Bezos in Space: It is a universally recognized truth that a man in possession of an unprecedented great fortune must still need a way to turn it into a penis. Therefore, the richest man in the world has announced that he is building a 60 foot rocket and going into space.
He and his brother will travel on the first human flight launched by the multi-million dollar company Blue Origin on July 20. The rocket is called New Shepard and honestly it looks more like a penis than any other rocket made so far. I don’t know if we should tell him or not.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the deeply earthly affair of Lilibet Diana, the chosen name of Harry and Meghan’s new baby. Given my general tolerance, not to say complete disinterest, in what friends, family, or celebrities want to call their crotch fruit, I can’t believe how deeply I care, that is, hate, this nonsense, emetic, pointless naming of someone after someone else’s nickname. You do not know. You just don’t know. You know, I know, even if we don’t know why we know) decision. Honestly, if this is what happens when you start letting civilians into the company, color me a total monarchist now and forever. Lilibet Diana. Give me strength.
Finally, something to tell your grandchildren: the day the Internet went down!
“It was during the plague,” I’ll begin. Civilization was already teetering on the brink of survival. And then!”
“Yes, grandma ?!” it will trill the childish holograms sitting at my feet, gazing at my ancient, wrinkled face from whatever planet we exile the young from our spinning ball of dust to in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to ensure their survival.
“We couldn’t access Amazon!” I tell you. “OR gov.uk, or Twitch or Hulu! For almost an hour! Not CNN, not The Guardian, not the Financial Times, not even the New York Times. “
“What are all those things other than Amazon?” they’ll say.
“Never mind. Oh, it was a long dark hour! We tried to cut down our own Prime videos, but all the old arts were lost.”
“What caused it, Grandma?” they ask in a tone of astonishment.
“There was a … a mistake,” I say. “In… in one of the big boxes where all the Internet tubes go? Or maybe a cat chewed on one of the tubes? No one really knew, except people who understood the Internet and I never met any of them. “
“Thank you, grandmother,” they will say. “That was a very good story. Sleep now.”
“I will,” I say, rolling my rug over my knees. “I should.”
Woof. Guys, you won’t believe this. Do you know the government? Those guys? Were they at school together, mostly it looks like they’ve been dragged back through a hedge? One smart and the rest some kind of motley gang of bullshit bullies? And that other one who is a kind of skin tag on the body politic? Lives – I think? – Under the stairs at Barnard Castle? Well, listen to this – they have been found to have broken the law by awarding a £ 560,000 contract to their other colleagues! I know. I know. The mind is exploited.
To be fair, the fact that it was found illegal is actually a bit mind-boggling. I don’t know about you, but I was fully prepared for the judge to look at the evidence, long available in and to the national press, that the massive contract to investigate the public understanding of Covid had apparently been handed over to People First without hesitation a market research firm led by former colleagues of Michael Gove and Dominic Cummings, and for the judge to announce after minutes of careful consideration: “Yes, so?” Instead, it found that it “resulted in apparent bias and was illegal.”
My friends, it is a beginning, it is a beginning. Hopefully for them there is much more and the worst to come.
Apparently we are all swearing more. I know, I know, don’t tell me, after the year and more we’ve had. According to a report released today by the British Film Classification Board, six out of 10 people now use “strong language” (that’s “shit” and stuff, but without the asterisks because they take years to say and really dissipate the effect that are searching) in their daily lives and a third say they are doing it more than five years ago.
I love to swear. More than that, I need it. It’s my only escape valve. I cannot cope with any form of confrontation, from an open but reasoned discussion to a shouting match, these are practically indistinguishable to me and I flee in abject horror from all of them. But I still have feelings. Angry, furious feelings. A volley of expletives is the only management avenue open to me. I know that I should be able to rise above such things and move serenely through life wishing even those who add nothing but good to the sum of my happiness. But, unfortunately, they are those idiots.
I bang on the board of the beauty salon and yell “No more!” I have given up. I’ve been hot, sweaty, and vilely uncomfortable in the relentless sun and I’ve given up. I bought a summer dress. I have bought some long panties so that I can wear them and walk more than three steps without falling to the ground grabbing the inside of my worn thighs in agony. And now I’m completing the trinity of seasonal preparations and waxing my legs. I would shave them, but I’m an Esau woman and by the time I get out of the shower and get dressed, they need to do it again.
So here I am, preparing for life in the great outdoors, in the light of day after a year of confinement and furry bliss and a week of sweat-soaked suffering (pants).
If you are now reading this under the covers and looking at a thunderous rainy weekend, I can only apologize. It was my arrogant waxing that did it.
George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism