It’s Sunday and I’m just back from the ranch.
The snow has all gone in the town but not up there.
I didn’t want to go but I forced myself. It’s my discipline. It’s my routine. My deluded self thinks that it somehow protects me – that there’s something health-giving about being out and about in all weathers.
I couldn’t resist trying to get the tractor going. No way on earth would it normally start when it’s below freezing, but the magic cold start device that they fitted to Spitfires is working.
Phut phut phut – I’m off. Driving round the field like a dick.
I spot two people waving at me from the top path and I wave back. I can’t tell who they are without my specs on. I do a lap and and they’re still waving. As I ascend, I see that it’s Helen and Ruth walking their dogs Nancy and Jampa.
Helen films me on her phone and I jump off the tractor and run towards her in an M C Saga stylee.
I invite them in for a brew – I have the stove lit. Obvs, we obey t’govt’s rules in case they ascend on us with a Copter and put us in prison. I remain at the top of the field and we communicate by shouting at each other through rolled up copies of Ferret Fortnighly.
It’s lovely to see them and catch up. They’re two of my oldest friends. I don’t mean that they’re old – they’re younger than me. I mean that we’ve been friends for longer than just about anyone else I know.
Our conversation is suitably Burnleyesque – as gritty as it gets and very refreshing. Ruth was my feminism monitor when I wrote the book – like woman’s hour, no topic is off bounds.
‘Is this OK?’
‘Yes, it’s fine.’
She asks me what she should be doing gardening-wise at this time of year and I give them my little spiel about the value of seed saving and open pollinated seed. I’ll be helping them with their little gardens hopefully come spring.
Down the rabbit hole:
Shagger shitface is shitting in a bucket the corner.
He’s spraying his turds gold and selling them to the pezzies.
Porky and Shitinyourhandsandclap Shapp are having a spat.
‘How the fuck have those snivelling driving school wankers managed to get on the front page of that lefty-pinko rag?’ Says Porky.
‘Just because we won’t let them work from home and make them break all the rules that we’ve made for the pezzies doesn’t mean that they can go whingeing to some ham journo – 535 cases – so f’ing what?’
‘Er – not sure what’s happening there – don’t worry, they’ll just snivel on Facebook for a while and it will all fizzle out.’ Retorts Shapp-twat.
‘I least we’ve got our fuck-everybody-for-ever bill through. The morons still think they’re in a democracy.’
‘Yeah now we can feed them poisoned shite from America and sell off their health service and kill even more people with our guns and bombs.’
‘Too f’ing right Pfeffer!’
‘Have you managed to chat to Joe yet?’ Says Shapp-twat.
‘Er yeah – shame about old fart-boy. We were a bit of a comedy double-act. I Just gave Joe the usual spiel – two great nations working together – the usual shite.’
‘Didn’t he once publicly say that you were a right cunt?’
‘Oh look – here comes Handoncock.’
‘How many pezzies have we wiped out this week cock-wock?’
‘F’ing thousands Pfeffy, f’ing droves of em’.
‘Good work Cocky, good work.’
‘Oh no – here comes that Coventry Gobshite Trot – she’s always f’ing trouble.’
‘How do you feel about wiping out 100K of our population? What about giving BILLIONS OF POUNDS WORTH OF DODGY CONTRACTS to your crony mates? Are you worried that you will be held to account?’
‘Time for a glass of Tingnan.’ Says Porky
The other ranch:
I remain incredulous that there are still folk out there who accuse front line health workers of lying about what’s happening in hospitals. It just shows the power of social media bullshit twats. The guidance that my acquaintance produced (below) is proving very popular on Twitter.
I was at work yesterday, and from where I was standing (in charge of a busy Emergency Department), Covid is worse than ever before. Critical care have let us know (Emergency medicine consultants) that there are nursing slots available for us to help out. Our critical care capacity has expanded from 22 beds at the beginning of the year to 54.
We’re seeing a lot more younger people getting sick with it. Yesterday we had a couple of elderly frail patients who had got sick a couple of days after the vaccine and I’ve heard two accounts of young fit nurses who caught Covid a week after getting the vaccine – probably purely coincidental.
We’ve also seen a massive increase in mental health attendances.
I’m just feeling grateful to work with such a wonderful bunch of folk. Colleagues become bezzies. We’re the cool kids on the block. The girl surgeons are jumping ship in droves and joining our ranks.
It’s just impossible to describe how surreal it can be. Yesterday, we saw a character who put M C Saga in the shade. It’s also impossible to describe the magnificence of the NHS and the travesty of the posh twats selling it off in their latest fuck-you bill, passed through parliament this week.
Maybe I’ll put it in (another) book one day.
Rock & Roll:
Is sweet. Beatles deconstructed vids remain my inspiration. The individual tracks are raw and ragged but the finished product is perfection.
Sam and I have been finishing recording the track that we spontaneously started last week and it’s sounding good. We’re going to make a vid for it. and I’ve started recording one of my songs. The kitchen becomes a secondary recording booth.
Yesterday, I was talking to fellow all round muso Johnny, one of the charge nurses at work, about the absorbing enjoyment of visualising a song, then recording all the separate tracks, to bring it all together.
There are quite a few of us about – medic musos. My anaesthetist mate Oli has been banging out tunes all through the pandemic. I’m thinking that after the shitshow, we should write and record a song. It will have to be good though and it will have to stand up on its own merit – we won’t even mention the medics bit.
I’m getting tired of M C Saga. He’s getting very uppity. He won’t even do any house work. I think he’ll have to go.