Life Eh?

Last night I decided to let go of the searing anger that I’ve been feeling for almost a week.

Everyone on both sides of the widening post Brexit chasm had been telling me that I needed to do it.

That I had to move on.

On top of that, if I’m honest, I was physically exhausted from 6 days of Ragecon 1.

So I let it go.

And it was horrible beyond belief.

When I stopped punching the walls, they began to close in around me.

When the adrenaline stopped flowing there was nothing to take its place.

I felt utterly empty.

I just wanted to go to bed for 10 or 15 years and have a decent crack at beating the Guinness World Record for pork scratching consumption.

So no, I won’t Let It Go.

I won’t listen to calls for unity from people who voted against being part of something bigger than themselves.

I won’t say “it’s only politics” because politics is important.

I won’t calm down and move on.

I’m back and I’m angry.

And yes, I am angry with the people who gave the public access to The Self Destruct Button because they were smug enough to think nobody would press it.

And yes, I am angry with the people who told you that The Self Destruct Button was actually The Freedom Switch and that anyone who said otherwise was an ivory tower intellectual elitist with an ingrained loathing of this country.

And yes, I am angry at the loathsome extremists who’ve taken the pressing of The Self Destruct Button as a justification of their vile bigotry.

And yes, I am angry at a political system that’s made millions of people think that pressing The Self Destruct Button was the only way to remind people that they were still alive.

But no, none of that gives me any reason at all to stop being angry at you for pressing The Self Destruct Button without bothering to at least Google the phrase What Happens When I Press The Self Destruct Button.

If you see a Turkey vote for Christmas then it’s natural to feel some sadness on their behalf but if you opened your curtains in the morning to see that 17.5 million Turkeys had popped down to Asda, bought a giant packet of Paxo and were busy shoving fistfuls of it into their own backsides whilst twerking in the direction of Bernard Matthews’ oven, then it’d be difficult to muster much sympathy for their protestations that they hadn’t fully understood the menu.

Especially if they’ve also decided to confer honorary Turkey status on you and your loved ones.

And yes, I know I’m talking down to you but that’s because I’ve no inclination to join you in the gutter full of liars and racists that you’ve decided to lay down in.

If you want me you’ll have to join me up on this soap box where I’m desperately trying to access the few remaining pockets of clean air.