Understanding England No.47

I haven't been able to read for ages. I haven't been able to concentrate. Until I rescued the above book from a steaming death via the shower in our bathroom. It's great. Our 3 bed house now houses, roughly, seven or eight.  It's quite nice but it means I have been alerted anew to the worrying noise-nusiance my teeth make in my sleep, grinding away into nothing.

I haven't been able to do anything because I seem to spend every day battling the ever more ridiculous faculties of the Department for No Work.

As I haven't written for a while, here are a few reflections on what cannot even passably be called 'this Summer.'

Apparently the most over-subscribed service in Peckham, a town gone mental, in it's collective wintry African frustration, for (sigh), the Fifty shades of Gray debacle / series. 
The same fat awld wimmin who literally bash their Bibles of usual, have taken to walking round with the thing held high in the air like so many extinguished replica Olympic torches.  I don't care about how bad the book is, I really don't mind what other people read, which to observe recent 'literary criticism' of the prolific tombs, seems peculiar. 

Silly Sunderland battered missus associations get the wrong end of the, er, stick, but mostly you have your average Guardian ( insert your own endless offensive adjectives) Twat falling over themselves to snottily imply to everyone how worldly they are, and that this world should, of course, belong to them, viewed subjectively by their considered, narrow, black rimmed arsehole glasses.

(I can't stop myself from going there, I am now never, ever, buying the Guardian again after buying an issue in which the supplement's main feature, I discovered, was assorted Cunts discussing 'What their evening meal says about them'. Unpredictably- in terms of a new low, low editorial calibre, 8 pages disscussing use of the word 'Supper', which apparently is a 'Class-loaded' concept -Predictably, everyone falling over themselves to describe how it was never used when they lived up a chimney down a pit clothed only in flat caps sewn together with hardened human feaces, before they managed to chance it in to Cambridge....I'll stop now anyway)

ANYWAY. And apparently it (S&M, the very idea) does (belong to them, the shits) ! The oddest thing seems to be how apparently unaware of the very existence of anything approaching weird sex a large proportion of Blighty's populous is. Which I find impossible to understand. Don't they watch telly?

It's been fucking everywhere for fucking ever. Fucking, every where. Weirdly.

Which brings us neatly on to my next topic, thank you.
As I was sitting in a friend's bedsit in Peckham, a borough you may be correct in assuming I now cant afford to leave ever, the room filled with a gradual and sinister buzzing.  Smoothly, reaching down the side of his broken, and rather worn bed, for a  riding crop he had deigned to  possition down there, like an assassin (ass-ass-in?) he swatted a big fat wasp, good and proper. I gleefully took my position as spectator as he battered the fucking thing into smithereens. PETA be hanged. Now let me be clear. I don't kill animals, although I recently was complicit in the hoovering up of a huge Cardinal spider, but one which has been terrorizing the house for over 9 months, and has been politely and fairly shown the door many, many times.
But, I hate wasps with an utter passion. The only reason I don't kill wasps, is that I am far too frightened of them, and cack-handed, and more frightened still of enraging them by attempting to kill them. But it got me thinking. Wasps look fairly like ugly new Super-bikes, or spaceships, or something harshly super modernistic, the kind of design you'd see on a shit dutch tech superclub  poster. I wonder what they made of them in the distant past. Or even the recent past. Any past preceding the 1980s.
It's a wonder those sort of beasts didn't usher in some new sort of futuristic aesthetic. Mad Flying Danger.

My insect sensitivity is currently at an all time high, thanks to a flee infestation, and next door knocking their entire kitchen down thus turning our gaff into a spider refugee camp.  The irony, of all the homeless boys I let stay in my house, bitterly moaning about 'MY' fleas.
Well I'm sorry. If you don't like it then go and shoplift some flea spray. I can't even be bothered.

One more thing. A pissed man on the street asked me why so many blonde girls dye their roots black. How long may have that question plagued him?