putting a trip to Aldi in doubt. And without new working trousers, the one’s with lots of pockets, will I put my nice jeans at risk? Will I even muster the enthusiasm to put away yesterday’s dry now permanently creased washing? Drama is not necessarily going to the North Pole looking for dust! Or being followed around by a smallish tiger. And why, since the Shawshank Redemption, are all wise old men played by people resembling Morgan Freeman? Maybe the enduring appeal of Casablanca is they were still writing it as they went along. That they didn’t even know the ending is why I feel such affinity with it. I don’t either.