As regular readers of this blog will know, my mother died at the end of May, the Sunday before the four-day weekend the Establishment of this country had gracefully set aside for us plebs to celebrate the long and pampered life of the racist paedophile-protector Elizabeth Windsor. I spent a week wanting the ground to swallow me up, wanting the world to burn away, wanting, frankly, to die because the pain of a stroke or a heart attack would hurt less than the grief - and the whole time I was surrounded by bunting, Union Flag tat and the general, nauseating KCACOsity of it all.
So if you think I'm joining in this official 'period of mourning' bollocks you need your fucking head examined.
So, as an act of disrespect to the passing of the Parasite in Chief in Her Idiot Hat, I will be suspending the 'Finding The Others' series, in which I hip you folks to some of the people whose work inspired Secrecy's Jurisdiction, until after Brenda's state funeral next Monday. In its place I intend to use this week to host a Motley Jamboree of satire, comedy, whimsy, mirth and, most important, mockery of the idea that we should all be sat at home rending our garments and beating our breasts in grief for a woman we never knew whose existence, for many of us, made our lives materially worse. I understand the BBC has suspended all comedy broadcasts for the same period (so clearly using the current situation to formalise what has, judging from their output, been a long-running policy) so, in a way, I like to think I will be providing an important national service by keeping morale up during this difficult time.
And I can think of no better way to begin these ceremonies - especially given the absurd degree of post-mortem anilingualism we're to be witness to in the coming days - than with Jake Thackray's classic satire of all authority (including his own), 'The Bull':
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