Suffering from Post-Brexit brain fever

Here are some lyrics the Killers wrote and then crossed out:

I’ve got Docs, but I’m not a doctor.

I’ve got a neck, but I’m not a necrophiliac.

I’ve got legs, but I’m not a legislator.

I’ve got plums, but I’m not a plumber.

I’ve got mince, but I’m not a minstrel.

I’ve got toes, but I’m not a toaster.

I’ve got soup, but I’m not a supermodel.


Today I heard Donald Trump described as looking like ‘the guy who would play the president in a porno’.

I don’t know who said it, but I like it, and am therefore making a note of it.


Here in Britain, we’ve been experiencing a huge influx of slugs and snails (Screw you, Brussels bureaucrats- thank the heavens we’ve now put a stop to the insanity and taken back control!)

My partner and I have been trying to defend our garden, but each morning we go out and the veggies and clematis and other vulnerable plants have just been decimated. Sometimes it’s literally just a twig that’s left, surrounded by slime, as if to taunt us. It made pure hatred boil up in our hearts. (No, I don’t think that’s too melodramatic a phrase.)

We started buying poison a while ago, which kept them at bay. Green pellets that we scattered. We would occasionally find the poor snails and slugs quietly dying in piles of slime, hidden away- but mostly they just seemed to disappear. It was a happy time. The townsfolk rejoiced. The clematis grew its leaves back again.

Then we ran out of that poison and needed to buy more. We went for a cheaper type, blue pellets that we again scattered last night.

This morning we awoke to a sobering sight. The garden was like a battlefield after a crazy king decided to sacrifice all his best troops in one last push over the edge for hope and glory. There were bodies everywhere, twitching and NOT YET DEAD. The slugs were all lying turned inside out, leaking disgusting sludge everywhere and recoiling when touched. The snails were bubbling shells of slime, wailing in silent pain. There were dozens of them, lying in revolting gooey murder heaps, all over the plants we were trying to save. It was like a scene from a very low-budget horror movie made by garden centre employees.

I hated being confronted by my cruelty, having to pick all these tiny animals up in their death throes and deposit them in a pile of horror and suffering.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m quite happy to be a murderer, but I can only deal with it if I don’t have to look at the consequences- like, not only am I cruel, I’m also cowardly. My question: Is that better or worse than just being cool with killing, no matter what the outcome? I feel like I need to grow up and rejoice in my murder. (Probably also get a more hipster-chic hobby than gardening and stop obsessing over my hydrangeas like a fifty-year-old matron who buys flesh-coloured tights in bulk from M&S.)

RIP good molluscs. You are utterly gross, but I regret the manner of your death this day.

(What’s the point of any of this? I hear you ask. Yep, I’m writing utter bollocks, but it makes more sense than the world around me this weekend, so.)


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