Brewery bollocks and dorks in town.

Imagine a brewery going to a town and setting up bars in a couple of suburbs and supplying all the people who lived there, with so much free beer that it created alcoholics a huge rise in crime and domestic disturbances and generally destroyed those neighborhoods.
Then, just before the head of the brewery retires from his job, he flies into the town and visits a different suburb that he has been supplying tons of beer to for even longer. As a result this area has suffered from many similar booze related problems and is generally seen by the rest of the world as a bit of a mess.
But the purpose of the Brewery bosses trip to this suburb he tells anyone that will listen, is to try and help them get rid of their bars. To stop the supply of beer and help deal with the drunks.
Wouldn’t that seem a bit odd?

That’s the analogy I’ve cooked up with after seeing George Bush bleat on and on about his trip to the middle east and hope for peace in Israel on telly.

He’s coming to my town tomorrow. Last time I saw George W was in Rome in June. We were both there for one day, on the same day. He probably wont remember me. But George, if you do read this, I was the tattooed guy with the black t shit on, who gave you the finger as you raced past in your super duper bullet and bomb proof limo.
I imagine he’s packed the same set of wheels for this trip.
By the way George, the reason I flicked you the bird as you went past, wasn’t because you rode into power on the coat tails of your old man and stole the election, with the help of your brother Jed in Florida, who I assume is being groomed to keep the dynasty going.
It wasn’t because you and the dodgy old men who pull your strings, used the 911 tragedy to fulfill an agenda in Iraq that had already been planned. Or that your invasion was so poorly thought out, so badly run, by men with no military experience, who refused to listen to those with military experience, that an already dangerous situation was made thousands of times worse. Like the disbanding of the Iraqi police and army, against the advice of experts on the ground in Iraq, who predicted, quite rightly that this would simply drive those unemployed and hungry men to the insurgency.
It wasn’t because of the fact that despite all the evidence of the insurgency and civil war happening in Iraq, you continued to bullshit the American people for months, until it was so obvious that even you realized you couldn’t get away with the denial anymore.
Or the fact that because, in large part, due to your actions, America is disliked on the international stage far more now than when you came to power.
It also wasn’t because of the fact that while you have been happy to take the war to the terrorists overseas (although you haven’t caught the main ones you went after) your people at home. The ones you are supposed to care about, are worse off than ever and now facing a recession and a record deficit.
It wasn’t really any of these things on that particular hot summers day in Rome George.
All those things piss me off no end, but that day it was because of the massive security triggered by your visit. Security that is required because of how hugely unpopular you are. Security that meant there were no taxis in town.
That meant we had to walk for 2 hours to get back to our hotel and for most of that I had to carry my daughter on my shoulders.
That pissed me off George. So don’t even think about giving me a call when you’re in town.

POST APPOCALYPTIC PRESSURE

People wonder why I moved to the Middle East. Well, there are 11 reasons but one the one I wanted to bang on about here is number 6. If WW 3 kicks off chances are this part of the world will get fried extra crispy crispy in the first few hours. That’s my hope anyway because I don’t want to live in a post apocalyptical world. I’ve seen the movies. I know how it pans out. The clothes you are wearing on the day the nukes hit are the last decent ones you’ll ever have. They just get dirtier and dirtier after that till they rot and fall off and after that you have to go round dressed in fur and animal skins.
The survivors always end up being ruled by a black lady with big hair or an ex school teacher who is like into peace and love and getting along or an angry man with a Mohawk who is into violence and shooting cross bows. The only people who have any petrol are the Mohawk man’s mates and all they drive are dune buggies and motorbikes all over the place looking for people to kill. As if that wasn’t bad enough there is no TV no Internet and very few Mc Donald’s outlets are likely to survive. Apart form the daily struggle of trying to find food. Protect your family from the bands of marauding Mohawk men you will constantly have to explain stuff about the old world to the children born after the apocalypse. There will be shit lying around everywhere and the kids will want answers. Daddy what is a microwave oven? What were mail order brides? What was liposuction? You’re gonna have to explain all that stuff while you sit around the crappy little fire you have built in the ruins of an old hardware store while you make a spear out of an old broom and a garden trowel. No thanks. Take me out in the first wave. When that nuclear blast washes through the city I wont be one of those loser trying to outrun it. They always get squashed by a car that the blast has blown through the air anyway. Or their skin gets melted off their face as they cower in a doorway.
I’m gonna be in my deckchair sunbathing on the top of my apartment building without sun block and drinking really expensive champagne with friends and family when this particular chapter of our history comes to a climax.