Anxiety.

I suppose the title could have been ‘Many Morons’, but I am just going to focus my attention on the one, Laurence Fox. Born in Leeds the dull failure Laurence, perennial runner-up, if he’s lucky. Lagging behind those with more talent, more appeal and more range, for example, a potato. But, Humans! When the world needed a Saviour, it got Fox. He is going to save you all with his Reclaim Party, who or what he is reclaiming? Do we care? Not one fucking jot. Laurence will be your Saviour in much the same way covid will save you the need to breathe, or having the shits saves you from constipation. I bring up this tosser because he has decided that he has anxiety, and because of that, he is exempt from wearing a facemask. At times, my human suffers from crippling anxiety; I wear a fucking mask; my human wears a damned mask.

This is all made worse because some people genuinely suffer from anxiety and cannot wear a mask. The panics. the freezes. Your heart racing faster and faster like a butcher being chased by a piglet with a switchblade. The cold sweats, the… well, the never-ending anxiety. My human nor I would not wish that upon anyone, not even Mr Fox. Invisible illnesses are just that, like the plot in Independence Day Two, hidden and you cannot see it, no matter how hard you look. Unlike the plot in Independence Day Two, they are very real. We know that Fox does not have any issue with masks because of some hidden illness. We know this because he was a well-known lockdown and mask critic before his ‘exemption’. There have also been pictures floating around with his face covered in the past as he uses his motorcycle, and going shopping. In short, Fox is a bonafide complete and utter bellend. Who should fuck off back to Shitstainier where he belongs. Maybe they are looking for a D-grade — at best — out of work actor who thinks he is unique because of a privileged background and a few lucky breaks. Who knows Laurence, you may be able to find some people with the talent of a hollowed-out plum to start a band with, the only problem is you’d no longer be centre of attention. They’d all fucking outshine you, once again.

Cold.

It is freezing. If my bollocks contract any further I shall be able to sing soprano, remove them via my mouth using a set of BBQ tongs and then use them as book stops. Yes, ladies and gents, they are that impressive. Almost as big a load of bollocks as Mr Fox, almost. I know some of you will tell me that if I were on Neptune, it would be colder, and yes that is true. I am not on Neptune, I am in England, and it is frigid. Yes, I will moan about it and hopefully also make a point or two along the way.

Some humans I have met will say there are different types of heat, I’ve heard it said that being in the sun in some countries is more tolerable than in others, and vice-versa. I am not sure this is true; I suspect that those other countries are better equipped for their temperature. England is a lot like someone wearing a Wonderbra/Wonderpants. You think it is well equipped to deal with it, but in reality, when you get to the nitty-gritty, you realise you’ve been fooled, deceived. You expect something ‘wonderful’ and end up with a Ken doll or tiny Barbie. When it is hot, the houses hold heat in, when it is cold the heating is shite or just too expensive to run. In a deal with… well with me, England would have drawn the short stick, the odd-numbered card and the wrong coin. Did you google Wonderpants by the way? I did; it is disappointing.

I like England, the UK, and a lot of this is in jest, but I want you to think about the cold. When your nipples are so hard you could help out in one of the ‘Oceans’ films, Doris the diamond thief, no external tools needed, glass cutting — two at a time — her speciality. Bollocks are driven up into your stomach, so you wear your wife’s thong without the need to leave them hanging outside or readjust every five minutes.

You get downstairs in the morning, breath out and see smoke, wondering if this is a way to trick your mind into thinking you are smoking, to Hell with ye real ciggies! Then you go outside, and either you have a lot, a smattering or no snow. It is icy, though, you take the first tentative step and fall on your arse. Sliding on your backside along the pavement, seeing the dog shite coming quickly but unable to stop. It’s fine the poop is frozen, like everything else. It is slightly white, a reimagining of the original from years gone by. 2020’s answer to white dog poo! You kick it out of the way, smashing a car window. Luckily the path has a hole in it from years of neglect, and you sink into it, bottom first.

You make it to your job, just in time, and start to work. The factory is cold, as cold as Priti Patel’s heart on a bad day, and it has those squat little heaters that blow out about as much hot air as a corpse. All the heating power of a pissed off icicle in a freezer. You have lunch, the kitchen is slightly warmer, it is not just a corrugated shed, instead of freezing quickly you’ll do it slowly here. Back to the factory, then back home. You can’t slide this time as the path is uphill. So you walk, falling forward now hands smashing to the cold hard floor, scraping the palm as they do so.

You see a note on the door. Neighbour found a dog shit in the car. Naturally, with your luck, it’s now defrosted and melted all over the driver’s seat. One broken window, a sticky pile of shit, and an angry neighbour, it has been a bad day, you have had better. But hey, Monday is over and done with! Only five more to go. You slide the key in the lock, slip and thankfully keep hold of the key and keyring, you pull yourself up, open the door and shut humanity out. You switch the heating on and sit down in a blanket, you cannot keep it on for long, but at least it can take the chill off.

Now imagine you’re homeless, and you are sleeping in it, day after day, night after night with no end in sight.

By Satan

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