I started thinking yesterday about how much time and effort goes into working – even in jobs that would make you rip your own throat out if you sobered up for any length of time.
That nice Mr Hitler, back in the 1930s, created full employment by sacking every woman in the country with a job. Contrast and compare with the present administration’s forcing disabled people to compete for jobs they couldn’t do – even if the jobs themselves existed.
A couple of years ago, there were thirty-five claimants for every job in the country. It’ll have gone up by now.
We live in a land traditionally run by fucking idiots; heath, wilson, callaghan, thatcher, major, blair, brown and now cameron. Not one of whom could hold down the job I do, let alone handle the quality – or quantity – of drugs I take in my stride.
Can you imagine thatcher on acid? Gordon brown on E? Cameron hitting the psylocibin, while watching nick clegg writhing and self-moistening under the influence of state-of-the-art laxatives?
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.