HAPPY HIPSTERS

Redchurch Street

Is full of twats

In Joseph Beuys hats

Stick modelly girls

Their life unfurls

Through looking the part

When, deep in the heart

They ache to doss

And not give a toss

But the aura is thick

With lookist pricks

Every pose they throw

Drives a mammoth blow

Curtailing their years

With inner tears

When they get home

They’ll be alone

Miserable fuckers

Now down-on-their-luckers

Who’d want to be

With a tool like thee?

APATHETIC BRITAIN

Apathy in the UK.

It’s worth £1trillion a year.

That’s a fat half of the GDP of this lazy-as-fuck country. Yes, that’s you, me, and the next can’t-be-arsed person in line. A line that’s going nowhere. A line that sits still because everyone in it is too busy, too idle, too thick or too rich to ‘switch’ one of 20 or so contracts we all have with capitalistic mute behemoths.

I’d like to think I’m too busy or too idle but I may just as well be too thick and too rich.

Energy companies, phone companies, insurance companies, technology companies, they all prey on our sloth-like behaviour.

Even the supermarkets are it with weekly deliveries of food we won’t get around to eating.

It’s not just nice to have in. It’s mugging by stealth. They make more than enough profit.

While we’re busy flatlining in front of Gogglebox, they’re conniving and contriving more devious ways to ‘do nothing’ and keep us on the tariff that gets laughed at when you finally get round to realising you’re the only person on it left in Britain.

So, what do we do?

Start a petition to force through a law that makes multi-nationals assess your usage every month and offer you the cheaper tariff/contract that you really need and bloody well deserve.

That sounds reasonable. Fair. Honest. Open. Empathetic. Maybe even generous.

These are the companies who will win us over in the long run. The ones who know we’re lazy and look out for us just because they’re grateful as hell to have our business.

Then again, starting a petition sounds like a lot of work.

Don’t suppose you’d…

CLIMATE DATING

Dear Bone Dry Country,

Hope you’re airy, but not sweaty. Sweaty is fine if you earn it, but not something you want to feel by standing still.

Wish we could say the same here but we couldn’t be wetter. Every molecule carries a rucksack of rain. We’ve got trench-foot in our ears. Commuters are caught up in river rage, as they capsize kayaks and canoes on their way to work assuming of course that work is not a basement office.

You go to sleep each night praying for rain to douse the friction of ad hoc fire breaking out. When we hit the hay we hope that a nocturnal sponge the size of Asia will mop up all the land lakes that squat in our streets and homes.

So here we both are in opposite worlds, lonely climates in need of sharing the elements that sustain us. We could airmail you some heavy cloud but pen weather feels like we’re skirting around the issue.

Hells bells, let’s date.

We have so much of what you want so bad.

And you hog what we’d love a nibble at.

If we could coexist, jump into bed together and get it on, our joint genes might just create a hybrid temperate climate that we could sell to planet earth and the idiot species that’s screwing it up. Yes fellow humans, we’re all guilty of meteorological abuse on a colossal (but not irreversible) scale.

So how do we procreate new weather fronts that we can control and nurture? Rain we can turn on and off. Sun we can thermostatically adjust. Wind we can direct upwards when it gets too big for its boots. Snow that falls where it’s meant to fall when it’s meant to fall.

If you’re up for making a mongrel with the weather, we are. As far as we can see, there are 3 ways to make it happen:

  1. Meet halfway, swap numbers and atmosphere then retreat to our dens.
  2. Do a home exchange for a season.
  3. Call Cilla from beyond the grave and go somewhere neutral for a dirty weekend.