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So Theresa May's Snoopers Charter is going to become law by the end of the year.


I really want us to leave.  I have no desire to live in a police state.  As to what happens in America and beyond it, I have no doubt that May will scuttle around trying to make herself agreeable to the orange king, even if he grabs her by the pussy.  The people of Chagos have been denied the right to return to their homeland by our FO, and there's talk of giving Farage a peerage for his work in lying to the people, inciting civil unrest and racism and failing to get himself elected. It's as if I woke up one morning and everything I was taught to regard as evil was suddenly good, and everything I thought to be good was suddenly irrelevant.

This is a time of dying legends, and I can't work out if the wise thing now is to resurrect them in story, or try something totally new. I have some ideas but not much real; It is time to commit, and I don't really know what I am doing. Having said, that, it's not easy to be lucid, deep or funny when so ill. But I am very aware of being on the mend.

There is a book, a horrible book, called 'Lord Horror,' by David Britton. It was banned, and, having started to read it, I am not surprised. A friend on FB describes it as "Surrealism at its most vicious; a bloodcurdling scream of rage against fascism and bigotry, as embodied, at that time, in the Thatcher administration - which promptly threw Britton in jail and slapped the ban on the book."

Lord Horror is the last book to have been banned in Britain, sometime around 1989.  It is original, it is extraordinary but it is also thoroughly offensive, florid in  obscenity.  Disgust was my uppermost emotion on reading it, and I had to stop early.  Even on the understanding that this piece detests that which it seems to laud, in satire closest to  Swift's A Modest Proposal (,https://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/modest.html) it is still stomach turning. Strangely enough, on a personal level, I also find it a little dull while understanding the exposure of hatred it  attempts. Swifit is far more gifted and subtle than Britton.

Still, this is a time to recall such nightmares, ugliness forgotten but still real, the turning upside-down of good and evil. This essay provides proper context, and perhaps should be read before attempting the book.

I wish I had followed my own advice. The book is here;



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