Scarily, I just typed December instead of September.  Thing is, it will be Christmas in a blink of an eye albeit, miraculously, the sun is in evidence today.  Autumn, as is well documented, has long been my favourite season but, traditionally, it follows summer!  No evidence of that this year.  Maybe it just gave up the ghost – and who can blame it?

Why am I writing this on a Saturday, indoors, when the sun is shining?  Truth be told, the position of my desk, in front of the French doors overlooking the garden, is glorious.  Entertained by the resident pigeons, I am bathed in warmth, sunshine and calm as I tap on my keyboard, my scribbled notes beside me.  Normally, I would be listening to Radio 2, Pick of the Pops but, of late, it has moved into the 80s/90s.  Not a fan.  So, here I am, in silence – bar the familiar sound of my little alarm clock beside my bed (how Becca loves that clock!) – endeavouring to harness my thoughts for the week.  Procrastination is a curse but all I have to do is commit a couple of paragraphs to paper and then I have to finish it.   Mind you, I am about to go out and see friends for coffee so, until my return …

They’re long-suffering.  It’s almost 8pm!  No, I have been back for some time but only now climbed the stairs.  It’s good to see old friends – and engage with human beings, occasionally?  Those with whom one chooses to engage!  Those with a similar outlook, definitely, and, preferably, those with whom one has shared history.  Ticked every box this afternoon.  Add to that, they are loyal readers of – clearly intelligent and discerning, then.  Not happy, though, at the irregularity of my posts …   Seems that ‘little spark of madness’ is hard to come by and, perhaps, Trish-Trash represents a little grasp at sanity in a world which is, now, completely insane.  Flattered, I’m sure, but order is most definitely required.  No more this easy-osey attitude, putting off today what I can do tomorrow.  People are counting on me.  I have loyal readers to consider!  Thus, I feel compelled to share my thoughts and opinions – nay, my joie de vivre – more consistently.  Back to every Friday?  I shall timetable it in red.  See how that goes … or not (laughing emoji).

Excellent.  Four hundred and twenty-three words of nothing.  God, I missed my calling – and my fortune.  Should have been a lawyer!  Oh, regrets … I’ve had a few but, then again, too few to mention.  Then, again, I could have been a songwriter!  Enough.  To be continued tomorrow after Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs – yes, hilarious.  I happen to like the music.  As for the messages, spoken and otherwise … any reference to brain donors is purely co-incidental.

Yes! I see a link.  Let’s start with the joke deemed best at the Edinburgh Fringe 2023 …  ‘I started dating a zookeeper but it turned out he was a cheetah.’  Lorna Rose Treen, the comedian responsible has much of which to be proud … not!   Probably one of the worst one-liners I have ever heard.  Is this it?  The level to which we have sunk?   (Yes, I know but we were taught never to end a sentence with a preposition!)  Back to that apology for a joke which has garnered applause …  Utterly banal.   I recall a description of life today, notably, the race to the bottom.  In one.  For that’s exactly what it is.  Everyone and everything must be brought down to the lowest level.  Expectations?  Bucket them!  Think rock bottom.  Expect nothing.  Me?  I remember humour; real humour.  Once upon a time, people were intelligent – and funny.  Take John Cleese, Rikki Fulton, Morecambe & Wise, the Two Ronnies, Dave Allen.  Masters of their craft each and every one.  Billy Connolly, for goodness sake.  He, who took ordinary life, everyday observations, real people and turned them into comedy gold.  Now, go back to that ‘joke’ at the top of the paragraph.  Exactly!

A world without humour.  God help us all!  No more freedom of speech.  Instead, lynch mobs ready to scream offence at every turn.  Lynch mobs, I might add, peopled by the rabid left driven by envy and grievance, intent on unleashing their bitterness on the conservative right who, without exception, were born into privilege spawning their belief in tradition.  Of course, they were.  We are talking white privilege, make no mistake; a birthright which ensures one is inherently racist!

We owe so much to George Floyd, that ‘whiter than white’ black man who died at the hands of a racist policeman in May, 2020.  After all, his death was the catalyst for the Black Lives Matter movement which, in turn, not only gave the green light to woke but positively encouraged discrimination – against white people.  So it is that, in this country today – a country whose population is over 80% white – Black Only theatre performances are allowed, Black Only clubs abound and colour, it would seem, is the prerequisite for a successful job application.  The definition of diversity and inclusivity?  If they say so, the sheep do not question.

Mindless.  Monitored.  Moronic.  I have become acutely aware, recently, of young girls – particularly – seemingly mute, dressed only in their ‘pants’ and clutching that micro-computer responsible for life itself, paying for items with the touch of a screen.  Robotic.  Disconnected.  Scary.  Do they have any parents?  Then, on the news today, calls for assaults on retail staff to be made criminal.  On the increase, seemingly, it is commonplace for staff to be sworn at, spat at, abused both verbally and physically.  Meanwhile, seventy percent of police call outs for serious offences of this ilk are ignored.  Let’s face it, the police are too busy practising their dance routines for Tik-Tok, painting their cars in rainbow colours, sending hideous texts to each other or arresting innocent members of the public in their own houses whose only ‘crime’ constitutes exercising the right to free speech and expressing an opinion online.  In other words, a bid for sanity in an insane world.  One couldn’t write it!

The race to the bottom.  Only this week, I heard a young guy on the radio who, when questioned as to what he did, announced that he was about to go to Salford university to study Popular Music and RecordingThat’s a degree course?!  In a world in which every two-bit college is now a university and every course, a degree, why am I surprised?  For all I know, the guy behind the till at the garage is probably studying for a degree in Fuel Consumption!

Be sore afraid …  Air Fryers: Are They Worth It?  Channel 4.  Who in his right mind would record that?  Seemingly, me!  Who needs Alexa when one has an ancient TV connected to BT?  On the positive, at least IT doesn’t have a penchant for Gogglebox!  Speaking of which – although, not that low – I, myself, must confess to being addicted to the new series of Celebs Go Dating, purely thanks to the participation of Mark-Francis Vandelli of Made in Chelsea fame.  Nothing short of a social experiment, Mark-Francis is the embodiment of everything taboo in this insane world hellbent on the race to the lowest common denominator.  Classy, intelligent, educated, well-mannered, well-spoken, funny, well-dressed … need I go on?  He is there as an object of derision, the posh guy whose white privilege has ensured he is completely out of touch.  The lowest of the low narrator, of course, makes disgusting comments about him, designed to offend.  Invert and there would be outrage.  Mark-Francis, however, is way ahead of the game, running rings round the mindless and moronic.  TV gold.  That race to the bottom?  I, like Mark-Francis, refuse to participate.  Quite frankly, we’re ‘over-qualified’!

I once knew someone who had a sleeping bag.’

Mark-Francis Vandelli

Now, that’s funny!

This is Trish, signing off.