WINE is a great comforter - and we sure need comforting in these dark and anxious days.
Which is why my gel Posh Boots and I took ourselves off to the inaugural meeting of a club organised by my friends Rocky and Melony, which they have named the New (Brighton) Educative Wine Tasting Society.
I know! And we're calling it NEWTS for short!
Unfortunately, I had a bit too much vino at the historic first gathering and "made a show" of myself.
What happened was this... after the initial formal tastings were over, and serious glugging got under way, I became passionately and unreasonably insistent, for some reason, that people should not have TV sets in their bedrooms.
Repeatedly I hectored my fellow imbibers with the message that tellies in bedrooms were lamentable and decadent and, even, "sick and wrong".
"SICK AND WRONG, do ya hear!?"
Eyes rolled heavenward at the sight of the middle-aged prat (moi!) on a roll.
Then I found something else to hold forth about - namely the crocheted bog roll cover in Rocky and Melony's bathroom.
It wasn't one of those the fine-lady-in-a-crinoline-dress type of toilet roll cover covers that maiden aunts were so fond of knitting in the 1970s - though those were bad enough.
No, this one was more of a cross between a misshapen Humpty-Dumpty figure and a malevolent gonk.
I brought the thing into the living room and loudly harrumphed about how very sinister it was. "Evil" in fact, and I think I added for good measure, that it was "sick and wrong".
I must say Rocky and Melony were very patient with me as I held court, as were Dr Gyggle and Litherland Lou. Dr Gyggle shares my extreme dislike of crocheted Bog Roll Monsters, as it happens.
But the other six or so wine-tasting guests, some of whom I hadn't properly met before, well, they were a bit frightened by my ranting, apparently.
"Sick and wrong" is a tedious catchphrase, I know, and a bit dated too, but it's an appropriate description of the state of the world right now.
Banking is in collapse, terror stalks the planet, and environmental disaster is staring us in the face. Also, we've globalisation to cope with, plus massive geopolitical instability.
And we in the West must also face: the soulless, values-free desert that is our post-Christian culture; a collapse of family life; a collapse of real employment; an increasingly fascistic state; love being replaced by meaningless sexual connections: culture being replaced by shopping and crass celebrity; new military aggression from emerging global power blocs; ordinary Western people becoming thicker and thicker all the time; and the West collectively losing confidence in itself ... to the point of despair.
Oh, yes, it would be very, very stupid indeed to assume that all that's happening to free world right now is an economic or banking crisis.
The situation is much, much more serious than that, my friends.
The wise among Westerners, including the prophetic French novelist Michel Houllebecq, have warned us repeatedly of the sort of horrors heading our way - but we've chosen to take no notice, until now...
If you sense that something very profound and disturbing is happening, and want to find out more I urge you read Houllebecq's novels, Whatever, Atomised, The Possibility of an Island and Platform.
Fasten your seat belts, folks, it's going to be a rough ride.
Have a large glass of wine - or five.
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Ian Nenna wrote...
Steve
Knitted toilet roll holders are the reasons I suffered mental anguish as a child. For some reason, not only my mother, but every female relative of my family seemed to own one (in some cases two or more), of those evil bottom fodder cosies. However, although your rant started from a wierd mutant nursery rhyme character, my nemesis was the half doll half knitted tea cosy variety. To me, these were abhorrent, scary looking things, the type of creature that would not look out of place on the island of Dr Moreau. One of my Aunts even had one whose top half was that of Our Lady that she had purchased from a church fete.
Now, how did this cause mental anguish during my formative years? Well, my mum used to work in a convent, and on occasion I would go with her and play in the grounds whilst she worked. One day I needed to use the little boys room, but I noticed that there was no paper, however, experience had taught me well and I knew where to find some of the much needed bottom wiping material. As luck would have it, one of the nuns was standing by the front door of the convent talking to a caller, and, not wanting to disturb her and remembering my aunties cover, I lifted up the nuns skirt expecting to find some loo roll at hand, after all, that is where it was kept in my aunties house (well actually it was under Our Ladies dress but as a six year old it was difficult to tell the difference between Our Lady and a Nun), however, instead of loo roll, I was face to face, quite literally, with a 65 year old, quite large, nuns posteriour that was endeavouring to hold itself within the confines of a pair of knee length satin knickers.
I still have flashbacks.
REGAN replies: Errr, thanks for sharing that, Ian... I think we're all suffering mental anguish now.
Posted by: Ian Nenna | September 29, 2008 3:19 PM