… there’s someone with an agenda.
Another thing: Just heard on The Archers expressions like ‘stays true to himself’, ‘step up to the plate’, ‘have to make tracks’. Since when did The Archers get so street? That’s not how country folk talk, anyway, they say ‘oowar’, ‘coidah’, ‘can’t get a better bit of butter on your knoife’.
This town and country divide, yet so pernicious, yet so obvious, yet only ever widens, if not deepens, too.
Aghhh… foxtrot your concerns away with this egg!
Maybe I should set myself up as a gossip hack, writing Guilty Pleasures or be a 3AM girl or something mindless, just making stuff up. It’d be wonderful not to give a shit.
PS from a late August 2018 posting …
All those magenta-top magazines, Take a Break, Chat, Love it, Other People’s Hell. Take a Break at least is published by Bauer, which makes sense to me now as in Berlin I was amazed at how many of these magenta-topped, OMG-stories and puzzle magazines there were, scores of them weighing down the shelves at REWE and Lidl. Germans are terrible gossips and love schadenfreude, which maybe says a lot about how things that happened in the past indeed came to pass.
Let’s not dwell. Point being I’ve reached out to these Brit mags to see if I can write for them, based on my success as a biographer for Story Terrace, so I can nip around to some woman’s house and have her and daughter or wotnot hunched over in disquiet on the sofa, with the caption, ‘she was so full of life’, before this Tunisian waiter they met on the Internet came over, had a whirlwind romance with them both, then emptied their savings’ tea jar and ran off with the guinea pig.
It is all other people’s Hell, and you’re supposed to get off on it, hence they can call a mag Pick Me Up. I might publish my own, call it Get This, or just Hahahaha!
A potentially fine first novel, 80,000 words done, dozens of synopses sent (and declined, although two said publishers said ‘finish it!’), even a Kickstarter campaign.
The short is, I’ve killed it.
I’ve suspended my Facebook account. Yesterday I ended up on the brink of a row comparing Nazi Germany to Imperial Japan, with a well-known psychotic readily carping as is his wont about how Imperial Japan, east Asia’s greatest aggressor in the 20th century, actually might have got something of a bum rap. Certainly it can’t be compared to Nazi Germany. Well, no it can’t, and there’s no need, it was bloody awful in its own right, be it industrialising sex trafficking on a truly international scale, to bio-medical experiments with Unit 731.
But more to the point, where the fuck is it going that I can be entering debates about the relative moral awfulness of utter fascist bastard scum at either end of the planet?
The smell from the landfill on the A695 is inciting the locals to tipping point. Luckily where we are, we’re just high enough and 99 days out of a 100 the wrong way windward so that we avoid getting the full whiff of the place, but all one need do is drive down Stella Bank towards Blaydon, and you drive into this invisible fug of rotting cabbage pouring down from the Great Anus on the Hill that is the landfill. And that it’s making the poor sods who live along Stella sick – headaches, nausea, apart from the stress of their lovely little homes being so blighted by this relentless tsunami of stink – is no surprise, and no small scandal.
And the locals are gathering their rage.
You can sense how the gas flows down and pools at the bottom of the hill, on the river.
It’s pure methane, might as well be living on TITAN.