Sunday 17th July 2016
Dear Diary,
Another month and yet another heartbreaking, vile, senseless, stomach churning atrocity carried out by a pathetic, inadequate piece of shit who allowed himself to be manipulated by other hate filled shit-bags using religion as an excuse to satisfy their depraved blood lust. Fucking evil, twisted, murdering cowards. I hope they all rot in whatever hell they fear most.
Okay, I’ll stop spraying fruitless anger at the computer screen now.
Yes, dear diary, I know I’ve been neglecting you again. There’s no excuse other than I haven’t felt like scribing. This year is turning out to be a horrible anus in its own right. All else aside, the Brexit vote has brought tension to the quasi mansion never mind the country. Shane in particular is snippy. Business is more uncertain than it was and the world in general seems to be in turmoil. Worrying times, Peeps, that’s what we’re living in.
If I sound a tad bad tempered, it’s because I am. It’s hot and humid here, plus we had Leo for lunch and know what? He was fucking tough! I’ll buy beef next time. Ha-ha! At least I didn’t hurl crème fraîche at him today.
Gardening usually keeps me busy and happy at this time of year, but not so much at the moment. I just can’t summon the energy or enthusiasm. I get tired at the drop of a hat. It pisses me right off. Some of my fuchsias have died in mysterious circumstances and the front lawn looks an unsightly mess. It’s become infected with some kind of fungal disease. In what can only be described as a mammoth tantrum I more or less accused ZZ the grass man of ‘planting’ the infection to spite me. He didn’t take kindly to the accusation. We had a mega row. He called me an awkward, unreasonable wee bastard and said he was sick of me winding him up at every turn. He also dobbed me in to Shane. The ensuing Daddy/boy discussion was not pretty, and nor was the large leather paddle he applied to my bare bottom. Funnily enough, ZZ and I now seem to be getting on better. The row cleared the air between us. I even let him in the kitchen the other day when it started raining, instead of making him have his tea break outside. I know, I know, I’m all heart.
I’d like to thank houseboy fans for all recent mails and especially for the kind birthday greetings. You’re a brilliant bunch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a tub of cinnamon ice cream in the freezer with my name on it, and I ain’t sharing it with anyone. Selfish! Me? Yeah, I am, deal with it. Ciao for now, Peeps.
Monday 18th July 2016
Apparently I should ‘feel sorry’ for the man who drove a truck into crowds of people in Nice. Apparently I should ‘feel sympathy’ for him, not anger, because he was an unhappy man with many issues. Well, know what, countless men and women have unhappiness in their lives, countless men and women suffer from depression, countless men and women feel society has short changed them in some way, and countless men and women struggle with mental health issues every day of their lives. The majority of them choose not to pick up guns, plant bombs or drive a fucking big truck into families trying to enjoy a festive day out. The perpetrator of the Nice atrocity, just like the twat who slaughtered innocents in Orlando might well have had issues, but those issues didn’t entitle them to slaughter other people in the most violent, brutal way possible. I’m entitled to express my opinion and to voice my anger against such repulsive acts, and at least I did it via the written word and not from behind a gun or the wheel of a truck. I’ll save my sorrow and sympathy for the murdered and for the relatives who have to deal with their loss. I refuse to be cowed and most of all I refuse to be an apologist for savage brutes who choose to kill others in cold blood, no matter how many fucking ‘issues’ they have.
August
Dear Diary,
Another month and yet another heartbreaking, vile, senseless, stomach churning atrocity carried out by a pathetic, inadequate piece of shit who allowed himself to be manipulated by other hate filled shit-bags using religion as an excuse to satisfy their depraved blood lust. Fucking evil, twisted, murdering cowards. I hope they all rot in whatever hell they fear most.
Okay, I’ll stop spraying fruitless anger at the computer screen now.
Yes, dear diary, I know I’ve been neglecting you again. There’s no excuse other than I haven’t felt like scribing. This year is turning out to be a horrible anus in its own right. All else aside, the Brexit vote has brought tension to the quasi mansion never mind the country. Shane in particular is snippy. Business is more uncertain than it was and the world in general seems to be in turmoil. Worrying times, Peeps, that’s what we’re living in.
If I sound a tad bad tempered, it’s because I am. It’s hot and humid here, plus we had Leo for lunch and know what? He was fucking tough! I’ll buy beef next time. Ha-ha! At least I didn’t hurl crème fraîche at him today.
Gardening usually keeps me busy and happy at this time of year, but not so much at the moment. I just can’t summon the energy or enthusiasm. I get tired at the drop of a hat. It pisses me right off. Some of my fuchsias have died in mysterious circumstances and the front lawn looks an unsightly mess. It’s become infected with some kind of fungal disease. In what can only be described as a mammoth tantrum I more or less accused ZZ the grass man of ‘planting’ the infection to spite me. He didn’t take kindly to the accusation. We had a mega row. He called me an awkward, unreasonable wee bastard and said he was sick of me winding him up at every turn. He also dobbed me in to Shane. The ensuing Daddy/boy discussion was not pretty, and nor was the large leather paddle he applied to my bare bottom. Funnily enough, ZZ and I now seem to be getting on better. The row cleared the air between us. I even let him in the kitchen the other day when it started raining, instead of making him have his tea break outside. I know, I know, I’m all heart.
I’d like to thank houseboy fans for all recent mails and especially for the kind birthday greetings. You’re a brilliant bunch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a tub of cinnamon ice cream in the freezer with my name on it, and I ain’t sharing it with anyone. Selfish! Me? Yeah, I am, deal with it. Ciao for now, Peeps.
Monday 18th July 2016
Apparently I should ‘feel sorry’ for the man who drove a truck into crowds of people in Nice. Apparently I should ‘feel sympathy’ for him, not anger, because he was an unhappy man with many issues. Well, know what, countless men and women have unhappiness in their lives, countless men and women suffer from depression, countless men and women feel society has short changed them in some way, and countless men and women struggle with mental health issues every day of their lives. The majority of them choose not to pick up guns, plant bombs or drive a fucking big truck into families trying to enjoy a festive day out. The perpetrator of the Nice atrocity, just like the twat who slaughtered innocents in Orlando might well have had issues, but those issues didn’t entitle them to slaughter other people in the most violent, brutal way possible. I’m entitled to express my opinion and to voice my anger against such repulsive acts, and at least I did it via the written word and not from behind a gun or the wheel of a truck. I’ll save my sorrow and sympathy for the murdered and for the relatives who have to deal with their loss. I refuse to be cowed and most of all I refuse to be an apologist for savage brutes who choose to kill others in cold blood, no matter how many fucking ‘issues’ they have.
August