A Glimpse into the Chaos

One week, One year, One mad little island and a Sneak Preview.

Afternoon, All,

I am having a bit of a mare of a week with exceptionally little time and a huge amount of chaos happening around me, so do excuse my lack of presence and engagement—all things going well, I should have some clarity on what 2025 will look like (for better or worse) by the end of this week.

Now, with that said, I’m not going to leave you completely empty-handed this week—rather, I’ll give a little sneak preview of something on its way soon and that has, literally, been a year in the making.

Enjoy.

🐻

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1 January

Right. 2023 is finally in the bin, and here’s to a 2024 filled with laughter, joy, and—fingers crossed—the Tories heading for the hills (a man must hope).

This year started off quietly. COVID recovery kept me housebound, so the husband, the Fur Daemon, and I welcomed the year with Lemsip, Five Guys and reflection. Resolutions? Lose the 5kg I gained (on top of the multiple other kgs that joined over the years), and maybe try to avoid hermit mode. Ambitious? Absolutely.

In the ongoing Culture War formerly known as the United Kingdom, the usual suspects are in full fannywobble mode over the Mayor of London’s name on the fireworks display.

Held in London.

By the Mayor of London.

Like it has been.

For many years.

Including under the semi-sentient bag of hot wind, blonde hair and lies.

It’s like watching toddlers throw a fit over nothing, and a perfect preview of the tantrums to come in 2024.

And, of course, our Prime Miniature couldn’t resist kicking off the year with a policy as welcome as a porcupine in a balloon shop, barring international students from bringing families. Let’s just say “Global Britain” is looking about as global as a garden shed these days. Unsurprisingly, Jonathan Gullis wants out of the ECHR—because what better way to start 2024 than with a misguided crusade against human rights?

I'm reminded today of a maxim from my nan: "I never pray to god for strength but rather for patience, because fuck knows if he gives me strength I might kill the fuckers.”

Happy New Year.

2 January

Back to work today, and the first commute of the year did not disappoint—it was like navigating a maze designed by a sadistic concussed badger. Arrived at the office looking like a drowned rat (thank you Storm Henk), to be greeted by internet speeds so slow they made me nostalgic for the demonic screech of dial-up. All that’s missing is frosted tips, boybands and the desperate denial that being gay was just a phase. A strong start to 2024.

In other news, 20,002 people now follow me on Twitter, which is an excellent way to kick off the year—thank you! Less excellent (sort of): getting blocked by Katharine Birbalsingh after pointing out that her divisive rant about “wokeists” was as nuanced as a high-pressure hose at a chapel fresco. A silver lining, though: no more of her polarising nonsense gracing my feed.

On the Nat-C front, the Gammonati are today again bleating about ditching the ECHR. It’s their go-to move—if cornered, just leave something. Here’s an idea: leave government! Their “sovereignty” rhetoric might play well with the flag-wavers, but watering down human rights is a dangerous game. We’ve seen this script before—it doesn’t end well.

3 January

Yesterday’s encounter with Storm Henk left me flapping about like a Sainsbury’s bag for life caught in a gale. Mercifully, I’m working from home today. The TWaT commute plan (Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday) has been shelved, because why endure a soul-sapping journey to be the lone hairy thumb in the office when I can work from the safety of my study instead?

The doctors’ strikes rage on, and so does the chorus of moaning. Let’s clarify quickly: these strikes aren’t a holiday—they’re the last resort after years of wage erosion and neglect. If you’re seething, aim it at the government, not the doctors fighting for a livable NHS. To the striking doctors: hats off. To the Tories: hats on fire, please.

On the misogyny front, Shaun Bailey, failed Mayoral Candidate and now member of the House of Lords, has decided to take a swipe at Carol Vorderman’s Instagram. Criticising a trailblazing woman for embracing her body is as tired as the party he represents. Women like Vorders don’t need your approval, Shaun—especially not from a man who partied his way through lockdown.

4 January

Woke this morning to birds singing, a gentle breeze, and the glorious racket of bin day—a symphony of modern life. A fitting start, really.

Remember I mentioned that the office was a ghost town and I was the lone hairy thumb? Well, the other fingers have all of a sardine returned, brimming with energy, vigour, and optimism for 2024. Which would usually be fine, except it means they’re replying to my emails with unnerving speed and enthusiasm. No longer can I sign off my problems with a metaphorical “your problem now.” Fuck.

Meanwhile, the Treasury has set its sights on online marketplace sellers—the Etsy crowd, eBay enthusiasts, and car boot sale hustlers. Apparently, if you earn over £1,000 a year selling your bits and bobs, you’re now the worst kind of tax dodger in their eyes. It’s a policy laser-focused on hammering your friend Jane making dream catchers while billion-pound corporations swim through tax loopholes unscathed.

In Westminster, the Tories are quite clearly in full-blown panic mode, trying to spin “A vote for Reform is a vote for Starmer” into a warning rather than an advertisement. Meanwhile, Starmer’s speech today caused the Prime Miniature to immediately announce that the election wouldn't be until the second half of the year. Translation? Sunak is absolutely shitting himself.

As for me, I’m trapped on today’s malicious spin cycle. Work demands are endless, Twitter’s aflame, and I can’t find the bloody stop button. Someone, send help—or a stiff drink.

5 January

Friday at last, and I’m staggering towards the weekend looking like a bear who’s just crawled out of hibernation—bewildered, scruffy, and more than a little over it. Yesterday was a marathon of chaos I’d rather not relive, but here we are. Monday looms sinisterly in the distance, but for now, I’m focusing on clawing my way through the day.

On to the news, where it turns out that 6,000 police officers are stuck doing admin work because years of Tory austerity have gutted support staff roles. Instead of tackling frontline crime, they’re processing paperwork and juggling the kind of mundane tasks that should never be on their desks. So much for “record police numbers.” Chris Philp and his pals love to trot out that line, but it seems the reality is less patrol cars and more spreadsheets.

It really is quite hard to overstate how absurd this is. Years of deliberate underfunding have left the police stretched so thin that they’re effectively patching one crisis with another. Instead of ensuring communities are safer, they’ve got officers filling out forms while crime stats balloon. But sure, let’s keep pretending that austerity didn’t irreparably damage absolutely everything it touched.

Between the endless admin for the police and the public chasing scraps of support from gutted services, it feels like the government’s entire strategy is “make do and mend.” Except they’ve cut up all the fabric and sold the sewing machine for parts.

Still, it’s Friday. Time to shake off the week’s frustrations—just as soon as I’ve wrestled the last of my emails into submission. Coffee first, though. Always coffee.

6 January

A blissful Saturday morning, and how better to start the weekend than a bit of tax talk. No one can ever accuse me of not being sexy.

The Tories have announced a 2% cut to National Insurance, and predictably, it’s being paraded as some grand act of economic benevolence. Enter Christian Tuckwell, newly minted MP for Uxbridge, gleefully highlighting the £450 “savings” a year (or around £8.65 a week) to the "average" earner, sitting around £35,000 a year. Naturally, I felt compelled to crunch the numbers and,let's just say the results are underwhelming.

For someone earning £20,000 a year, the weekly saving is £2.85—barely enough for a meal deal. Even those on £40,000 will only see £10.50 extra a week, which might cover a pint, if you’re lucky.

It’s a thin layer of icing on a very stale cake, and when you factor in rising costs, the gesture collapses entirely.

Let’s take rent—average increases of 9.7% mean an extra £26.88 a week for tenants. Mortgages? Up £55.38 a week. Energy bills continue their climb, adding £12.52 weekly for the average household. That NI saving? It vanishes faster than Liz Truss at a financial literacy seminar.

This, of course, comes after the Tories initially raised NI, only to “cut” it now like some political sleight of hand. It’s the legislative equivalent of setting your house on fire, then claiming heroics for calling the fire brigade.

The real theatre here is the sheer cheek of celebrating these crumbs while millions grapple with skyrocketing costs caused, in no small part, by Conservative mismanagement. Between Truss and Kwarteng’s kamikaze mini-budget, inflation eroding wages, and public services crumbling, this cut is not a solution—it’s a distraction. If the government thinks this will win hearts and minds ahead of an election, they’ve clearly miscalculated. We see through the spin, Mr Tuckwell. Save the champagne and get to work fixing the mess you’ve made.

On a completely separate note, I have to put eye drops in the Fur Daemon.

Wish me luck.

7 January

It’s Day Two of Rishi Long-Stockings’ big giveaway! My National Insurance “windfall” has me dreaming big—this week, two extra onions; next week, a whole loaf of bread. Give it a month, and I might save enough for some avocado on toast. The generosity is staggering.

I’m stepping back from the political chaos to potter around the house for the day. The Christmas tree is gone, leaving an unforgivable void in the living room. The Fur Daemon is sulking after yesterday’s eye-drop incident, glaring at me like she’s moments away from filing a formal complaint. To make amends, I’ve thrown myself into slow-cooking short rib. By the time it’s done, the house will smell of braised beef and betrayal.

In the news, Sunak has declared the Post Office scandal an “appalling miscarriage of justice.” True, but his government’s track record on justice reform is hardly inspiring. Elsewhere, Paul Maynard is being investigated for allegedly using public funds for party campaigns—because Tory integrity is an oxymoron. And Keir Starmer has voiced concern about shielding his kids from election-year madness.

Can’t blame him; we’re all bracing ourselves.

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