300. May's Brexselection v Corbyn's Diarrhoea option

After months of political constipation, May is going to give the Westminster weevils another vote. WEHEEEEEY I hear you cry (not).

On the 12th March (just 3 days before the Ides of March – has this woman not heard of Julius Caesar?) MPs will be allowed to pick from her limited and tainted selection. They can choose between bad and dreadful which will look something like this...

Plus, in the wake of the 9 defecations from Labour (no – that is not a typo) Corbyn has been dragged kicking and screaming to actually agree a previously stated Labour Party plan. Depending which Labour Party spokesperson has the mic, this is something like a policy on a second vote/referendum – albeit one that is vague, unformed, kind of sloppy/watery and uncomfortable for everyone. Let’s call it Corbyn's diarrhoea option…

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NB. If you would like to try some mixed race magic, a 7-day Ella & the Knot Fairies offer starts next Tuesday.

Amanda's books UK

Amanda's books US

299. This Blog post will change your life…

… (It won’t)

Ok - after last week’s splurge of sarcasm I realise that it’s me that is out of step so, this week I’m doing NORMAL.

I had a cursory look online to see what counts for normal these days.

So firstly, ignore the dire warnings about the appalling state of the natural world and obviously don’t read my dystopian sci fi novella unless you are mad

Zero One Zero Two

Zero One Zero Two (UK)

Instead, look at what rich, thin, vacuous women are wearing at various spangly meaningless events or watch comedians who have run out of material talking to each other on game shows. Stomached that for about 2 minutes.

Then apparently there are lots of mysterious things those nasty, pesky doctors don’t want you to know; medical and beauty secrets that will magically make you younger / healthier / more attractive/ thinner yada yada yada with NO effort. So, I came up with two of those – a. don’t eat shit. b. walk around a bit. Ok that’s that done.

Plus, here is a picture of my half-century+++ face after four days with my grandson, little sleep and no makeup because, apparently, if you are a woman, that makes you a hero these days. I generally wear eyeliner and lipstick if I’m performing because it’s quite important for an audience to be able to clearly read facial expressions while I have a rant about how we're all fucked by Brexit (woops, sorry, shouldn't have said the 'B' word) but apparently the rest of the time I am akin to a firefighter diving into a raging inferno to rescue 8 children from an 11^th floor or a civil rights activist... just because I leave home without slapping ridiculously expensive chemical kack on my face every single day and go places where other people might see me.

Also – here is a gluten-free egg-free recipe for coconut macaroons that will change the way you eat forever (it really won’t).

Shredded coconut - as much as you can get in half a small bowl (your local Asian supermarket will probably sell pre-shredded coconut)

About half that amount again in rice flour and ground almonds (if your budget is tight – more rice flour than ground almonds)

Vanilla essence if you have it. Vanilla extract or real vanilla if you won the lottery

Wee bit salt

The equivalent of 6 tbsp of melted coconut oil (pound shops or Aldi etc sell it cheap)

Honey or – if you just came into an inheritance – maple syrup

Mix and mush

Squidge into balls and bake in medium oven for 15 – 20 mins

Leave to set for about an hour (or less if you cannot wait)

Eat with a cup of tea either on your own or with a friend if you are feeling generous. Hide some in a tin so they don’t eat them all. Couldn’t be arsed to take a picture but I’m assuming most folk who eat food or ever ambled by a bakery know what a coconut macaroon looks like.

I know I really should have put up a story about how something inane changed my life but I can’t think of anything apart from GROWING UP.

See – a whole blog post that is entirely normal…

298. This Remainer wants XXX Brexit

I mean raw – served up still bleating. I want a Brexit so hard it would penetrate pack ice like steaming piss through warm ice-cream; so potent it could push through bedrock like a hot knife through rancid butter. I want Brexit so pure it would make high end cocaine seem like weevil-infested dust. I want Brexit so tough it would make John Wick look like a soggy disabled kitten.

And in the words of Queen I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT NOW…

Then I want it shoved down Ree Smogg’s weird neck. Build Brexit into a wall to knock Boris Johnson’s fat head against. Grill it into dry toast that Corbyn has to eat every day for a year with no fluids. Form Brexit into concrete shoes for Gove to wear in Parliament.

I am sick of hoping for common sense to prevail. I am tired of waiting for mediocre politicians to chuck in the towel like Cameron and Clegg and go fuck up somewhere else. I am weary of waiting for decency to outplay intolerance and for rationality to get a foothold and rise up over the heads of the greedy and self-serving and those lacking self-awareness. I am fed up of trusting to the end of wilful ignorance.

So – come on. Let’s get it over with. Let’s rip the dirty plaster off the infected wound of British democracy.

As the blue collar America MAGA brigade who voted for Trump in response to his dog whistle politics and white supremacy begin to ache, so will the Brexit voters when they finally realise they’ve been duped. The tax year is ending across the pond with huge numbers of US voters waking up to just how much worse off their families are since Trump gave their money to the billionaires whose validation Trump  - a multiple failed business conman - craves. Well – it’s too late.

I want to see the faces of the Brexiteers when regulated workers from the EU are replaced by unregulated workers from anywhere we can get them. I want to experience the reactions of those who followed Theresa May to Armageddon as they struggle on growing NHS waiting lists while – presumably - she will still get seen promptly.

Let’s see the responses of those who followed Johnson’s jingoist gibberish when they stand in the supermarket queues in the hope of buying scarce or unaffordable fresh produce – while he and his ilk shuffle off to WE’RE OK LAND – or whatever place the well-heeled shits go to when they’ve finished screwing things up for everyone else.

I want to hear the howls of the folk in Wales and Sunderland and other areas that voted heavily (without bothering to check the facts) to ‘reclaim our borders’ when companies along with Nissan swell the Brexodus and industries like steel, complete their flight and the EU funding that has helped keep many areas, ignored by Westminster, afloat after Thatcher wrecked working class communities, dries up.

And yes – the people who didn’t vote for this nightmare will hurt too, along with the many millions who saw sense too late but I still want it.

I want the flea infested, un-house-trained, incontinent cur to have its face shoved in the steaming pile it dumped in the corner. And yes we’ll all have to suffer the stink but, just for today, I do not care. Right now my inner 8 year old is stamping her foot…

297. Sanity or Insanity…

Today’s options – a couple of pleasant distractions or down that rabbit hole - just click the links.

My silliest poem

Snail Love

Or – how about my quirkiest book (nb - the original edition of this off-beat, eccentric histoire d’amour was written several years before auctioning virginity on the internet became a thing…)

The Companion Contract - uk

The Companion Contract - us

But, if you really haven’t had enough of Brexit – this is my favourite Brexit essay –

Brexit & the Goldilocks Zone

Bonne chance