Up Up Up!. Here’s a little something, a sort of political tapas to keep us entertained until the new year, which won’t be so new after all, more like a dreary continuation, the Chapter 3,273 of the same old shit we’ve been getting from our beloved leaders and attached retinue of leeches, social psychologists, tame scientists, Guardian analysts and so on.
Up the R-Evolution! Give ‘em hell! Kick Them where it hurts. Kill all the Dead Myths!
The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.
Karl Marx. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Karl Marx 1852

Amazing Grace. Have a sponditious Solstice, do. I agree, there are hardly any reasons to be cheerful. It’s perishing cold and utterly miserable out there, what with the political Pestilence, and the Russki-Hysteria and the BBC anti-strikes propaganda and all… But it’s the thought that counts, dontyouknow. Stay warm, stubborn and, if at all possible, awkward. Love and Blobs. PS. And don’t forget to thank the Sun for its kind indifference to our welfare and, therefore, returning to us just because that’s what the Sun does. (Me, in it’s place, I would have given up and gone nova a long while ago. Roughly at the time the Nobel mafia gave the Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger…)

Love Dance. Ash’s 10th. It’ as I say all the time, even ad nauseam: if you’re lucky enough to have any friends, love them and cherish them and be good to them. They will not be around forever; like everything else, they are here today and poof! gone tomorrow. Have a nice life.