XXI - The Winds of Change

If there was any doubt as to why I was called "Smoggy On The Run", last night's referendum confirmed it.

Can you live in a country which has Stockholm Syndrome, which has to latch onto Westminster out of fear? That has to latch onto it because it's used to it? Good Lord, the inhumanity. It's no wonder I want to run: Westminster is probably sitting there, looking smug, smoking a cigar and realising that its power is secure. London wins! YIPPEE YAHOO! Who wants to live in a network of countries in which the corrupt, blackened heart triumphs over all?

So, you may be a No voter. You may be sitting at home, breathing a sigh of relief. The union is saved! We're all one big happy family! You sink into the couch, your lack of a spine allowing you to feel completely comfortable. You turn on the television and there's almost a mix of bewilderment and delight: Scotland voted No. The United Kingdom lives. You look at your Union Jack tablecloth, your Union Jack undies, your Union Jack doilies and you begin masturbating to a picture of the Queen. Congratulations, the union is saved!

Except the union is now at its weakest point since its inception.

Scotland may have voted No, but this is only the beginning. There are stirrings everywhere. For example, here in the North East, the cries of devolution echo loudly. Yes, the North East rejected devolution, as has been brought up many times including by that walking scrotum Nigel Farage, but the fact is that in a decade, much has changed. No reparations have been made. Fuck, in a decade, we've had an economic recession occur that has seen the North weakened significantly. Since that decade, we have seen London grow and grow while the North has been left to rot and die. Call a vote for devolution these days and you will see a changed face: With widespread social media and discontent, the vote will change across the board. With actual powers (And not just ceremonial tosh barely more than what Westminster would offer , as was the original devolution arrangement), the North East would be quick to vote Yes. You need only look at the fact that support for a Yes was high in the North East to see that we are sick of the Westminster elite.

Of course, you also have the English crying out for devolution and a federal government. "WE SAVED THE UNION!" cry the English, before turning around and planning to rip it apart themselves. Some people have even called for English secession, essentially pissing on the face of what was driving the entire No campaign. Again, that unpleasant walking scrotum Nigel Farage, who is living proof that we need to start pooling resources into stabbing politicians, called for more regional powers in England, saying that the English "have been suckers for too long" and being much too retarded to realise his party is called the UNITED KINGDOM INDEPENDENCE PARTY, which means he needs to pay attention to Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland as much as England. And what about Wales? Plaid Cymru might see renewed vigour and calls for further devolution or maybe even secession. In Northern Ireland, there are already serious calls for more powers for the country. Every country in the union is now beginning to wake up and realise that the union, centralised on the City State of London, is only sucking power from them.

With the Tories already wanting to shaft the Scots and disagreeing with the financial packages suggested, one has to be careful with these London dogs and whores. With  45% to 55% split in favour of No, this signals something quite dangerous: At least country is torn. It is not "decisive" as many moronic No voters may have you think, it is very close. I believe Scotland, as a proud country, is beyond descending into unrest. There may be a few more punches thrown in Glasgow but the people will accept their fate. There will, however, be no silencing the questions on independence. The referendum will not be forgotten. It will not be swept under the rug. It is out of the bag and it will be there for generations to discuss. We have not seen the last of a referendum, I can assure you. Especially considering devolution.

With devolution, greater autonomy will be gained. With greater autonomy, the different parts of the UK will not be united strongly. They will have their own interests. They will finally work FOR the people. All it will take is one mistake from the ruling class for devolved parts of the UK to decide to split. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland will remain thinking about secession. They have voices now and you cannot silence them. Westminster will try but it will fail.

Scotland has made a mistake. It has missed out on its chance. Regardless, Scotland's No voters will now have to sit back and watch as the union they so desperately adore is slowly pulled apart. With the Barnett Formula under scrutiny and the West Lothian question wanting to be answered in England's favour, this great, ancient country may have shot itself in the foot. One thing she has gifted us all, though, is a voice. You may think No means the union is safe, but Wales will rise. Northern Ireland will ask questions. The North, that area which comprises of the ancient and long-dead Kingdom of Northumbria, is a sleeping giant beginning to awaken.

The No vote has not saved the union. The referendum has already opened the doors for change. We may live under the Union Jack and be designated as the collective United Kingdom, but we have never been as disunited as today.

The Scottish referendum was merely the winds of change blowing. The storm has only just arrived.

XX - Chug Acid, Will You?

Ah, charity. Is there nothing more that warms the cockles? There's nothing more heartwarming or more inspiring than sitting down during dinner and hearing "LITTLE MEELA HAS TO WORK 30 MILES EVERY SINGLE DAY TO FETCH WATER. DONATE FIVE POUNDS A WEEK OR SHE'LL DIE."

Beautiful. One hundred percent guilt-tripping.

Now, before anyone thinks this blog entry is railing against charity itself, let me say this:

I actively support the British Royal Legion. Sure, they have adverts and they send out letters, but they're not whiny or sodomizing. I actively regret not donating to the Legion because those men and women fought for our freedom. I just wish they made it so I could donate ten pound and be given a free trip to give hugs to the brave servicemen and women whom the charity helps.

They conduct themselves in a dignified way. Even when they're in the streets around Remembrance Day, shaking the box and setting up stands, they don't actively dance around and go "HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY STOP".

Which is what I hate about those wanking fucking sodomites and lackwits from every other charity.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not railing against charity ITSELF. But here's the thing:

1) If you run a charity, I respect your cause.

2) Nothing but respect for the people who put their money where their mouth is and actively getting involved with the actual people the charity is helping.

3) If you're one of these young hipster cunts dancing in front of people, you are the problem. You are the British cancer. You are the heart disease. You are pretty much everything wrong with the country.

Today, I have got those young bastards and lackwits in my sights and how I wish they were iron sights, because I would pull the trigger. If it was legal, I would legitimately choke the life out of every one of those bastards I saw.

You know the type: Young, possibly students, or maybe homeless. They wear those stupid shirts of their charity and they might carry around an item related to it. Usually it's the binder (I call it "The Binder Of Mugging English Bastards") they carry. They have shitty hairstyles and their attitude is neurotic.

So, what happened? Well, I faced one of these cunts. Danced in front of me. I was tired. I had finished work. Naturally, these parasitical leeches see you, see you want to get home, and latch onto you like fucking ticks. So I was feeling off, I was tired, and naturally they danced in front of me. I had my head down. I could see their feet. They were literally blocking me in.

You can see why I advocate stabbing these fucking wastes of carbon.

So I raised my head. Naturally, I knew my bus was coming, and I was going to be late. Despite trying several times to walk away and gave off body language that should say "Leave me alone or I will put you through the nearest window and tear off your flesh with my teeth", I conceded. I am a man who cannot say no, and it is a personality flaw I possibly inherited from being genuinely polite and reserved in actual life.

So, naturally, I said yes. And just gave my details before walking off quickly.

Is it my fault? Yep. Is it also that parasites fault for guilt-tripping me, literally blocking me in and having it be illegal to punch them right in the face? HELL YES.

I'm sick of this garbage. Sick of being guilt-tripped. Sick of them practically being able to mug you and get away with it. I'm sick of my personality for not saying "no" and i'm sick of them for taking advantage of it.

How many other tired people, coming home from work, have been stopped by these leeches and ticks and done the same thing as me, just desperate to get them to stop following you?

Why can't we shoot them?

I have nothing but respect for charities. I have nothing but disdain from the vultures who peck at carcasses and vomit up gristle for their masters. If people look hesitant, stop fucking bothering them. Don't do the whole guilt trip shit, either. Don't press them into doing it.

Or else it should be legal to shoot them.

I'm all for good causes, but I support charities based on what I want, not on the young hipster douchebags stopping me. I've rarely seen a person from Zoe's Place shake a box under my nose or throw themselves in front of me. Same with countless other charities.

People should join because they want to, not because you're hurling shit at them. Like these stupid charity adverts featuring dead and dying animals or dying little children in Africa. I hate this because, fuck, there's starving people in Britain. Child malnutrition, in particular, is through the roof.

But this isn't even me: There are countless articles out there highlighting that these vile street muggers, 'chuggers', are doing this shit constantly to rake in money from people like me. And what a surprise: One of the names highlighted, Marie Curie Cancer Trust, is one of those accused of shitty underhanded tactics. The same charity that got me.

And I would rather staple my testicles to a ferris wheel than give these 'chuggers' my money.

It is things like this which will stop my personality from being in two halves: The polite and reserved person in real life and the scathing, bile-spewing reactionary online. It's going to create some kind of monster, and i'd love to unleash it on these muggers.

If you're a 'chugger', you are part of the problem and I hope you keel over dead and burst into flames. I really do. You may be young, but you are forcing people who just want to get on with their lives to donate money to a cause which is a dime in a dozen. They could be giving their money to actual homeless people or charities who do not employ underhanded tactics.

Instead, they're giving it to these parasites.

Now, if you excuse me, I have a Direct Debit to cancel.

XIX - We're On The Bus To Nowhere

So, several months have passed between blog entries. It's quite sad, but my time is divided between work and play. As much as i'd like to spill my thoughts constantly, it's quite difficult to do so. Not least of all because of being moved to the side of the table where I can catch glances of my superiors gazing over my shoulder while writing anything not to do with work. As tragic as it sounds, i'd rather play video games than blog. This is mostly because my blogging comes from the heart as a white-hot stream of sarcastic, dark vitriol that only a Brit can spew forth. And when I get home from work, i'm too tired to do that. And on weekends, I like to pen more work for my novel in progress which has now been in progress for so long that I'm turning into one of those coffee shop hipsters who, when asked what their living is, doesn't answer with "dead-end job stacking shelves" but "I AM AN ARTISTE OF THE WRITTEN WORD".

My TEFL is entering its final stages. One last assignment left. In truth, the title "Smoggy On The Run" will be changed soon because I'll have long since gone. The time is quickly approaching. But that's not my reason for returning either.

So, what has inspired my return to the shores of blogging? I have a job, what could possibly inspire my ire? What could make me return to blogging, besides from a swan boat?

The buses.

Oh, how I hate the bus service.

To me, the bus service that is Arriva is a horrendous bus service. They have a monopoly on the bus services in the North East, meaning that if those bloody parasites want to raise fares, they can. They recently raised fares to help prevent tardiness. Did it work? Well, now your bus arrives at two times: Too early or too late. Thank goodness for that. I mean, i'm so glad they increased our bus fares to ensure that they don't actually arrive on time or stay there for one minute after they're actually due.

It's a real window into humanity when men like JFK, Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. are killed but we're still waiting for that special Irish surprise (I'm not going to say it outright for fears of the SAS busting through my window and eliminating me, since freedom of speech on the Internet is all since dead and all it takes is one 'lol you smell of poopoo' for the iron-fisted fascist brigade to knock on your door and march you away for High Treason.) for Arriva's executive committee.

Speaking of windows into humanity: That is what the bus is.

Hear me out.

A bus is a measure of society's hidden sociopathy and arrogance. For example, if someone steps onto a bus and people are sitting in the window seats with a spare seat beside him, you can see the hate on their faces. "Oh, don't let this pleb sit next to me" their watery little eyes seem to cry out. If you sit next to someone, you can be assured they will squirm and wriggle like a worm that's had several volts shot through its tiny body, as if they hate your existence so much they're trying to shift into a trail of fluid and escape through the window. If you're like me and hold a general apathy to people sitting next to you, mostly because the hate that fills your heart and head has turned the existence of nearby human beings into amorphous dark-coloured blobs and has turned the pathetic mewling and breathing they practice into white noise, then they'll still squirm. They chose to sit next to you, and they'll squirm like worms, as if this choice was the most difficult in their life. The way they squirm and the way discontent spreads across their face, you'd think they were sitting next to an escaped asylum inmate or a convicted murderer who is talking to himself about deboning the person sitting next to them.

Even worse is if they get their phone out. You can see their eyes darting around in their skulls as if you're going to lean over their shoulders and whisper in their ear "WHEN YOU TYPE LIKE THAT, IT GETS ME HOT" or as if they're a secret agent for MI5 and you're a Russian sleeper agent whose assassination programming will be awakened by seeing the words 'lol den i got totes hammered xx :)'

The hierarchy of a bus, in particular, is jarring. Mostly because it's old people over young people all the time, every time. For example, if I sit at the front of the bus, i'm evil and should be shot because it's there for old people. If I sit in the middle and the bus is full and an old person gets on, i'm evil and should be shot because it's there for old people. If a woman pushing a pram wants to get on and an old person is sitting in one of the front seats and blocking her from safely ensconcing her pram in position, she's evil and should be shot because it's there for old people. If an old person is sitting in the aisle seat, blocking the empty seat next to the window from use, then LOL I'M OLD ENTITLEMENT COMPLEX.

It's irritating. But we're British, so when we see a full bus but with an old person sitting in the aisle seat, blocking a perfectly good seat, we don't do anything. We just sit and stare ahead blankly. Unless you happen to me. Let me tell you a story: On my first day of University, me and a friend caught the 63. It's a shit bus which goes so slow that you may as well tie yourself to a pigeon and try and fly it to Middlesbrough. But it's the most reliable bus you'll catch because the 64A, if it decides to show up, always shows up late.

So, we sat at the back and talked. But someone didn't like this. Some snooty young woman who was really in desperate need of either a Xanax or a slap to the goddamn teeth told us, in not very nice terms, to be quiet. Naturally, we shut up. No, we talked quietly. This huge man sat in front of her (You know, the kind of man so roided up that he's got massive biceps, an unnaturally large chest, an abdomen retaining so much water you need a pier to cross it and a todger so tiny that you'd be forgiven for mistaking it as a maggot trying to invade his pelvis.) and just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

That's when I realised the hidden sociopathy of a bus. Naturally, that was just me and a friend. I've seen friends and couples talk on buses ever since then, but there's been a fair few buses i've sat in which have been rendered deadly silent.

The only things which show emotion on a bus are children. Sadly, not the adorable 'Awww' kind of children but the devilish hellspawn squeezed out of a Smoggy mother (1 of a pack of 16, usually, and called something inane like Angel or Igor or Tomtom or Lambrini or White Lightning or something) who run onto the bus and proceed to climb over it as if it's their playground.

And nobody will actually move. The parent (Heaven forbid there should be two of them in modern Middlesbrough. The other one is probably off smoking crack or dumping a body in the Tees) will admonish the child or scowl, but everyone else will sit, a slight tilt to their head, in silence. A madman could walk on the bus and unload an assault rifle, and people would sit there as their chests exploded to the sound of a 5.56mm bullet ripping through organs and flesh, their faces not changing from an expression more suited to someone thinking "Did I leave the oven on?"

It's horrendous, it's horrifying.

There is so much disdain and hatred on the bus. You can see it on everyone's faces. Next time you sit on a bus, look around: You'll notice either blankness or loathing. As the bus gets even more full, keep looking and you'll notice psychopathy creep in, too.

We like to think we're a race who would care for our own when the shit hits the fan, but the bus proves that's not the case. If a person gets onto the bus and notices every pair of seats has one person sitting on them, chances are they'll just stand at the front, blocking everyone's way because if they sit next to another person, they will cannibalise them. Or, if they have to sit through the complete goddamn indignity of being next to another person, they'll suddenly get up and change seats the moment one entirely empty pair of seats becomes available.

Quite recently, i've noticed myself being chosen for being sat next to. I give off an air of genuine sociopathy and disdain, yet people actually look around, see these seats with old people or teenagers sitting in them, and see ME as a better option to sit next to than Kayden Rockafeller McHipster Douchelips with his flat cap, leather satchel, super skinny jeans, iPhone and designer stubble. Unless they happen to be a female under 21, in which case they're attracted to Leon Jenkins Brooklyn Chicago Middlesbrough Newcastle McHipster and will sit next to him because my eyes, glaring ahead with a look of genuine resentment, are too fearful (Or because i'm so ugly that Stevie Wonder turned his head towards me and fainted.)

And if that's what a bus does, then that is just insanity.

Sadly, it's necessary, but it's a mobile window into the true nature of humanity.

Next time your on the bus, open your eyes, take out your headphones and tremble at what the world truly is.

A gaggle of sociopathic hipsters, young women and old people which smells like rusted mothballs.

If a bus is anything to go by, then humanity is nothing more than apathy and sociopathy rolled up into one horrendous little ball that is travelling down the cosmic timeline until another race comes across us and decides to kill us all for being unable to even purse our lips in the slightest bit of emotion. If an alien stepped on our bus, we'd simply look ahead, blink, and wonder if we locked the door or not.

Thankfully, we're on the 64A, so we'll be fucking late for humanity's grand genocide, too.

XVIII - Smoggy On A Swan Boat

Well, the work trial is over. The clouds of battle have cleared.

The job is mine.

I'm finally working.

Take that, grumbling OAP's of Britain who think everyone on the dole, stays on the dole. I finally did it. I am finally working for money, in a job I fucking adore.

And I am ecstatic. Or I would be, if it wasn't for the flu.

However, if there is one thing that characterises me, it's that I'm a fan of the hunt. It's probably the Scandinavian in me, being from the North. Nothing excites like the Wild Hunt. Once you've caught something: HEY! GREAT! What's next?

I will be giving 1000000% to this job, but my mind turns to a bucket list. I've got a job, i've finally taken that step onto the ladder, that one step is all I needed. It's time to look to the future, and something looks back at me.

With a long neck and a plastic body.

Y'see, on my bucket list is something that, to outsiders, may seem odd.

I want a swan boat.

No, seriously, keep reading. I'll try and explain this shit.

To me, Scarborough is a place that epitomises my life. I'm not a wanderer (Not YET), and my life has been pretty much on Britain. This one land mass in the middle of bloody nowhere where nothing seems to go right. Not even the Germans could bomb it properly, that's how much things don't go right, no matter what. Even William the Conqueror, when stepping onto England's shores for the first time, tripped and fell face-first into the sand.

But for all its flaws, several pieces and places of Britain endear themselves to me and have stuck with me constantly. Whitby, York, Fish and Chips, Corned Beef and Tatie Pie (Give me a slice of it, and I will honestly walk up to God and chin the bugger if you wanted me to. That's how much I love it.), Yorkshire Pudding, Geordies (Did you know that the reason Geordie slang is so unintelligible to modern English ears, is because in geordie slang, 80% of the vernacular is rooted in Anglo-Saxon? They are not speaking gibberish, but are the oldest speakers of PURE GODDAMN ENGLISH. I BET YOUR HEADS ARE EXPLODING AROUND THE FACT THAT GEORDIE'S SPEAK ENGLISH MORE TRUE TO ENGLISH THAN THE ACTUAL MODERN ENGLISH.), Queueing, complaining about everything (Yes, I LOVE THIS!), the cold, wet weather...

And Scarborough is there.

See, people have places like Majorca, Menorca, Ibiza, Lanzarote: You know, shitholes inhabited with so many Brits it IS little Britain, filled with drunken teenagers and lewd old men mingling with the locals who range from the terrified bewildered bystanders to the angrily violent local who wants the Brits off of his balcony and to cover up their tits, for Gods sake. But for me, I have Scarborough.

Even if I became a novellist, became world-renowned, raked in so much money I could buy a chain of islands off of Dubai and have slaves arrange them to make my grinning face so any extraterrestrial who floated by would know the face that launched a thousand ships...(...in the opposite direction)...I would still go to Scarborough.

For those who don't know, it's a small seaside town in Yorkshire. To me, it's the quintessential seaside town of Britain. It's got parks, stands which sell overpriced tea and coffee, shops filled with unique, cheap tat, a city that stands above it and watches over the locals like an angry bouncer ready to punch that bastard busy chatting up the ladies while vomit rolls down his tanktop, and dozens of amusement arcades. And yes, those arcades are filled with penny sliders, claw machines, and other machines designed to rob us (And we, as Brits, know this. But it combines our love for complaining with our love of gambling. If we lose? THAT MACHINE YOU SON OF A BITCH IT STOLE MY MONEY IT'S RIGGED RIGGED TO HELL DAMMIT I WILL DESTROY IT WITH MY BRITISH RAGE FUELLED BY THE PURE ANGER OF TEN QUINTILLION SUNS. If we win? OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER NOT EVEN TEN THOUSAND PUPPIES COVERED IN COTTON CANDY AND SPRINKLES CARRYING GOLD BARS UNDER PINK BOWS ON THEIR HEADS COULD MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. It's the ultimate machine for Brits.) It's got beaches, open-topped busses, mazing streets, shops selling food designed solely to kill you and kill you dead (Donuts, burgers, cotton candy......VEGETABLES? GET OUT OF HERE, YOU PISSANT. THIS IS THE NORTH. THE ONLY GREEN WE TOLERATE IS THE HALF-DEAD GRASS THAT LINES OUR MOORS.)

For every Summer I remembeer, we've been there. And I still love it. I love the smell of the sea, the irritating sunlight, the blistering heat, the legions of orange and brown OAP's marching onto the sands like leather couches who have suddenly grown sentient, the open-topped bus rides, the tea and coffee. The lemon tops (I would chin an angel if you bribed me with a lemon top. Corned Beef and Tatie Pies and Lemon Tops: A combo which would make me kill Gods to get them.), the hordes of people, the amazing cheap tat you cannot get anywhere else...

...And Peasholm Park.

Y'see, I love Peasholm Park more than any other part of Scarborough.

Why?

Well, it's odd. It's a living contradiction/. I said I loved the Britishness of Scarborough, but Peasholm Park is different. It's actually designed with Japanese and Chinese stylings. It's got pagodas, eastern archways, a Buddha statue (For no apparent reason. HEY! THIS PARK NEEDS BUDDHA!.."But we're in Yorkshire"...YEAH!..."Okay. Why not?" That is probably the entire process behind putting it in Peasholm Park) and various other pieces of Eastern decor.

It's lovely, often calm (Ironic, considering it hosts a semi-famous naval warfare show, designed solely for you to watch glorified model boats explode), and it has sprawling waterways...inhabited with swan boats.

And I love them. I love those little boats. Watching as they slowly march across the water.

I think it may be my nomadic spirit peering out from my heart, but I honestly want a swan boat. Maybe it sees a unique waterborne craft and thinks "I WANT TO SAIL IT TO NORWAY AND PLUNDER THEM FOR A CHANGE". I don't know. I love how elegant and graceful they like.

I've told my family repeatedly, that I plan on sneaking into Peasholm Park one night, and stealing a swan boat, and bringing it home to use.

Use for what?

To sail to America or China.

Look, i'm not even shitting you. I would honestly love to do that.

So many stupid records are trying to broken every day....Longest bath in beans, longest time in a snake pit, longest time spent teabagging tuna (or something), so why can't I be the man who conquered the seven seas on a swan boat?

To me (Even though other countries have them), the Swan Boat is just...so British.

It's so....shit. Yet so, so elegant.

And we should adopt it as a symbol. Forget the Queen, fish and chips, the Union Jack...We need more swan boats. The Ark Royal's gone? Why not a titanic swan boat that shoots lasers from its eyes? The world would tremble as two thousand of the Royal Navy's finest pedalled for North Korea and decimated the communist regime with the power of the swan boat.

It's such an odd obsession, but I will always have the sight of the swan boat lazily pedalling across water in my heart. Even when my travels take my to new and exotic lands, I will always see a body of water and think of a swan boat. 

There is some corner of a foreign river, that is forever sailed by a British swan boat.

One day, maybe I will sail the seven sea's. Maybe I will steal my precious swan boat and sail the seas. Maybe i'll paddle in the sea and show future generations how such shit things can stir the greatest feelings of sentiment.

If you happen to be an American Coastguard and are reading this, you have been warned. The British are coming. And they are on an army of  swan boats.

It's the Viking's your mother never warned you about.

My mind is on my job, but my heart is on a swan boat. And one day...maybe one day...You'll turn on your television, change to the news, and see this Smoggy on a Swan Boat making a desperate bid across the seven seas to make it to China, armed with a swan boat, a suitcase, and legs of sheer titanium as he pumps away, presumably as several armed gunboats surround him.

And then i'll write a memoir about it.

Call it Smoggy in a Swan Boat.

Sounds much better than Smoggy On The Run, eh?

XVII - A Cup O' Kindness Yet (Part II)

Occam's Razor states that "The simplest solution is often the best solution".

Job Centre Plus's Razor states that "If there's a simple solution, fuck it up as much as possible."

Trying to claim travel expenses, the solution was supposedly simple: I sign in on Tuesday's, which I have off, and bring in bus tickets. Simple, right?

Today, I got a horrendously patronising heifer. The kind of person who makes the JCP the reviled institution it is.

It wasn't simple for her. She told me "Bring in your tickets so you can claim, but it might be better to have you claim at 9am so you can then go to work later, or have you finish at 4:30pm and then you come in and claim."

I have Tuesday off. I can claim there and then.

Is that not simple enough, Job Centre Plus Staff? Is that not simple enough? I know you get paid to screw the working people over and make their lives hell, but COME ON!

You get paid enough to deal with this shit. More than enough. The least you can and should do is ADOPT A GODDAMN SIMPLE APPROACH.

She said Wendy wasn't in, I mumbled "Not surprising." She gave me that look. THAT look that states "Excuse me, but you owe us." No, what I owe you is a shotgun shell. Then she says "Well, Wendy is on a part-time contract, so of course she's not in. We can hardly criticise her for not being in when she isn't contracted to, can we?"

Look here, you fucking heifer, I was never told that my personal supervisor was on a part-time contract, which begs two questions:

1) Why did you give me a personal supervisor who is on a PART TIME CONTRACT?!

2) Why was I consistently lied to, then?!

I was told in mid-December that Wendy was away on a training course. When I went on the 31st, I was told Wendy was away. Did nobody think it was a good bloody idea to actually tell me about this?

Then she asks why i'm grumpy, which is basically the button you press if you want me to vault over the table, wrap my hands around your neck, and squeeze until your last breath expends into the air. Then I say i'm tired, my sciatica is making me sleep worse, and working 9 til 5 is tiring. To which she says "Well, 9 til 5 are ordinary working hours for most people."

So, Attention: Everyone Who Works 9 Til 5: The Eston Job Centre clearly believes you don't deserve to be tired.
I mean, fuck the fact that I said my sciatica was giving me lack of sleep. No, it's clearly me saying the 9 til 5 is tiring, that gives this cow the ammunition she needs to patronise the vulnerable.

By this time I was growing more pissed.

The sad thing is that I can't do anything about it. Why? Because i'm working 32 hours a week for FREE, and I am educated enough to realise that biting the hand which feeds me isn't exactly the smartest of things to do.

I wanted to scream, shout and rip her soul out, but I couldn't. All I could do was nod my head, because that's what the Job Centre is: An organisation specialising in enslavement. Once you are wrapped around their finger, that's it. All it takes is one tiny mistake or loophole, and you're screwed. Your money is gone. You're left without a shred of hope or help.

And those bastards are being paid to do it.

Now, I don't know if any Job Centre Plus staff are reading this. If you are, I understand that maybe 1 in 10 of you are the kind of horrendous, patronising people that, let me tell you, ALL of your clientele would give their benefits for to be in a room for five minutes with, just to rip their flesh apart with their hands. I understand 9 out of 10 of you are there to do your jobs, and deal with the good and the bad.

I have problem with those 9 out of 10. During my time at Eston, most of my advisors have been wonderful and friendly, and have legitimately helped, yet this one goddamn cow essentially took me back to the beginning.

She literally gave me information on how to find a job, because apparently this was totally my first time claiming my benefits and i'm totally not on work experience. This actually happened. She sat me there for HALF AN HOUR TO TELL ME HOW TO FIND A JOB.

Idiots.

So, yes, if Jobcentre Plus staff are reading this: Don't patronise your clients.

Y'see, while people like me may be smart enough to realise that biting the hand that feeds us is a mistake, there are some out there who are far less forgiving, far less merciful, and far more violent.

If you patronise and sanction someone, remember: The most dangerous men alive are those with nothing left to lose.

Some may commit suicide, but there is a good chance that some will take action into their own hands. You patronise them, piss them off, and push them enough, they can and will turn around and do their best to put an end to you right there and then.

There will come a day. Fuck, I hope there will come a day, when Britain will wake up. London 2011 was a sign that the sleeping bear is stirring, that people will not take much shit, much longer. With all these people committing suicide from benefits sanctions, it will take just one good push.

One good push that will start a retaliation of violence. And that violence can and will snowball.

And that violence will turn rioting.

That rioting will turn to insurrection. 

That insurrection will turn to full-blown revolution.

And I hope to God that, one day, the horns will call for war, because this country is long overdue for a period of swift and blinding upheaval. The problem is that we have been trod upon and crushed for so long, that I honestly believe people wouldn't know what to do with any freedom they won.

We are literally being killed, Britain, by the government which couldn't care less about us. Just look at people like Tim Salter and Denis Jones who committed suicide, just two more recent names of HUNDREDS driven to suicide by these beasts.

A Cup O' Kindness yet? No. Not any more.

Look at this ConDem Government, I hope that, one day, we find ourselves in the streets, throwing our MP's into rivers and lakes, and we all remember the words of Scipio Africanus.

"Prepare for war, for evidently, you have found peace intolerable."