Liz Bentley with the Tesco Delivery Man, Prodrome, and The Great Reset

White woman in her 50s stands holding a green crate and a book called the great reset, while a black Tesco delivery man stands at the door

I’m reading The Great Reset

I’ve started a YouTube channel. It’s called Prodrome – The Liz Bentley Show. I love the word prodrome. It means ‘an early symptom indicating onset of a disease or illness.’ My trainee paramedic niece (who is right now dealing with mainly stroke, heart attack and mental health) told me that Chinese airline stewards are being advised to wear nappies – I’ll leave that one there. I didn’t believe her but it was on the BBC News, on the tel lie vision. It’s mad, MAD I tell you. I’m not mad, THIS IS.

I’ve bought a Selfie Stick Tripod so I can film anytime anywhere. Oh, what fun. I’ve begun a book club too. We are reading The Great Reset. Covid is the excuse to transform our civilization. The Great Rest reads like a foul plan.

Quote:

As a result of the lockdowns, the pandemic had immediate effect on every possible industry around the world. This impact is ongoing and will continue to be felt in the coming years. As global supply chains are reconfigured, as consumer demands change, as technology disrupts, companies will be forced to continuously adapt and reinvent themselves.

Looking to the future, governments will most likely, but with different degrees of intensity, decide that it’s in the best interest of society to rewrite some of the rules of the game and permanently increase their role.

GAME??? It’s a game.  What is being done to our humanity during this game? Just a question.

I haven’t been out of the house for days. I was considering going into East Dulwich to go into a shop but heard there were queues everywhere, of which there were. Everywhere. Oh dear. More online shopping. Thank goodness for my cheery Tesco delivery men.

My step-daughters are watching 60 Days In, a documentary drama of life inside prison. One of my ex boyfriends (No. 31 in From Essex to London in 101 Boyfriends) was in prison for nearly three years for trying to do a post office job. Him and his friends concocted the idea the night before, they were all off their head, smack. They stole a car early morning (after no sleep). My boyfriend went into the post office wearing a grubby tracksuit and a balaclava hat. He carried a sports bag with a baseball bat in it. When they got to the post office, just outside of central Edinburgh (one of them knew because his friend cashed his giros there), one stayed in the getaway car outside while my boyfriend and the other went inside, got the bat out and said to the man behind the counter “Give us the money”. The man shook his head and said “Times must be hard” and hit the button which alerted the police. My boyfriend resisted arrest and the police got the dogs out. The dogs chased him, he got caught and his track suit ripped to shreds.

I received two letters a week from my boyfriend during his time in prison. One of my regrets was getting rid of the shoebox full of the thin blue envelopes I collected from HMP Saughton, Durham, Brixton, Wandsworth and Send. I was one of the first Samaritan volunteers to go into Brixton prison. It worried me that my boyfriend might be suicidal too. He was okay, that time, a few decades on, his death a long slow suicide from heroin addiction.

Our lives are now full of prison terminology, lockdowns, curfews etc. Forced to do what we are told in such a way our human rights are fading fast. Govern (Control) Ment (Mind) Brain washing us into thinking it is OUR fault that the virus is spreading. Our prison guards are our neighbours.

A week ago, in the pub, six of us discussing The Great Reset then a 7th joined us and was asked not to sit on our table so he sat on a different table but was nearer us. The bar manager was drunk and thought we were Covid deniers. How can anyone deny that Certificate Of Vaccination ID – set into action in 2019 is not a reality? We haven’t started on the 2020 new variable mutations to keep us in fear, distanced, masked and vaccines forever. COVID has only just begun. I’d love to be a denier, but I wake with anxiety every morning. Hoping it has all been a nightmare.

The bar manager got drunker, clearly he is struggling. As we go into Tier 3, his world has gone upside-down, again. I hope he doesn’t drink too much over Christmas. What else will he do? If he can’t resist it while he’s working I feel for him. Poor him. Poor pubs. Poor world.

This song is for anyone struggling, or going to be struggling with booze this Xmas. I’m still off the booze. Am enjoying a Nannystate Brewdog every now and again. Nanny state. I am infantalised. I wonder in the future whether guards will be checking our nappies as well as our masks and bibs. Merry Xmas blog readers. Do subscribe to my Liz Bentley channel for Xmas joy weirdness.

liz bentley – YouTube

My boyfriend’s got gout

What’s it all about?

Is it cause he’s stout?

I doubt – it

He’s just a red wine lout

He can’t eat cheese, sardines or sauerkraut

Or trout

He gives me nought

That’s why I pout

I’m just gonna point him out

That’s him on his way out

He’s got the gout

I’ve got the pout

Lets all shout

He’s just shout

He’s just banged his toe on the way out

Last night he went out

With the gout

Came home, gave me a clout

He’s given up the snout

Because of the gout

Taken up snuff

What’s that all about?

Gout, gout, let it all out, these are the things we can do with out

So come on

Freek gout…..

Free gout…..

I predict a diet

#Tescodeliveryman, I didn’t order Daz and a return to the #SELF

#TheCrown #darkwaters #miscarriage #bulimia #trauma #I’mexperiementingwithhashtags #secretmessage #theyarediggingupgravesinnunheadcemetaryasthetreerootsareunearthingthemeverythingisbeingunearthed

Black male Tesco delivery driver gives a thumbs up while a white woman in her 50s holds a huge box of washing powder

Tesco Delivery Man with me holding huge Daz, their substitute for no bio Tesco powder

This Tesco Delivery Driver was happy to come in and help with my shopping, good job too, my family eco non-bio washing powder wasn’t available, this was Tesco replacement. I can hardly lift the box, my legs nearly gave in.

A dry lockdown for me this time round. I wanted to be as alert, as aware and ON it as possible. To respond and be as true to my feelings as I can be. I’m returning to my SELF, whilst trying to stay grounded.

As a psychotherapist working continuously during 2020, the more the lockdowns, the more isolation we suffer, whoever we are, and whoever we are with. It is those who have been abused, and are aware (or are becoming aware) of emotions in relation to their abuse and abuser, recognizing intensely, the continued abuse this year brings, with Government threats of more, all across the world.

Most abuse (Including my experience as a survivor) occurs, and recurs behind closed doors, either alone or in a group (who are also being abused, in various TIERS!). The more isolated we are, the more oppressed we become and the more we ‘go along’ with what we’re told. The more we hear words like TRACK, TRACE, LOCKDOWN, NEW NORMAL, CONSPIRACY THEORIES, MANDATORY, LAWS, DISTANCING, KILLING YOUR GRANNY (where are grandads?), OVERWHELMING, AUSTERITY, WORST RECESSION … the abuse runs and runs and runs deep, like a needle in an arm…INJECT HOPE INTO MILLIONS OF ARMS…There’s another from Mr Hancock. That’s not a sign of hope, that’s a sign of torture to me, re what’s to come. The nearest I’m getting to a needle is going through the eye of one on my spiritual journey of love.

More recently, I saw a photo of a younger beaming Mr Hancock with the man himself, Klaus Schwab, also beaming at a WEF conference. Our government are looking for volunteers, scapegoats, to administrate our Christmas and New Year present of THE NEEDLE, oh two needles, then more because as Hancock said, there will be vaccines for viruses we don’t even know about yet. Our chance to be Captain Tom’s, and the Government are bringing in celebrities to help, dread to think who will buy into that one. I despair again, yet I know, behind the scenes (unseen in mass media) there are growing protest groups and the World Dr’s Alliance, triumphing over laws worldwide. Fighting for human rights.

Saturday night I watched Dark Waters, a film I recommend. It gave me some great insight into the enormity with what we’re dealing with right now. I’m putting my hope into the likes of Robert Bilott to save us (DuPont are selling PPE of all things). The Social Network, and Human Nature, both documentaries on Netflix, fabulous, I’ve never taken so much in, in my life.

And then there is the drama of The Crown, of which I have watched with delight. A friend on Facebook wrote:

“All Lady Diana does on the Crown is watch Bagpuss and pukes posh cake down the lavatory! Was she a Bagpuss fan?”

I replied:

“By watching Bagpuss and puking up posh cakes, Diana was busy putting bulimia on the map and by doing so has saved lives…

Watch Bagpuss

Throw up

Save Lives

I’m delighted that The Crown shows what it’s like, the shame and inner disgust. Diana helped me, that’s for sure. Before she came out about bulimia, I honestly thought I was the only person in the world who was that disgusting, at times I felt suicidal. Long may Diana puke on TV and watch Bagpuss which I believe may well have represented a time when she was a child and felt safe, before her mother abandoned her.”

Poor Diana, I was such a fan. Got beaten up by four girls on her wedding day and was on a day trip to Paris when she died (more about that another time).

Moving onto Meghan, who has now put miscarriage on the map with a more permanent marker I hope. Nice one Meghan. I am thrilled, yes, shame, pain, grief and inner torment, I know this pain only too well. Here is the song I wrote after my third miscarriage. I was too traumatised to speak after an appointment. I was at a friend’s house who was busy cooking for her three kids. She sat me down, got me a piece of paper and a pen and said “write a poem”. And here it is, I’m hoping to record it, post it on YouTube, maybe send to Meghan? I never got a chance to send my bulimia stuff to Di. The music of the song is like a cross between Nelly the Elephant and a Gang Show jolly ditty.

Recurring Miscarriage Clinic     Suite 8, third floor

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved a lot with the new consultant Mr Jerkoff

And when he’s about the ladies shout aloud with glee

Didn’t we have a lovely time, all of the girls and me

Big long shiny probe right up your fanny

Searching, searching in every nook and cranny, oh!

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved we see with new magazines and daytime TV

And when we all see a heavily pregnant celebrity

We all shout out aloud in joyous arouse, all of the girls and me

Pictures of foetus’s lining the corridor walls

Old ones, new ones and some in fallopian tubes, oh!

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved the loss with the new receptionist Mrs Toss

And when she’s about the ladies shout aloud with joy

A fabulous time, I wonder what sex, a girl or a boy?

La la la la, la la, la la, la la la la, la la….etc

Didn’t we have, a wonderful time at the RECURRING  MISCARRIAGE CLINIC….My Charles and Diana tea caddy

Charles and Diana on my tea caddy

I watched 1984 last night. I recommend that too.

There is truth and there is untruth

To be in a minority doesn’t make you mad

Thank you Mr Orwell for those words right now

Tesco Delivery Man, from Shielder to non Shielder

shopping on the floor

shielding shopping

This Tesco delivery man didn’t want to be photographed, nevertheless, I showed him my blog and photos of many of his colleagues which he enjoyed. Because of lockdown, delivery men aren’t allowed into houses to help with shopping so I sit on the piano stool by the door and take out all items of the crates, some one by one, because they are heavy.  I don’t have bags because that’s not saving the planet and rightly so, it’s an extra 40p.

While I take out each item, the delivery man tells me his story. He isn’t quite sure of his delivery man protocol because he was shielding during the last lockdown, but this lockdown he was told he wasn’t ill enough. I asked him why this was. He told me because he hadn’t had his usual consultations and that he was off his medication, “It was the medication that stuffed me up in the first place. They gave me steroids for five years and it was that gave me…” The man proceeded to tell me a list of his ailments, diseases, diagnoses, conditions, all of which I have forgotten, I’m not one for remembering labels, people YES, thoughts and feelings YES, acknowledging pain YES. But NOT labels. This delivery man was upset, angry, frustrated, exhausted and I suspect in physical pain. We’re all in some pain and/or anxiety, life is hard at the best of times, some of us are more aware than others, expressed in different forms, all pain, all dis-ease tells our unique story. My story is in the making in the book I am writing/editing, gosh it takes forever the edits.

(By the by the way, a friend asked me why I wouldn’t want a vaccine of any sort when I was a user of recreational drugs in my youth. Firstly, I don’t want bits of male foetus in me, secondly, I have worked so hard on my body with the help of the most wonderful homeopath akin to the Queen’s, and thirdly, I took recreational drugs to relieve emotional pain, but then came the physical pain and MS numbness and blurred vision, my brain couldn’t listen, and then came the therapy to help me see. The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk explains this well. I’m sure Mr Van Der Kolk has a few things to say about this plandemic.)

Back to Tesco. How totally patronising, mind numbingly insulting is this email I received from them today, just take a look …

Santa’s making a
list and checking
it twice

Have you been naughty or nice this year? Whether it was a dodgy DIY haircut or making up homework for the kids to get a little quiet time, have you had any naughty little slip-ups year?

37% I’ve accidently given a relative a dodgy home haircut

5% I’ve made up homework for the kids

48% I’ve forgotten to sing Happy Birthday while washing my hands

10% I’m guilty of sneakily cheating on a virtual quiz

Fuck off, fuck off,  fuck off … I immensely value your Tesco delivery men, and am very grateful that (unlike last year) you have pickled walnuts on your shelves, but I object to this shit – fucking quizzes, happy fucking birthday hand wanking and oh, the hilarity of cutting hair when we’re not qualified. I’ve never read such tripe and been so insulted, that’s what you think I do Tesco, or even think about, this is some of the worst advertising I’ve ever come across, is it supposed to be funny? That’s what has been difficult this year? Really?

Fuck off mainstream media, fuck off mass media, just fuck off. It’s time to change Mr Tesco, no room in the bunker for you mate, stop tittle tattling over last lockdown. We have been locked in, shut down, had our human rights and livings eroded, mental health and economy devastated due to the disproportionate fear-based response to this virus. We’ve been kept in isolation, prevented from spending time with our friends and family and like the economy, most days I feel I could be on the brink of collapse.

The fight in me at least relieves symptoms, writing helps, I know this because I used to run a writing as therapy group for people with MS in the Peckham library.  I was in Peckham Rye park yesterday and Alice Cooper’s song “Don’t give Up” came up on my Spotify. It helped me enormously, Alice originally wrote the track about suicide, but then Covid came and the lyrics seemed to just fit…. And, of course, suicide rates have increased and will increase, just wait until those 2020 figures come in this time next year, in my work and life communities, every week I hear of another young person having taken their life.

Here is a poem I wrote about fucking on the bowling green in Peckham Rye Park

Comfortably

I complained about his dick tion

But I loved his stroke

He was paralysed right down his right side

He could do double with his left

With slurred speech he told me to fuck off about my complaint about his dick tion

We walked through Peckham Rye Park

I hate walking.  He loves walking with three-pronged stick

Like Jake the Peg, diddle, diddle, diddle, de

Hung to left

It was a full moon.  We fucked on the bowling green

Comfortably

Peckham Rye Bowling Green Sign

A good place to fuck in the summer

Masked Tesco Delivery Man suggested I hold something phallic

White man in Tesco Delivery outfit with a mask next to a white woman in her 50s holding a bunch of bananas

Every year, my parents and my sister would go on our annual family holiday and stay in a caravan in Cromer, Norfolk. One year, the Gibbons family joined us for a day. The Gibbons had three children, two girls the same age as my sister and I, and a younger boy. It rained all day so the nine of us spent the day in the small caravan. As far as I can remember, we played cards.

The boy, who then was probably about five, asked questions during the day, like – Why were we scared of the lightning? How did the funny little gas lights work?  Why did Dad win at cards?  After each question, Mr and Mrs Gibbons, stopped what they were doing, and answered the boy. I was intrigued by these parents taking so much interest in their child, I enjoyed listening to their exchanges. My parents, however, found the interruptions extremely irritating. “Bloody little nuisance,” “spoilt child,” “they’ll make him into a little monster,” that kind of thing.

I’ve talked about this memory in therapy. My childhood was one to not question, to accept, to believe teachers, to go to Sunday school. I bunked school and Sunday school, none of it made sense. Back then, I knew my parent’s irritation came from a place of envy, and being around difference. They never asked me questions, and I stopped asking them questions, years before the incident with the Gibbons.

In my early thirties, years into my therapy, I tried asking my parents questions again, I was met with defensive, sometimes angry responses. I learned my relationship with my parents, would always have such limitations, but we got on, I accepted this.

Looking at the world now, with my child’s eyes perhaps, I want to know answers that the young Master Gibbons felt able to ask. Therapy allowed me to develop my voice, even if I’m faced with an angry, defensive voice, I will continue to ask.

The more we know, of course, the less we understand, but the process of trying to understand, holds with it, human communicating, striving for what is right and true to each, even if all our truths are different. As a psychotherapist, it is OUR story that is the most relevant in understanding, our story will always differ from the next, even if we are born in the same household, as indeed my sister and I were, our experience was very different, but often the same.  I wonder if she remembers this day in the caravan?

If my father hadn’t cheated on my mother, and they’d had a good relationship, perhaps I would be more trusting, believe everything I hear, be content and be a ‘good’ abiding citizen with government guidelines? But when nothing makes sense, I cannot, will not. The questions in my family were never answered, and the world’s questions may never be answered, people die with secrets, but the legacy of the burden (i.e. Jimmy Saville’s victims) will go on for lifetimes. The gut always tells us that something is up, whether in an unconscious, perhaps physical manifestation, or a feeling, all are linked.

London, where I live, moves into a new lockdown. Lockdowns were a term I remember being used by my boyfriend Keevan (partner, No. 31, in my book ‘From Essex to London in 101 Boyfriends’), when he was in prison. How can it be, I am locked up, have been locked up? What have I done? At least Keevan knew when he would be free from his imprisonment and was guilty of a crime.

Halloween, the full and blue moon and Jimmy Saville’s birthday, brought about news of the lockdown, Guy Fawkes night begins the lockdown, we think, if the Tory backbenchers go with it, will it depend on the US election?

Here is my poem and then below, lyrics of a song by Ewan MacColl (Kirsty McColl’s Dad) and Peggy Seeger, it’s a beautiful song, I recommend a listen or two.

Scene but not Herd – Liz Bentley

“Moo!” said the solitary cow

“What’s your intention?” asked the drama student with intentions to direct

The Ballard of Accounting – (Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger)

In the morning we built the city

In the afternoon walked through its streets

Everyone saw us leaving

We wandered through our days as if they would never end

All of us imagined we had endless time to spend

We hardly saw the crossroads and small attention gave

To landmarks of the journey from the cradle to the grave

Did you learn to dream in the morning?

Abandon dreams in the afternoon?

Wait without hope in the evening?

Did you stand there in the traces and let ’em feed you lies?

Did you trail along behind them wearing blinkers on your eyes?

Did you kiss the foot that kicked you, did you thank them for their scorn?

Did you ask for their forgiveness for the act of being born

Act of being born, act of being born?

Did you alter the face of the city?

Make any change in the world you found?

Or did you observe all the warnings?

Did you read the trespass notices, did you keep off the grass?

Did you shuffle up the pavements just to let your betters pass?

Did you learn to keep your mouth shut, were you seen but never heard?

Did you learn to be obedient and jump to at a word

Jump to at a word?

Did you demand any answers?

The who and the what and the reason why?

Did you ever question the setup?

Did you stand aside and let ’em choose while you took second best?

Did you let ’em skim the cream off and give you the rest?

Did you settle for the shoddy and did you think it right?

To let ’em rob you right and left and never make a fight

Never make a fight, never make a fight?

What did you learn in the morning?

What did you know in the afternoon?

Were you content in the evening?

Did they teach you how to question when you were at the school?

Did the factory help you grow, were you the maker or the tool?

Did the place where you were living enrich your life and then

Did you reach some understanding of all your fellow men

All your fellow men, all your fellow men?Two white women wearing tin foil hats on halloween

tin foil hats for halloween

Tesco Delivery Man has arrived and I’m still in my dressing gown. What on earth is going on?

White Tesco delivery man standing next to a white woman in her 50s in a dressing gown

Tesco Delivery Man and I’m still in my dressing gown

What a few weeks. Where shall I begin? Insomnia. Two weeks of waking up two hours after I went to sleep, then spending the rest of the night thinking, putting two and two together to make four, four and four together to make exactly eight, a hundred and a hundred, and so it went on. Then it dawned on me. The Great Reset, and I researched more, about the founder/author, Klaus Schwab, who was brought up in Nazi Germany, then I’m thinking about Alice Miller, ‘For Your Own Good: The Roots of Violence in Child-Rearing’. And then I make more sums about Klaus Schwab’s childhood, he is 83 now, the book came out in June, how did he write that so quickly? ‘All the world’s a stage’, what are we really playing in the name of ‘For your own good’? Some think that the sequel to this book is known to all world leaders. It sounds like utopia but how will it happen? However it happens, whatever happens, it’s likely to be in the name of ‘For your own good’.

Our world has been gearing up for this. I became aware in mental health when our Southwark (and everywhere else) holistic therapists were got rid of from primary care. We fought to save our services, to no avail, of course. I didn’t lose my job because I did a CBT course at the Maudsley, and for the rest of my time in the NHS, I pretended, I complied, I made up the stats in order to keep my job, whilst offering my patients my ‘true self’ in the room. I was complicit to use this method, going along with something I resisted so much. It’s not surprising I became ill and had to leave. CBT is useful for a symptom, but it often stops there, mind control, changing your thoughts, why should we change our thoughts? CBT rarely explores, and EXPOSES the cause. Many years ago, I performed at a conference on ‘hearing voices’ at the Wellcome Trust, curated by the wonderful Dolly Sen. “We want our voices heard”, sung the crowds of patients and carers alike. In my CBT course I cried “What about dreams?” the tutor said “Dreams? We don’t do dreams”. Like we can’t sing in a church now, and I can’t swim butterfly in a public pool because my splashing may infect someone with Covid.

Boris Johnson belittled Muslim women not so long ago, we are now all letterboxes. Well, I’m exempt so I’m not a letterbox. I will not have rubbish put into my box. It’s time to stand up for ourselves, but how do we do it? Liverpool did it, they wouldn’t let the police shut down their gym, their fines paid by supporters. They are safe places and promote health and wellbeing. This is madness and is pushing us to our limits, how far will governments, the WHO and whoever else is pulling the strings go? It is far easier to comply and remain hostage, than challenge. Our internet sets us up to divide, algorithums take us to places that fracture our relationships, confuse us, keep us in fear. The vaccine, like Prozac, like CBT never was and never will be the solution.

Our world is reacting to a symptom, wearing the masks, washing the hands, it’s as insane as the sanitizers used, every few hours, or in some cases, every few minutes. It reminds me of working with an OCD hand-washer, red rare hands, a symptom of self-harm from childhood trauma. The world trauma, decades, hundreds of years of abuse, is coming out. The amount of people searching for mental health services is taking its toll. It’s overwhelming. I have never been so inundated with people asking for help. Today I needed to call BT, it didn’t take long before the Scottish technician picked up on my empathy and told me his story. He has been on a waiting list for 3 months to talk with a mental health nurse. His 20 minutes phone consultation is at the end of November, we were on the phone for 40 minutes. My daughter’s school ‘Place to Be’ has a waiting list too long for her to wait. The kids are saying they feel ‘dead’ inside. The older ones are getting drunk and having accidents, or rather ‘onpurposes’ (I studied the psychosomatics of accidents in my Masters degree), turning up in A and E. And I’m getting calls from as far away as Harrow, as us therapists are all so busy. And that’s just talking therapy, with the new lockdowns coming we will be more overloaded as body therapists will no longer be able to work, again, their businesses still not recovered from the first lockdown.

During my insomnia, I have become acutely aware of a higher consciousness, I am an interpreter of the unconscious afterall, it is my duty, it is what I was put on this planet to do, I cannot stop this process. Once you become aware of something, you can’t put it back, it’s out there, but others don’t like it and attack. “Stop watching all this conspiracy theorist stuff”. I will not let the lies seep into my body and become ill, I will not pretend, like I did when I worked in the NHS, obscure statistics so I obeyed the NHS ridiculous (sometimes harmful) protocols, and believe me, they are so ridiculous that the patient, the human, could get lost, and that was over a decade ago.

For the last 6 months, I have felt like the little boy in the Emporer’s new clothes, now I feel like the prince in sleeping beauty, trying to cut through the dark forest to wake up the sleeping kingdom. I have found myself praying and when the new moon came, my insomnia subsided. My homeopath calls me the ‘Unsleeping beauty’. While I am unsleeping, I am continually asking questions, why? why? why? Why did they put covid on my friend’s dad’s death certificate and then change it when she challenged them? Why is it that the press tells us hospital beds are full when some hospitals have as few as 8 covid beds anyway and NHS staff are saying otherwise? Why doesn’t the BBC tell us when the deaths are very low in one day? Why doesn’t anyone remind us that the flu has a vaccinne yet still kills between 45 and 65,000 a year. I could go on and on, but I’m cooking a nice organic chicken in a bit. Ultimately, I haven’t a clue what’s going on, but I’m exploring what’s going on in my mind.

Below is a photo of the print ‘Mad Bonce’ I bought from the amazing artist and editor of DAO, Colin Hambrook, it depicts exactly what has been going on in my head during all these sleepless nights. It was a no brainer to buy from his website, the last time I had so much fun shopping was buying underwear from John Lewis with my husband, just before lockdown. Blue Water was dead, that will be the last time I shall be trying on underwear in a shop. But, Colin’s website is very much alive. We can’t stop being human, our dreams are very real right now, I’d love to tell you mine but there are too many. Oh, sod it, here’s one, I go back to my old family home, my kids are expected to arrive and when I go up to the attic space where I should be staying with my family, there is no roof, I question the parental figure downstairs who I don’t seem to know anymore “How can we stay there, what happens if it rains? Why have you had no roof on this house, for so long?”

My friend has put a bet on that Doris will get on his Santa costume and ‘give’ us Xmas. All I know is that my two friends, one a Selfridges Santa, one a Legoland Santa, have no work this year.

I wrote this poem in 1988, it goes well with Colin’s print, methinks. And below is the original picture I drew for the poem. Call me a nut job, shame or blame me for not wearing a mask, tell me to stop reading conspiracy theories – but it is the nut that sews the seed, the’ nut’ that does the ‘job’. My nut is connected to my gut. My gut says this is NOT for our own good. We need to socialize with our loved ones, be at their sides when dying in hospital beds, care not control and protocol, connectivenesses has never been so important. I am the sanest I have ever been. The strategies and tactics for this great reset are alarming, but that’s for another time, right now I’m thinking of roast chicken and I want a good nights sleep.

Living in a Squat with Uncle Pervious (1988)

An opening head

An exploding brain

Is keeping me sane

Diidle which reads an opening head, and exploding brain, keeping me sane

An opening head, brain sane, not sanitisedIllustrated artwork showing the cross section of a head with people in different rooms inside it

‘Mad Bonce’ by Colin Hambrook

Tesco Delivery Man, up close and personal

Black man in Tesco delivery uniform with a white woman in her 50s, standing in front of his van, smiling

This week has been another difficult week. I’ll start with the Tesco Delivery Man who totally brightened up the week, by the way, for the purpose of people who are offended that we are breaking the ‘rules’, I’ll tell you, there is a possibility this photo was taken before lockdown, last March. Why do I find myself saying this? For fear of an aggressive attack from friends or anyone who sees this, or Tesco firing my lovely Delivery Man. I am scared of attack, just by having a photo of me with this man, enjoying interaction, neither of us wearing masks, neither of us 2 metres apart. During lockdown, one of my Tesco delivery men was sooo happy that I would talk with him, he came into the house, took off his mask and hugged me. He may not have been hugged for weeks, I kept that such a secret for fear of people thinking I now had the plague. By the way, if you’re organising a funeral, speak with the crematorium first about the seating, I have just seen footage of a family at a crematorium in Milton Keynes, they had to sit apart (obviously, because of this inhumane ‘rule’), when their father was being cremated (at least in Southampton crem we were allowed to sit with partners! Well, some of us were). When the ceremony began, the sons pull their seats over to sit with their Mum, who was, obviously, distressed, another man does the same to sit with his wife, then, a masked security man interrupts the service and tells them to stay sat apart, despite this family having been bubbled for weeks, caring for their father. This isn’t human. ‘BUBBLED’ for fuck sake, all these terms, all nonsense. I can’t believe I’m even writing them, endorsing their existence. And as for kids not being allowed to sing happy birthday in school, and as for no singing and dancing in pubs, and as for, and I kid you not, in London Fields Taproom they state, within their house rules, “No handshaking, high fiving or extended eye contact with anyone not on your table” I kid you not. NO EXTENDED EYE CONTACT WITH ANYONE, I REPEAT ANYONE, NOT ON YOUR TABLE.

This week I started back at the FE college I work. My body seized up, fizzing MS symptoms in my legs as I took on the anxiety, tension, stress from the vibrations and all I encountered. No “Hello, how are you?” It’s “Have you got a mask?” Orders, “Walk that way, not this way.” “Is this room big enough for two people?” Every new encounter is like playing a game of snakes and ladders, as a disabled person, this is difficult, stressful and sometimes impossible. Wearing my mask exempt lanyard, I get dirty looks, some run away from me, like I’ve got the plague “Why are you exempt?” some ask, “If you get me a seat, I shall tell you. The short version takes 5 minutes, the longer version is a weekend mind/body workshop, it begins with childhood trauma includes the psychology of brainwashing, the theory behind ‘divide and conquer’, an in-depth session on how our immune system works with viruses, and what a post virus is all about and how to deal with it, what fear is, and how it can be turned into aggression and control, then, towards the end of the show, I get out a vapour and ask to borrow a mask and I shall blow through so you can see the vapour coming out. I shall also provide a reading list, and video list. Actually, this will be a week-long course, I’ll invite guest doctors, nutritionists, immunologists and the Queen’s homeopath.”

The anxiety and tension all around has turned into aggression, thermometer guns point at our heads as the world, THE WORLD (apart from Nicaragua), is swept along, engrained in powerful dynamics that aren’t easily explained. Do you remember when mandatory vaccinations, cashless society, facial recognition, mass censorship, microchips and 5g infrastructure, used to be a conspiracy theory?

Watching Professor Wittless and Sir Patrick Unbalanced (who we now know has shares in the vaccine companies), is like watching a punch and Judy show, bashing sausages over a Doris Johnson who has his legs crossed, like a child crossing his fingers behind his back because he’s lying, but probably doesn’t understand why he is lying. Nothing is true on the BBC, I’m telling you, just the latest warped scores coming in, who’s in the lead re cases? Let’s get the students up there, they’re at the top of the league right now. The 2nd wave is about testing, that’s all, tests that Madge Hancock admits aren’t reliable, at all. And they’re not. We don’t need names/testing for viruses, we don’t need names for storms, they are storms. This is not a pandemic, it’s not a plague, it’s a plandemic, a psychological experiment, set up to scare the crap out of us all and take away our liberty.

I’m a nut job if you like, but the job of the nut is to sew the seed, and the tree grows. I listen to my gut, it’s always right, and my MS symptoms tell me what’s going on, with the link between my mind and body, and my world. I need to feel liberated as an adult, my childhood was not, I was intruded upon and I shall not allow rules to intrude upon my liberty as an adult. A paedo ring will practice for decades, sometimes lifetimes before lines of enquiry are pursued and justice is upheld, take Jimmy Saville, the hidden interview with Johnny Lydon that emerged from the BBC, decades later, says it all. Just you wait, he says. Who believed that our lovable Rolf Harris would do such things? The paedos and world leaders (basically the drug companies running the world/WHO) are not so different, their intercourse is power instead of children, I only hope instead!

When I think about the kids right now, I am reminded of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the child catcher and the Pied Piper of Hamelin, Doris and politicians are tricked by world leaders and now our kids and us (treated like the rats), will pay for decades to come. “We’re all doomed. Doomed” says Private Frazer of Dad’s Army. Our daily death toll (and I’m not talking of Coronavirus, this was always a low mortality rate, says so on the government website), I’m talking deaths from suicide, undiagnosed cancer, respiratory and heart diseases, deaths of broken hearts, literally broken hearts, I was born with a hole in my heart, it’s taken a lifetime to understand the whole of the heart) reminds me of the film Death Race 2000, all countries competing.

When I went to East Berlin in 1987, just for one day (and they kicked me out at Checkpoint Charlie cause I looked like a punk, I had to redress and go via the underground the following day), just 6 months before, David Bowie sang Heros over the Berlin wall which caused riots in the East. The wall did come down, and so will ours, with the masks. We’re not all doomed, I promise you. Good will always override bad. I visualise David, in Mars, looking down on us (certainly not up), singing Heros, if only he would come back, just for one day, to see this madness and sing me a rendition of the laughing gnome, my favourite Bowie song, and why I have an obsession with gnomes. On this note I shall write (I have only sung this song twice before) the lyrics of my interpretation of Star Man. It is about a Spa Man, and no one has been able to enjoy a spa for months. My husband and I, however, sought out a wood-burning hot tub in Suffolk for our anniversary weekend, I am truly grateful for this.

SPA MAN

Didn’t know what time it was but the lights were low, o , o

A leaned back, in the hot tub ,o,o,o

A French couple were gettting it on, o , o, o, o, o,

da, da da da da da

There’s Spa Man, waiting in the corner

He’d like to come and meet us

But he’s stuck there in the sauna

There’s a Spa Man, waiting in the corner

He’s told us not to blow it

Cause he knows he’d get kicked out if he did

He told me

Keep the children away

Keep the children away from me

Let all the children boogie

I had to phone someone so I picked on you, oo , oo

Hey that’s far out, the car’s broken down too, oo , oo

Switch it on and off and it may start again, o, o ,o, o, o

Look out the window I can see your lights on

I should be able to find out what’s wrong, ong , ong

There’s a Car Man, waiting in the lane

He’s come out now to meet me

He’s not charging me a call out fee

There’s a Car Man, waiitng in the lane

He’s told me not to blow it

cause he knows that would be too exciting, he told me

Keep the children away

Keep the children away from me

Let all the children boogie

I had to buy a drink so I picked on you, oo, oo

That’s far out, I can make orgasm cocktails too, oo , oo

There was a group of under 18’s queuing up for the pub loo, oo, oo

There’s a Bar Man, stuck behind the bar

He’d like to come and meet us but he’s shift doesn’t end til Xmas

There’s a Bar Man, stuck behind the bar

He’s told me not to blow his cover

Cause he knows I’m not an underage lover

He told me

Keep the children away

Keep the children away from me

Let all the children boogie

I didn’t know what time it was but it wouldn’t matter to you, oo , oo

You’re up day and night with the sheep and cows, moo, oo , oo

It’s a hard and isolated life for you, oo, oo

There’s a Farm Hand, waiting in the barn

He’d like to come and meet us

But he can’t get off the farm

There’s a Farm Hand, waiting in the barn

He told us not to blow his mind

With relationships of a human kind

He told me

Keep the sheep away

Keep the sheep away from me

Let all the sheep boogie

A white bald man with a beard in a outdoor hot tub waving

My husband, (No. 101 in my book, from Essex to London in 101 boyfriends) the nearest we could get to a spa, in these difficult times celebrating our wedding anniversary

Communicating with the Tesco Delivery Man, nearly in the dark

The nights are drawing in and so are our liberties, freedoms, human rights. I feel like I’m living in a dictatorship, not a pandemic. All these RULES, I don’t understand, and can’t keep up with. The rule of 6? I think Doris must have spelt it wrong and meant the rule of sex, we must keep our sexual partners down to 5, or under, I’m assuming.

Earlier in the year, before the Coronavirus pandemic, I read a book called ‘Stop reading the news: a manifesto for a happier, healthier and wiser life.’ And it works. I recommend it. The author, Rolf Dobelli, writes that 90% of news doesn’t happen, hasn’t happened, will never happen, is bullshit etc. So, if I spend half an hour a day reading or watching the news, I’ve wasted 27 minutes of that day, absorbing shite. Dobelli asks the question, what do you remember about the news you have read over the last ten years? It’s likely only to be main events, like Grenfell, and smaller events that have an impact on our individual lives, like I won’t forget there was a stabbing two weekends ago, a few houses up, then the perpetrator stabbed someone on the bus, then was caught. Deaths by stabbings and suicides are increasing, (as are deaths from NHS services been shut down for so long) when people are oppressed and have been for a long time, of course, they attack themselves or others, our neighbour a victim and a man on the bus in this case. Kids are bored, frustrated, scared, they want us to know they are scared, paranoid. A brick landed in my small Peckham patio from the park. Luckily it didn’t hit me, or any of my gnomes. The perpetrator owned up, I commended him on his honesty. He’s a kid, a sad, troubled kid, bored shitless and bullied into chucking bricks.

My external news, usually comes via friends, our kids, clients and from Lewisham college where I work as an external supervisor.  Because I write this blog, friends send me news that comes up in relation to Tesco. I like this, I prefer it from when I get stuff sent to me when a new MS ‘cure’ makes headlines. For decades I’ve been sent articles and case histories telling me the wonders of Beta interferon, statins, stem cell therapy, antidepressants, and so on. Bullshit, but people are trying to be kind.

Last night I was watching the final episode of ‘Des’ on ITV, I like stuff on serial killers, anyway, a Tesco clubcard advert came up. Ping ping ping, club card savings everywhere, it’s like an Easter Egg hunt, as I use club card, all my shopping is known. If the government wanted to find out whether I drunk more alcohol units than I should, they could ask Tesco. And now, I can’t have more than 6 in my house, it can’t be that I had a party every week. Clever, or am I as paranoid as the kids. I’ve worked with OCD hand washers, red raw skin. It hurts.

This week two nuggets of Tesco news. No. 1 Tesco are soon to be trying out drones for orders under £30, it will take half an hour from when you order, then a little bag will be delivered into your space outside, assuming you have a space outside, if I was still living in a tower block, I imagine they’d drop on the roof of the 20th floor? Where people go to commit suicide. The drone will have a camera on it, which for me, in the summer they would see me half-naked, and enjoy my gnomes, in the winter it will be less attractive and cold for me. But, oh how I would miss my delivery men, my weekly catch up with human beings who have different lives and interesting outlooks. No. 2 The other Tesco nugget came in from the Daily Mash, it was, of course, a satire, yet it disturbed me that there is a satire about this, suggesting that the middle/upper classes don’t know how to address people of difference, ie the Tesco Delivery Men, in any way, I guess they don’t, I guess they would prefer the drone so they don’t have to communicate with a man or woman who they perceive as different, and working their arse off for not much money etc.

I don’t want the rule of 6, I don’t want drones, and I don’t like club cards, I don’t like cards, just birthday cards, I don’t like drugs, vaccines, cures that aren’t, I just like glasses of wine. Social media and Facebook are aware that I’m not taking all the shit the mass media, the United Nations, the World Health Organisation and the government are wanting me to absorb, but they need to triumph so they’re trying to poison me. The advert below came on my feed. If I ate something from the below I would throw it right back up, like a bulimic. Before the advert is a poem I wrote about bulimia. Facebook has given up sending me menopause and pension stuff, now they want to kill me off with what looks like hospital food (or as my friend Caroline said, the peas look like alien brain). Keep flossing your teeth folks. Oh, it just occurred to me, dental appointments are becoming such a rare thing, we’ll be pulling our own teeth out and will need sloppy food, that’s it! There’s always a reason.

Dental Floss is Absolutely Fantastic

Thanks to being bulimic for most of my teens

My gums became rotten and my teeth did not gleem

But when I realised what a terrible mess

I was in, and not looking my best

I stopped throwing up

And wen to the dentist doc

Who sorted me out

I flossed every day

Up, down and every way

Then the bleeding stopped

I could open up my chops

With a beatuful smile

And the teeth whitener lasts a while

A food ad on Facebook showing weirly shaped sausages, a bizarre mound of pes and mashed potato in a swirl
Facebook ads, how dare they