Trubrexaggedon?

Sometimes we need to squirrel ourselves away to recharge rundown and corroded batteries. Sort of take a little time out.  To try and remember precisely where we’ve squirrelled away all of those batteries.  Especially when ingesting and processing the endless streams of guff pouring over wires, or through the ether, has the unfortunate side effect of exponentially draining our energy reserves, as mind-boggling levels of worldwide guff grows with eye bleeding rapidity.

Part I

Oh blimey.

Oh dear.  

Oh my omnipresent sky biscuit and creator of all. Whom despite being all knowing all seeing, and all powerful (albeit with a short fuse) just can't put his/her/it’s own creations in order and needs one of those creations (a bunch of semi-intelligent, arse scratching, missile waving bipeds) as poxy fodder to help win a simmering cosmic war.  A war which will finally be concluded when the hamsters of the apocalypse pop along to firmly press the orange finger of pudginess, into the gaping windblown crack of wanton armageddon - or something tautologically horrific!

Lest we forget, this familial bust-up (for a fifth of the world’s population at any rate) began with the brightest and most favoured feeling put out by some upstart knuckle-draggers daddy had the temerity to pop into existence, and started paying far too much attention to.

The flouncing and pouting was partially inspired by a towering pillar of narcissism, and nascent realisation the gullible and easily manipulated bipeds were more than ripe for the picking and for a bit of upselling, with nothing more requisite than a dingle-dangling delicious bite of an apple.  

I’m sorry, but if the fate of the universe depended on whether some grunting mud-slingers, apparently without prior knowledge of good or evil (nor seemingly much knowledge of anything else outside of lewd behaviour) decided to eat the forbidden fruit, as the magic speaking snake said it tasted soooo so good, then that surely smacks of juvenile entrapment, along with been a bit of a flaw in the master plan.  After all they hadn’t even reached their first birthday; and which parent expects a toddler less than one year old to do anything it’s told.  But who am I to quibble over the elated finer points of reverential godly existences!

Moving on.

What a year 2016 turned out to be!?  Yes this is a bit late, and yes no one cares, and do you have to read it?  Of course.

This was going to be the bright and shiny 2017 new year's day post.  But i’ve been stuffing my face with popcorn and cream cakes ever since the year birthed into being.  My open mouth refusing to stay shut, as my eyes stared in amazement at the reality tv series that had overrun the newsreels. Launching us kicking, and screaming down our very own dystopian version of the twilight zone.

Dependent on which part of the social, political, empathic, climatic, sociopathic, bring-on-the-trumpets side of revelations you inhabit, either your throat is hoarse from all the shouting and screaming - and that's only at your heathen neighbours with the temerity to fly a rainbow flag - or you haven’t stopped shaking your head, as each mind-boggling month is followed by yet another, even more out there, boggling month of creaming uncertainty.

So with 2016 firmly in the rear view of the great knackers bin of history, and 2018 in the wings, hardhat firmly wedged behind baroque velvety curtains - eyes peeking through embryonic camouflaged hands - it’s time to take a gentle gander back through the briarbush of popcorn-stuffing stuff, which had people sputtering burnt toast across and over their better half - whilst listening to the news, first thing of a morning.  

So, and in no particular order, let’s take a gentle gander back through time and across the spinning globe, before it bursts into a gargantuan nuclear flower...

Which in time honoured tradition, will be continued in part ii, next week.