In a recent article for the Guardian, Charlie Brooker wrote this about the 13-year interregnum between Tory governments:
“…an entire generation grew up regarding the Tory government as something like rain, or wasps, or stomach flu: an unavoidable, undying source of dismay.
Until 1997, when they were eradicated overnight. It was as if scientists had suddenly discovered a cure for the common cold. A permanent millstone – gone! The initial glow of jubilation never completely faded. For years afterwards, simply knowing the Conservatives weren’t in power left me mildly delighted on a daily basis.”
I felt the same way about waking up somewhere that wasn’t Bedfordshire, and being back here again is no thrill. To give you a taste of what you are probably missing, Bedfordshire’s most sophisticated town is Luton, home to the ultra-right EDL, and the quickest way to start a fight in Biggeswade’s town centre is to call somebody gay. Or to say that they called you gay.
I’m pretty sure that “Mate, I’m cisgender” isn’t going to cut it as a retort, and anyway, these days I find it difficult to deal with more than a thimbleful of wine. So I’ve been avoiding the town centre, and occasionally voyaging out into the countryside on my bike. Such as it is.
Apart from the occasional glass of ginger wine, the lack of a social life, and the ever-present internet, this is pretty much the same lifestyle I had 13 years ago. Everything I worked for in the interim period has landed me back here, and like Brooker’s millstone of a Conservative government, I’m finding the weight something that drags me down.
Next: something that’s a little bit ‘up’, in this series of essays. Or a filler where I post a funny picture. One of the two.
