If you sing that Bambi song about the drippy droppy April showers to the tune of ‘Summertime’ it’s ironic. And an accurate description of August in the UK. Europe has been basking in a heatwave so overwhelming that fears for the health of vulnerable citizens have been voiced. Britain isn’t in Europe much longer so we’re not allowed the weather unless it is rain. Plip plop splash all soaking everything bastard rain. Which I love so it isn’t even a bastard. Unless it messes up my hair in which case it is a bastard. But my hair is too short to mess with at present so it isn’t a bastard. Even.
I saw my friends Tony and Gema today. They’ve just got back from five days in New York and showed me photographs and told me tales of a city I really should get round to visiting one day. It’s never been high on my list of places to see because I’m a short-arsed son of a fuck and all them Manhattan buildings will make me feel like an ant. Or a flea on the back of an ant. Or a speck of dust in the back of a flea on the…you get the idea. It might be all too huge and dizzying. Or not. I’ll never know if I never go.
Funny that I should be getting to know America better during a period when it has had what history will undoubtedly call the worst presidency ever foisted upon it. Couldn’t I have got my shit together during the Clinton years when the economy was genuinely strong once Bill had sorted out the massive military debts of the previous Republican regimes? Or in the Dubblya years when mocking the president wasn’t likely to get you shot by a redneck as they’d be joining in to tell you all the other dumbass things he’d done that we didn’t get to hear about in Britain? Oh well. I did have a couple of weeks of Obama time and I doubt I’ll find many Trumpites in San Francisco in November.
Trumpists? Trumpeters? Wankers?
*unless you’re not in America, in which case outside it is wherever you actually are.