This is stuff excavated, cut and pasted from a miscellany of stuff resurrected from a dead hard drive.
The last one left, don't leave the house In case that Greek bloke Alexis Tsipras or that Podemos bloke, Or the terrorist on Princess Street Thinks you're a dish like all gay men do or others wearing scarves Around their heads called Mohammed Recognise you, form a crowd Of people keen to quash free speech When you shout out they should go home By which you mean not Princess Street But Islamland, a desert vista With camels, guns and crescent moons And paedophiles and things gone mad Just like the new railway crossing They voted for up in town hall And asked you to support for bribes That you accepted, like them all Elites that make you feel at home To win a vote no matter what. The world's an oyster in the South of France to each his own, to each his lot, but all's like here with different weather. The wife agrees with you that meat we're forced to buy from Pakis do not have thorough vetting ethics. What women wear clearly oppresses Their freedom to clean and iron shirts For you as well as breed a child With views they share, a battleground In this old town the browns spat on Like shit it passes for community I'd rather I didn't live much here The BNP has had it's day - Those red-necked scumbags from UKIP And pinkies with their corrupt ways Blot with ink the last white paper I stand alone: a scarecrow in fog. While socialists eat their other's curses smiling as they ramble on in towers made of melting ice on grounds they made with broken hearses of victims from the World War 2 When British flags were used. The Icke lizards from Highlander two. With cash, the claimants wipe their arses in Johns, me, John sit in the hall most days in cubicles, foreign flu. I went to Spain - never again The risk of terror is way too much And it's too late when you get caught - A racist shouldn't get sunburnt.
Look at the evidence and try to ascertain from that evidence that my depression is a symptom of just internal thoughts going on. I’ve just read an utterly convincing neo-hegemonic peer-revieved account of the ways in which neoliberal practice has infiltrated our schooling system from cradle to grave. Now they’re using that to decimate the welfare state, sell off the public services, and kill off 9 tenths of the population of the country so they can turn it into Qatar.
I don’t want to be given all that person-centred therapy crap they give out to all the rookies like Clova and Laura and all that lot and I wrote about fucking decades ago. Nor do I want to be given advice from somebody who hasn’t feel depressed ever, but was a bit down once when he had to choose an appropriate career route. Magnify that experience by 1000, get into the hermaneutics of “career routes” in general, where it leads to – pain, regret and death, and do please get back to me.
So yeah, I felt like a 50s housewife on valium for a bit, which I suspect is what they’re chiefly designed for, or picked out for.
In all honesty the cure to all this shit came in the form of the old school valium, or etizolam, which I think I’ve finally got under control, within a dose threshold that stops the eye-popping anxiety I have always felt, the dreadful death insomnia, etc., but stops me monging out for weeks doing fuck all. My dose is 4mg.
“Oh look there’s a can of peas.”
I’m going to cry uncontrollably about that can of peas for the next half hour.
There are birth rate people and death rate people. Birth rate people do things without thinking about things and tend to have children. Death rate people are obsessed about the consequences of their actions to the point that its sheer gravity engulfs all thought.
In the space of a couple of hours I found myself washed up sober in a world that I no
longer understood. My particular form of alcoholism led to the gradual erosion of
everything social. One of my desires was to look out of the window and to not have
any other cunt looking back in at me. My elixir was television.
But since my third decade passed seamlessly into my fourth, I became
too paranoid to leave the house beyond the essentials – cigarettes, alcohol, the
occasional sack of potatoes. Paranoia made me shift off-licences every night. With
the shrinking of my world came a disproportionate obsession with what other
people were thinking. I assumed that the shame-laced prick within was always
visible to passers-by. The disproportionate contempt I felt for other people told
me that I had failed to cut them off. I drank rather than died and that told me that
some part of me did not want them to disappear. Rather, I wanted to control and
simplify all human opinion into one inseparable mass. Addicts are dictators without
opportunities. Dictators are people whose position, status or physiognomy causes
them to ignore differences between people. People are, well, people are. There