I know for an absolute fact that my blood family is psychotically dysfunctional- perversely I take some pride in that, my life has never been attacked for being bland. Great. Exhausting but great. I am not the ubiquitous biscuit man. Forget everything you've seen in the award winning series 'SHAMELESS'- when I use the word dysfunctional I mean seriously dysfunctional not just after the watershed small-screen dysfunctional but clinically dysfunctional. It is PHD thesis material.
Here is a mini taster- my ex wife married me knowing I was gay- she wanted my children. We pre-nuptially agreed to be with each for ten years. Thirteen years and three daughters later we divorced. She became a vitriolic homophobe and a Mormon. Now she is married to a transgender pre-op male to female ex soldier and on Breakfast TV she had to admit to Eammon Holmes that she is a lesbian. They later married- perfectly legally because he/she is a he on his birth certificate. They wore matching meringue dresses and all my girls attended the ceremony. White stretch limo with fairy lights. I was not invited. This is but the tip of the giant iced cake-berg. Stay tuned for forthcoming crumbs.
Earlier I had the misfortune to tune in to BBC Radio 5 and find myself listening to Simon Mayo talking to Barbara Taylor Bradford an ageing handmaiden of Margaret Thatcher who to date has sold 82million books- the biggest selling being her first 'A Woman Of Substance'. This money machine harpy repeatedly referred to her 'work' and its importance to the emerging power plays of women within society. It was deeply sickening- I know many feminists and not one of them would put Ms Bradford's oevre in the top 100 of life changing reads for femmes. This bitch is inordinately rich and quite carried away by her own sense of importance. When asked who her other female role model was besides The Milk Snatcher she said Indira Ghandi. At this point I started flicking through Yellow Pages feeling in dire need of the services of an aesthetic exorcist. I rang Dave Kelso-Mitchell- in the circumstances he did remarkably well. Long live Paraphillia. Cotton-topped Barbara Bradford apparantly still has mountains to climb- dog help us all. She rises at 5am and writes for 12 hours every day. Well whoopee fucking doo. The liar. It's not work. It's not writing. It's an abuse of trees. Give it up lady and blatantly enjoy your ill-gotten gains like the rip-roaring self-obsessed capitalist twat you clearly are. As for helping second millennium women- fuck off. If you changed their lives at all by empowering them through chuck-up purple prose all you did was to turn them into disgruntled pains in the neck within their fawn marriages. Your own glittering success and the miraculous transformations of your unrealistic heroines are tall-tales in no way mirrored in the reality of your reader's ordinary lives.
GET THE FUCK OFF MY DIGITAL RADIO.
I lit patchouli joss-sticks. But then I'm 61. A wild[ISH]-child of the sixties.
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