Time for an update.

The brawl goes on. Hadn't expected it to involve taking on quite so many nation states, but meh. That's what happens when you break the code of silence I suppose.
I'm gradually wearing them down I think.
I reckon they'll be giving up soon at this rate. I knew they didn't have what it takes to keep on coming.
Anyway, that concludes my demonstration.
Be seeing everybody down on O'Connell here in Dublin soon.
Anybody know where I can buy three pairs of handcuffs?

There is gold.
It's called the Golden State.
This has been a week of warring, allies, friendship and recovery; arriving after an epic escape from Britain, out of the clutches of an evil machine which is actually a perfection of voluntary participation in victimisation of the few by the many, with the few being made fewer every time I ventured out.

I am free and as safe as any other citizen in this land of the free, I find myself yet pursued by the aces of bullshit, vainly and desperately trying, as ever, to intimidate me, and by implication, the entire United States.
For what purpose, god only knows.
I find it very amusing that a nation which accused me of mental illness yet displays an obsessive attempt to persecute in the vilest and most pathetic ways, despite the overwhelming power of the United states, and maintains the most absurd belief that I would ever return to the British hell hole, using juvenile subterfuges which display an insanity proving the UK has entirely lost it.

Which I already knew.
And which simply isn't interesting.

"Fuck me" I said.
Well. They did.
Entering my second or third week of sleep deprivation, I decided to change tack.
I went back on the drugs three weeks ago.
So now my sanity is assured.
Right?
Of course, I still get slightly forgetful spells - as did all the doctors and nurses when I came back to the fold. But hey, we all work in pressurised jobs, so we all suffer from stress.
The MO also gave me some jumbo knock-out drops too. So my sleeping is pretty good. I'm drinking and eating plenty, the jabs are a regular pain in the arse, but my weight remains stable, and I'm going on holiday to the land that has twice saved my life when the chips are down.
What it is to be loved.
I'm hoping to return some of that. In bundles and in spades.
What can I do? What can I do? Live a shitty life until I leave again?
Beats being a shitty person.
I'll have that cup of tea now. I'm sure I'll never amount to much in this world. The sentence has been spoken. The Midwitch Cuckoos said it many years ago, and I can't be bothered to hide any dynamite behind any brick walls any longer. But if it kills me I'll be on that plane to paradise.
And yes!
I went four months alone. No drugs no help, except occasional decency of the people around me. And my special lady at Universal.
If I had been in Canada - I would be home dry by now.

Well, fuck me.
Paradise dropped me a line.
But let's face it, if you try holding onto it too hard, you're liable to be the sort of twat who makes angels weep.
Even if they're no angels, a kick in the teeth keeps me out of their sweet lives, and rightly so if I'm liable to give them a downer.

Hey. We've all got to do whatever we need to do.
Me? I've got a war to fight. Funny sort of war. Stick to my trench. Keep maintaining course and speed. Don't bother the good, because that makes me my enemy.
Like the Untouchables, a bad guy kicks me on my ass, I put out their lights.
In the dark, anything goes.
This is a brawl running in slow motion. The more I keep going, the closer I get to winning.
When I get wounded, the nurses can patch me up.
But get this.
The nurses are the ones who are keeping me off the drugs.
Sympathy kills.
Concern pushes lies. And poison.
And if it looks like you're getting away, they'll try and take away your destination.
What's the matter guys?
Feeling desperate?

It's been a while. Yearning, quests, searching.
All the way to 2008.
To be told no. To realise - eventually - that I deserved better.
Or at least something.
Being destroyed by disappointment can happen.
Before I set out to break my prison walls down, I gave the target of my misplaced devotion one last message.
As always, nothing. And that was the end of her. Like a stone door, my judgement closed.
She couldn't be bothered.
So I risked my life and sanity alone.
And when I started to lose them, a lone angel came to my aid.
At last my feelings started to return. Maybe I am stupid, maybe I was nearly dead, but my feelings are coming back. The life she saved isn't a debt.
The trust that her voice gave me over thousands of miles inspired obedience.
Her wisdom saved enough of me so that my feelings could exist again despite the murder of each and every ambition.
There is only one feeling that matters.
And that feeling isn't mere gratitude.
When I have that feeling, I usually find myself alone and wounded.
I've no more capacity for wounds.
So I will say only this.
I also care.

The Scottish Game

In September there is going to be a referendum in Scotland.
The Scots are supposed to be voting on independence from Great Britain.

This is a huge fraud.

First of all, independence would be a sham. The Scots would be ruled by the same busybodying oafs they have today, but without national parliamentary restraint.

These politicians claim that Scotland would be 'rich in resources', by which they mean that the declining North Sea oil fields would somehow transfer to the Scottish collective, that public that never seems to own anything but that which is disposed of by, yes, politicians.

Of course, the companies that have developed the oil and gas are the owners, governments merely tax.

So I suppose that for Scottish politicians to be able to buy more favour, they would tax to the hilt the remaining investment there.

Then they claim that they want to keep the pound Sterling.
Well I'm sorry, but we've seen what happens with the Euro, and we know what your dirty little plan is.

They want independence they can have it. But not the pound, as Carney says.

As for England and Wales, they would lose tens of Labour parliamentary parasites, ensuring that no Labour government would ever sit in Whitehall again.

Which is a good thing.

So bring it on. But don't try to have it both ways. It won't wash.

Cheap Television.

There's a show on today in the USA.
With a cast of one, a poorly written script that, unlike Art, does not mirror life, and a garish set covered in red, white and blue, it will attract an audience of millions, millions who, dizzy with disappointment, will tune in to hear the little man reading the prompts reassure them that there is hope still.


These people will be tuning in to the State Of The Union address to be told that everything that they have seen and heard, everything that they have learned in the past year, isn't real.

With the faint brightness of children recovering from a crying fit, they will face the man who gains strength from their inexplicable attention, a man who needs nothing more than the knowledge that people are yet listening to validate his contempt for them.

For who else but the contemptible would tune in to watch this wretch wriggle?

The age of Man is nearly over.

This is the age of belief.