anna

Starmer realising he's less than two months away from the World Cup final in an executive suite

@TLRailUK hi, could you tell me what's happened to the 2237 Farringdon to Gillingham train these last couple of nights, please? cant see anything on the app. has it gone for good or will it be running in future?

titting about on my phone with a quarter of an eye on a film on bbc1 and 30 mins in I realise the guy with the familiar voice IS CLEM FANDANGO

@Keir_Starmer this is horrific.

If you come to this country illegally, you will face detention and return.

The problem isn’t that men want more children but that too many men want them without restructuring their own lives to carry the burden of parenthood. If men matched their desire with an equal willingness to parent like taking the night shifts, booking the appointments,

THISSSS JESUS CHRIST

you not gonna see st peter my friend. sort yourself out before it's too late

don't know who needs to see this (actually I do, I'm making a list) BUT. grocery orderers on the apps just getting snacks, and you tip? you're good ordering 6 packs of 1.5l bottles of evian? slabs of lager?? for someone to bring ON A BIKE? in 30 DEGREE TEMPS???

just found pee wees playhouse on amazon. can't believe we were stuck with going live on a saturday morning while america got THIS

Today we remember the 72 people who lost their lives & all those forever affected by the horrific Grenfell Tower fire. Eight years on, the road to justice remains too long. I stand in solidarity with the bereaved, survivors & residents as they continue their fight for change. 💚

is chatGPT down for anyone else? i’m a pediatric oncologist so this is kind of urgent

@Hanifkureishi 'I deserve my whip'

MUSN'T GRUMBLE Around seven-thirty in the morning, when I returned home after completing my paper round, I would find my mother and grandmother in our living room, moaning. The subject of the moans would remain consistent. The weather, of course, was either too hot or too cold; there was too much rain, or not enough; complaints about politicians-“they are all the same” and “only in it for themselves.” Rising crime was another perennial complaint, as was the failure of the justice system to sufficiently lock up miscreants. Motorbike riders, dustmen, loud noises of any kind, unruly, excreting dogs - the world was drowning in wrongness, and what could you do about it? These complaints, as displayed by my mother and grandmother-both of whom had lived through the Second World War-would engender in me, already something of a depressive, a renewed feeling of hopelessness, if not despair as I cycled to school. Since the moaning went on every day, and had done so for many years, I began to consider it a sort of performance: the same on every occasion, but with little variations. But now, years later, and long after the participants are dead, I wonder what the function and place of moaning and complaining actually is. After all, who hasn’t run into a moaner, or indeed, hasn’t complained or moaned themselves-particularly if, at the time, they were sitting on a barstool in a pub, where much of the world’s moaning takes place? What, I wonder, is the point of all this moaning? None of it is intended to alter anything; it isn’t even a form of protest, but only a mild cry about the fact that the world is a shitty place, which rarely delivers anything good to anyone, least of all you, and that you are powerless. Am I implying that women moan more than men? Is the moaning of older women a reflection of their - at least in the 1960s - inferior status and lack of agency? Certainly, my mother and grandmother weren’t excited by life, my mother least of all. I have already catalogued in an earlier blog, with some controversy, that she was a boring person, but she was also bitter and disillusioned. In many ways, though, she was right: existence is a disaster. But it isn’t only that. Moaning is a form of repetitive self-protection and omniscience. If you already know that the world offers you nothing but tragedy, you are, to an extent, guaranteeing your own protection, bracing yourself for the crash to come, and needn’t be shocked when it does. If you have parents who only moan and are incapable of new thoughts, you’d believe that that was just the way things were, and there were no luscious pleasures available. But it is not true, and that is why we leave home and have sex-to find other people who may stimulate us. Britain is a septic island of complaint, a rancid, rotting, pathologised husk of whinging and griping. Complaint is our base setting and now our identity. We are the world’s worst moaners, or the best, with good reason. The British are not a cheerful people; they are a dour, beaten-down bunch of racists, idiots, pessimists, and has-beens. Complaining is their titillation. Other nations-the Spanish, for instance, or even the Italians, who have little to cheer about-are more sunny. Isabella, my soon-to-be wife, has a naturally cheery disposition compared to most people I know. Those who make a difference need to be optimistic. Positivity is infectious; the most charming people are never moaners, but nourish and uplift us. Conversely, the moaner is self-centred and self-pitying; their misery is all that matters. For them, conversation is merely the expression of unhappiness, never an exchange. Rather than say something interesting, something new, something they haven’t thought before, the moan deadens-if not kills-dialogue. Back in my living room in Bromley, where my mother and grandmother have been complaining ceaselessly, having successfully sucked the life out of all of us-with nothing joyful left in existence-they will rise and part with the immortal words, “Still, mustn’t grumble.” ---- If you wish to subscribe and support my writing, you can do so on my page.

MATT BERRY WROTE ALL THE MUSIC FOR MATT BERRYS TOAST OF LONDON I need to lie down fucking hell

Calling my parents to pick me up from the conclave because some of the older cardinals are smoking and I am scared

When do the Cardinals get to go over to Casa Amour

agnostic and finding myself ridiculously sad about the pope