As many of you know Goodnight Vienna passed away Monday morning. Sue had been ill for some time and wrote the below last year. I post unedited her own memento mori, followed by a poem sent to her by 1642. 1642 was kind enough to visit Sue, something I had planned to do after the march, now sadly too late.
Sue was an ardent blogger from the early days and contributed wonderful reviews of PMQs for my old site The Daily Politics. I lost touch when I found the need to take a proper job then reconnected with her shortly after Going Postal was started. I will miss her as I’m sure many here will.
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It sounded so simple in my head. A swang-song of sorts simply to record what fun it’s been over the years; the humour, the insights, the repartee but, as Granny used to say, all good things come to an end and you can’t take it with you. I don’t think any of you insulted me, not that it matters since I was never one to take insults to heart. Some of the language on here does need working on, boys! The words you’ve taught me! Filth!
[Exits stage left for a cream cake].
My last one! ‘Supplies are running low, send urgent message to HQ for reinforcements. What do you mean the lines are down?’
I don’t know how this will turn out, nor even if it’s ‘a good idea’ but I didn’t want to just go. You’re a rotten lot but you’ve meant a lot to me, which I find strange considering you’re such a bunch of reprobates. So, for better or worse, with uncorrected grammar, spellings and typos because it’s too hard to read at times and coherent thoughts have long since flown. It’s a bit like Alzheimer’s but without the blessing of being totally oblivious. Oblivion comes soon eough.
So, not in the spirit of regret, remorse or unhapiness, not even a rage against the dying of the ligh and it was bright once, with golden hair. I don’t know what it is, just a semi-stream of consciousness that really serves no useful purpose.
Put the kettle on, mother, it suits you. I always called her dear because she had antlers growing out of her head.
The bit about the golden hair made my lip tremble a little – vanity, thy name is woman! Ah, but my price is above rubies so I’m worth it 🙂
I seem to be saying unasterisked fucks a lot these days, mostly to the cats who snuggle up tight and like to sleep on my head – only two, I’m not that mad. Actually, I much prefer fuckity-fuck-fuck – so much longer and more satisfying. I understand that even our good old English word is being replaced by ‘fiki, fiki’ but you all know what I think of that so I won’t dwell on it. Crossword clue: six letter word, starts with D, ends with T.
I stopped my blog a few years ago – I’d warned as much as I could, references, copious notes so there was nothing really to do until shtf. I’m still waiting – we’re slow to anger but watch out for when the fire takes hold. As I say, I’m still waiting. Someone else can provide the encouragement, there are plenty of you around with your heads screwed on.
I wish, on twitter, people made more sense. I used to be able to decipher the rotten grammar, the crappy spelling and the mistaken words but now it’s too much of a chore.I haven’t had time to adjust to lack of sight in one eye. I can watch a film and think who the heck is he talking to? Then I find that if I scroll across pc there’s another half page of dialoge and another actor.
Two of my boys came down this weekend again. Two or three different versions of Dunkirt, Darkest Hour, Battle of the Bulge, The Longest Day, A Bridge too Far, two more I can’t remenber but they’re very well known so you can guess. I slept through most of them anyway. Stiff upper lip. Stukas! I think you should leave now, head south…. Do you think he knew Sarge? Yes, he knew.
The Daily Mail occasionall does some good investigative work but for the most part I’ve grown to despise it for crappy articles like this:
Tea-lovers who enjoy a cup of builder’s brew are warned that their favourite hot drink might leave their teeth pitted and their joints painful
Bloody nanny state, do this do that. Why don’t they all just mind their own business and fuck off. Rhetorical, natch. Too many people would be out of work if the quangos, NGOs, government advisers were culled, but that’s what is needed. There are too many unelected and unprincipled people playing political games with our lives. Wish I had a machine gun.
I played a game the other day: if you had a terminal illness what would you do with a machine gun? I couldn’t think further than Amber Rudd. That’s not a reflection on the other worthy recipients it’s just my short attention span – in one synapse, out the next. When I can’t remember what it is I was saying or doing I don’t fret, I just make a – you guessed it – cup of tea. The thought was prompted by a tv programme I’d seen. One of my boys said I shouldn’t watch violent films. Oh how we laughed when I told him it was Heartbeat.
“If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”
I’ve forgotten what the point of this random prose was. I don’t know what I thought it would be like, if I thought at all. I certainly don’t want sympathy. Things like this happen all the time and it is what it is and must be faced with courage and honour in tact. Mostly vegetarian, clean living, never drugs except let’s have a fanfare for cigarettes. My only vice.I’ve just had a birthday – since a lady never divulges her age and a gentleman never asks, let’s just say I’ve now hit mid-sixty. No longer a Miss Sixty.
Animals, kindness, buddhism, people, never deliberately hurting someone – which brings me on to the sin of thoughtlessness. An unexamined life is not worth living said one of those philosopher chaps. Best not to leave it too late though.
Train of thought all gone. This shit has taken me bloody hours so if I don’t get a thousand upticks for my trouble, well, I’ll jutht thcweam and thcweam.
Good news for some who can afford £240k a year:
Dame Tessa’s £240,000-a-year cancer skull cap: Former Labour cabinet minister receiving pioneering treatment which ‘blasts’ her brain tumour with electricity
Mine hid. It sneaked into my brain just as the doc was telling me how pleased she was with my progress, that tumours were disappearing or reducing, that I looked ‘radiant’. Well stuff that for a game of soldiers. The secondary happened so quickly – they were all too busy congratulating themselves on the new trial drug that no-one thought to do a brain scan. I’d mentioned the problems enough but… ah, sod it. It is what it is. I complained to the doc that things weren’t right, the thinking, the distractions, the sight, the falling. Ah shit, who gives a fuck. Less of this and just gimme one of what she’s got.
Oh rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Blake: ‘Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field. Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air… Rise and look out. His chains are loose, the dungeon doors are open…’
There seems to be no facility to save this drivel – a problem I think I share with Jack Keroiac who also had feet of clay and turned out to be a terminally crashing self indulgent bore – so I’ll wind up now. I’ve forgotten what spurred me to start anyway. It’s easy for split second thoughts to gain a prominance or relevance that they shouldn’t have and for bigger things to be left unsaid.
Supplies of jokes are running short too so send some with the cream cakes. No rantings about common purpose and the rest of those buggers thank you, I just don’t have the patience any more. You could try adding patience to the list of urgently needed supplies but lines to HQ are still down so I doubt it would help.
I might be back to give some encouraging upticks (I know how you all secretly love getting them :-)) and, never forget, me love you long time.
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And so we stand, for this is goodbye,
I look at you, you look me in the eye,
I stifle a tear, but I shall not cry,
I hardly know you, but that is more than enough,
Life may have been different, paths cross before,
There’s no time for regret, to blame Fate so tough,
Your courage inspires me, you’re nature’s pure splendour,
So know this my love: that when you pass that last door,
You’ll not be gone, for something of you stays with me,
And when I ascend, you’ll rise with me to Heaven.
For, in some way, I know that you are my leaven.
© JD de Pavilly
Swiss Bob 2019
The Goodnight Vienna Audio file