“You’re not going to blog about scabs again, are you, babe?” asked Mrs. F this morning as she checked last night’s Twitter feed. “Might do”, I replied. The answer had been “yes” but the tone of her voice made me rethink, but then again, what else did I have to write about?
Well, let’s get the scabs out of the way first. Late last night, as I was being consumed with illness and driving through miserable rain my phone beeped and it turned out to be a new nutter. I refer you here, here and here, if you don’t know what I’m talking about. The new nutter has the catchy Twitter name of @COMBATSCABS. I’m not joking, and the capital letters aren’t mine. Feel free to verbally abuse that person, as she did to me. She retweeted parts of a conversation between myself and another nut job, then link to two of my blog posts (which helped the stats no end!) with attached text which suggested I was saying “I am a scab” (I’m not) and “I am a piece of shit” (I’m not that either). That lady, I say lady, let’s call her a fucking cunt instead (or maybe “dear”, ‘they‘ don’t like that) chose to refer to me as a piece of shit without knowing anything about me, other than what she probably couldn’t be bothered to read about me. If you check her Twitter you’ll see she’s mostly been retweeting other people’s conversations out of context, and is followed by some other angry people.
I had a little delve into her tweets and then further into the people who’ve followed, who they’ve tweeted and so on. It was interesting, if a little frustrating. The whole issue is so complex that it’s equally unhelpful for me to be so cavalier in my dismissal of it all as it is for her to be so angry and ‘capital letters-y’ and militant. I don’t know enough about it to have any feelings other than personal ones, but she gives the impression that she would know more about it, but she clearly can’t accept it’s anything other than black or white, which as I’ve discussed at length before, doesn’t work at all.
Hopefully it’ll go away again. There’s a suggestion that people are getting lively again because there’s been a stall in the pension talks. Seeing as I don’t have one (might I have mentioned that?) I won’t worry too much about it. I have my own problems. Granted they’re small, and mostly Christmas present based, but they’re problems none the less.
Anyway, never mind all this political shit which I’m ill informed about and don’t care for. In other news, I have a cold.
Let’s talk a little bit about the human body. “Oh, well, of course as soon as you stop, you’ll get ill” is something I’ve heard time and again and indeed have said many times. It sounds suspiciously like an old wives tale, along the lines of “if you go out with wet hair, you’ll get a cold”. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact the viruses (if only it was viri) don’t attack wet hair, it sounds more believably than getting a cold when you stop working. It’s happened to me so often though that it must be true, I just don’t know why it happens. Surely it makes more sense for your body to tell you to stop whilst you’re working? Not once you’ve stopped and had a lie in. It’s as though it’s doing a deal – “look, you need to stop working but I realise you’re busy and need to make money, so I’ll keep the cold at bay for now, but as soon as you even think about having a lie in I’m going to throw the sore throat bit at you, and as soon as I see you’re having a day off I’m going to throw the works at you, including the dribbly wet snot you keep going on about”. Well, thanks a lot body. What sort of trade off is that? If it could be kept at bay when I wasn’t sleeping, how can it attack now I am? It doesn’t seem to make any sense. I don’t really even want an answer to be honest.
I just know that it happens and it’s happened to me. But it was only at the end of October that I last had a cold, this isn’t fair, it’s only about six weeks since the last one – that was supposed to be my one cold of the season. This one seems much more brutal and chesty, oh yes, and just in time to be feeling shit at Christmas. Oh thanks a lot, body. Hey, body, here’s an idea, how about you kept it at bay till after Christmas, and my tricky Christmas gigs, then onto my few weeks of shows in January – how about early Feb? Things are quieter then, I could have a few days off, recover, have time to get to the doctors. No? That not convenient enough for you body? What, right before Christmas and only six weeks after the last one? Well, fuck you body, I’m going to make you fat and full of beer. That’ll teach you. Then what will you do, huh? HUH?
Er… I think the Lemsip might be a little too ‘max strength’ for me this morning. As you can gather I’m rather peeved that I’m ill again and I’m really stuffed full of it this morning and feeling a little sorry for myself. I’m supposed to be out boozing tonight after watching the missus doing her panto thing, but it seems unlikely that I’ll be interested in any booze this evening. This is disappointing, as it’s taken ages to even work out how to get this particular group of people together for booze. Given I’m miserable at the best of times, it might be best that I don’t start boozing.
Anyhoo, I’m waffling on. Essentially all I needed to tell you is that there’s been a nutter resurgence, and I’ve got a particularly bad cold.