Monday
Today, the bearded billionaire and unsettling dentition display stand, Richard Branson, shared his belief that: “I truly believe that ‘stuff’ really does not bring happiness. Family, friends, good health and the satisfaction that comes from making a positive difference are what really matters.”
Beautiful words enshrining unprecedented insight there. Bit odd, coming from a modern-day Croesus who sued the NHS for alleged flaws in its procurement process and settled out of court for a sum many felt could be better spent. And, because he was not sending them via the wifi “provided” by Virgin Trains, they made it successfully on to the social media platform to which he intended to send them. Twitter duly did its thing, pointing out that it was a leeetle Marie Antoinettish to post that sort of thing when one was free of every one of the daily physical privations that habitually affect one’s health and one’s ability to maintain family and friend relationships, and how difficult it can be to make a positive difference when you first have to make rent.
Also, that it is indeed hard to find happiness if the stuff you have bought is from Virgin.
But we know, the kinder amongst us, where Branson was coming from. Everyone gets to an age when one’s private island is no longer the attraction it once was. It’s not looking quite the way it used to, and women aren’t looking at it quite the way they used to either. The race to cryogenic immortality looks set to go to the big boys, and at best now an eternity of being laughed at by Peter Thiel across the transdimensional divide beckons. The heart turns to the ineffable. Love, laughter, amity and contentment. None of them as ineffable as Virgin wifi, Rich, so the odds are with you. Good luck.
Tuesday
The suspicion that the Boris Johnson appointment is not so much a premiership as the latest phase in a David Cameron rehabilitation programme run by the deep state (“You thought he was lackadaisical, toxically self-interested and virtually indistinguishable from a carrier bag full of yoghurt?! Ha! And Dave only left his kid in a pub – this one doesn’t even know how many he’s left round west London!”) strengthens.
Further misgivings abounded after his visit to the Faslane naval base in Scotland, where he was given an overcoat (in local parlance a “foulie”, but occasionally one just has to look gift horses in the mouths without breaking, you know?) bearing the above-pocket legend “Prime Minister”.
Was it a helpful reminder to Boris himself? In which case it should have been reversed so that when he looks in the mirror – I’m assuming that if he’s been able to do it thus far, nothing in the last few weeks will have altered the situation – the tag reads correctly. It makes more sense all round, however, that it is for the good people on the base. To remind these representatives of the armed forces, Britain’s finest examples of loyalty, fidelity, service and all-encompassing competence in their respective fields, that … this is happening. You can imagine their commander’s pep talk before the carrier bag yoghurted itself aboard. “This is not an exercise! He IS the prime minister. If in doubt, LOOK AT THE COAT. On the other hand, if he goes man overboard, don’t all rush at once, ’kay?”
Wednesday
America is riven with a new conflict. After one mother’s Facebook rant went viral, there is only one question on the nation’s lips: should childless millennials be allowed to go to Disney World?
“It pisses me off TO NO END!!!!! when I see CHILDLESS COUPLES WITHOUT AT DISNEY WORLD!!!!,” she wrote. “People without CHILDREN need to be BANNED!!!!! Mothers with children should be allowed to skip ALL THE LINE!!! This c–t in some very SLUTTY shorts was buying a Mickey pretzel and Aiden wanted one but the line was very long so I said later and it broke his poor little heart and he cried,” the woman added. “I WANTED TO TAKE THAT F—G PRETZEL FROM THAT TRAMP LIKE THANKS B—H YOU MADE MY SON CRY!”
Now, it is not my place to get involved in other countries’ cultural schisms. I will only say that as a mother currently on holiday with my child, I can only sympathise with the tone – if not the content – of this plangent posting. I am living that tone. My interior monologue is delivered only in that tone. It is the tone of a woman who is either hankering to be or actually is three gins to the good. Sure, she will go away. Sure, she will do different activities in a different place for a fortnight a year. But like brown rice is technically the same thing as white and yet carries not a jot of its huskless compatriot’s joy or comfort, any break taken for at least 18 years postpartum is a holiday in name only.
Have another gin, dear FB mom. And a Valium in the evening. Most things are millennials’ fault. But not this.
Thursday
BIG shout out to Idris Elba, who, when asked by the host on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert to explain the plot of the forthcoming Tom Hooper film Cats, in which Elba plays the not inconsiderable role of Macavity, came up with: “It’s a big musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. I guess it’s about cats?” thus usefully confirming many floating theories about Hollywood and its denizens, generally, and Cats in particular:
Nobody knows anything.
Nobody reads anything.
It wouldn’t matter if they did, because Cats absolutely doesn’t make sense.
An entire episode of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt centres round this hitherto underacknowledged truth.
I remember the stage show fondly, however. I went to see it a few years into its London run for a birthday treat. I was supposed to go with my dad, but he was ill and Mum had to take me instead. She is not a devoted fan of any form of theatre and especially not the kind that involves actors pretending to be cats rubbing against members of the audience in suitably feline fashion. My mother loathes animals too. That was more than 30 years ago now and her face that evening, both hate-filled and haunted, delights me still.
Friday
The general idea in these situations is to try to end the week on a positive note. With every one that passes, this becomes an increasing logistical challenge. We still had the £2.1bn earmarked for no-deal preparations (a chlorinated chicken in every pot! A bunker in every home!), Greenland losing 197bn tonnes of ice in July (Forget the bunker! A hilltop fort in every county!), the fact that an expert on the damaged Whaley Bridge dam referred on BBC Breakfast to the possibility of it having to be “dewatered” (Forget everything! Let no deal end us all!) and much, much more to get through.
But then I woke on the morn to the sound of two people beneath my window laughing about the Tories and an election result. My heart in my mouth, I crept to my computer and found my way to a news website – to find that the Lib Dems’ Jane Dodds had seen off the outgoing Conservative Chris Davies in the Brecon and Radnorshire byelection, cutting his party’s majority to one. The Boris bounce has boinged them right into the shit. My mouth curved into a strange upward shape that a quick Google search confirmed was “a smile”, and I think we should wreath ourselves in them just for a moment, while we can.
