Definitely Not About Climate Change

What’s the point of writing about climate change? So much has already been written on the subject (4,000 pages) that the world should by now be embroiled in a major shift in everyone’s way of living, governments steering us through the maze of alterations necessary to reverse our planet’s steadily increasing plunge into chaos and destruction.

The planet will survive. It’s been through these types of climate upheavals many times in it’s four billion years existence. Never at this fast a rate, and never at the hands of evolution’s greatest mistake. For, let’s not kid ourselves, despite the best efforts of the egos of some eight billion organisms known as Homo sapiens, they or rather us, are totally responsible for our planet’s rush into instability and the ensuing chaos and destruction now certain to engulf us.

We are evolution’s greatest mistake. It’s created some weird and wonderful creatures and plants in four billion years, but without doubt Homo sapiens is the most outlandish and destructive.  We slaughter each other by the millions, then invent weapons of mass destruction, ostensibly to prevent us slaughtering each other by the millions. We rip our planet apart in a fervour of greed for it’s contents, whether coal, or oil, or gas, or precious minerals. We use them by altering their states, creating vast quantities of poisonous, noxious, gases and other by-products that pollute our rivers, seas, and atmosphere in the process. The end result of this is a mass of so-called “products” we then throw back onto the planet’s surface as waste, by the billions of tons.

We expect our planet to just accept this without complaint, but when it doesn’t, and it becomes obvious that things are going sadly wrong, what do we do about it – nothing! It’s business as usual. We carry on digging up the precious metals, the fossil fuels that poison the atmosphere,  the huge mounds of waste products that poison the soil, the rivers, the seas, and ourselves. All the while expecting the planet can take it.

Thankfully, it’s true, the planet will take care of it, very effectively.  It will do so by destroying the cause of the problem. For while Homo sapiens with its immense ego is happily thinking it’ll solve the problem by using its fabulous brains and technology (but later, at some vague time in the future), the planet will be successfully destroying it.

In the great Universal order of things, Homo sapiens is just another animal that’s overrun the planet, destroyed millions of other species in the process, and thinks it’s the Great I Am. It’s not. Planet Earth is the Great I Am. Homo sapiens is just another Dinosaur that’s got too big for its boots.

The world is not coming to an end, but we are. It may be difficult for mankind to envisage the vastness of the Universe, but it’s a million times more difficult for him to consider the possibility of his own annihilation. So he’ll happily bury his head deep in the sand, because the Olympics are more interesting, or the soccer season is beginning, or a sleazebag politician has been caught with his trousers down, or some billionaire has fired himself into space and managed to return without killing himself.

Still, at least when the time comes the head’s of mankind will be well placed to kiss their ass’s goodbye.

That’s why there is no point in writing about climate change.

Will No-one Rid Us Of The ‘Anti’ Brigade?

It’s been a while. Three months, probably closer to four.  My last but one post was entitled, “When The Tears Have Dried.” That hasn’t yet happened, but life goes on, or so we are told. The isolation hasn’t helped. Covid-19 hasn’t helped. I’m fully vaccinated now but then along comes Delta, and we’re told even the vaccinated should, “take precautions,” whatever the hell that means.

I suppose the truth is they, whoever ‘they’ are’, have no more idea  of what ‘take precautions’ means, than you or I have. The British are now ‘advised’ to wear a mask in public. Judging from the audience at the Royal Albert Hall for the First Night Of The Proms concerts, where at least a third, and possibly as many as half the occupants of that grandiose building were without the requisite face attire, advice is something the British, and probably most of the other human inhabitants of the planet, do not set much store by.

It’s seems to have been forgotten that wearing a mask will not protect the wearer from catching this disease. What it does is protect others from our saliva, which may be contaminated without us having symptoms.  So the person shunning the inconvenience of a mask is putting at risk everyone around them, even those considerate enough to be wearing one.

This is hardly surprising. Only recently I was reading that we should not get mad at those who refuse the vaccinations. It will create a divided society, they say. We need to gently persuade them.

How many will they kill before they are persuaded? How many will suffer agonies from Long Covid before the dolts and fools, the brainwashed, self-centered, idiots, can be persuaded to comply?

Then, of course, there are the vaccine deniers, the Covid deniers, and as Arwa Mahdawi informed us in the Guardian yesterday, the vaccine hypocrites:

“The hottest summer accessories for people who don’t want to die a horrible death but are ashamed to admit it? A wig and dark glasses. It has been reported that some people in Missouri, which has one of the lowest vaccination rates in the US, are wearing disguises to their vaccine appointments because they are terrified their anti-vaxxer friends and family might find out that they are protecting themselves from a deadly virus…”

Local health care providers are even advertising ‘discreet’ areas for those who want the vaccine but are afraid of being spotted getting the jab by their friends and neighbours. What the fuck!

“A local healthcare provider has even started advertising “discreet” appointments for people who want to keep their shot secret. “If you are afraid of walking into a public area where you might be seen getting your vaccine, we will work to accommodate even more of a private setting for you to receive your vaccine,” Ozarks Healthcare said in a statement.”

There’s been few voices brave enough to call out these fuckers who risk killing people, or causing them untold misery from Long Covid. Mahdawi is one of them. R J Adams is another. These people are shitehawks. They whisper among the dark places on the internet, and yes, Zuckerberg, you do fuck all to stop it? They form little cliques with their equally moronic, anarchistic, friends online or in the same street, and band together to feel important.

They are important. They are so important they should be offered their own special choice: do your civic duty and get vaccinated, or be taken, along with your other anti-vaxx compatriots, to an isolated, enclosed area where you can be kept to infect each other and away from society.

They rail about their “freedoms” while denying the rest of us the opportunity to free ourselves of this viral menace and return to normal living. If we ever achieve that it will be in spite of these antisocial parasites and their misguided, brainwashed, ideals.

My wife did not die from Covid-19. She died of her cancer. She wanted to die in my arms, but she was denied that right by the US government who refused to allow me to enter the United States and be with my dying wife. “Citizens and Permanent Residents Only,” was my response from the US Embassy in Paris, “I’m sorry, but there is a global pandemic, you know!” Thank you, madam, for your misplaced sympathy.

She may as well have died from Covid-19. It was that which prevented us being together at the end.

So I have no sympathy with the ignorant fuckers who continue to allow this dreadful disease to spread by their crackpot attitudes. They refuse the right to life to far too many by their cockeyed ideas of “freedom”.

No, my tears have not yet dried, but to my grief has been added a burning anger at those who choose to believe their individual ‘rights’ are more important than the lives of thousands of their fellow human beings.



Cancer, It’s Not A War – It’s An Illness!

Grief and writing make bad bedfellows. Part of being a writer is to put down on paper an expression of one’s feelings, either directly, or in some form of fictitious novel or short story.

The only way I find to carry on with life is by keeping busy and not allowing the thoughts that cause grief to rise up from deep within, bringing with them the anguish and accompanying tears that prevent even a short sentence from making it onto the page.

There’s so much happening in the world that I want to write about, but mostly I need to write about her.  Not to do so, to concentrate on world affairs: Boris Johnson’s  disgusting abuse of his governmental position, his toadying up to Modi of India now that Trump is no longer a powerful US presidential ally, the sudden relaxation of rules in the western hemisphere that protected people  from Covid, while the virus still rages and mutates elsewhere, and over it all the looming threat of catastrophic climate change, these are subjects overdue to be aired, but to do so feels almost traitorous, as though turning my back and walking away from the woman I loved, cherished, and cared for, for twenty years.

No, the time is not yet right. Johnson, Modi, all the other motherfuckers damaging our lives and the our planetary home by their selfish lust for power, must wait awhile before R J Adams can turn his attention back to them.

One day she will release him. But not yet. There are still memories that will not go away, tears still to be shed, in private, late at night, or early on waking, or during solitary meals, the chair where once she sat, now unoccupied.

There is one element I’ve come to hate with venom. It’s the marketing ploy that defines cancer as some evil monster to be battled against, the pink ribbons designed to show we are all united in our war against, “The BIG C.”

“The Great Stand Up To Cancer Bake-Off.” Fuck Off! It’s not some playground bully. It’s a fucking illness. The only people battling against it are doctors and scientists trying to find cures, and they’d consider it neither a battle nor a war.\

Most of these self-righteous idiots, with their ribbons and stickers, and anything else they can think of to advertise themselves as pathetic individuals, have never suffered from the disease. The crap they come out with serves only to make those who become terminal cancer victims feel as though they’re losers, that they’ve not done something right, they’ve not fought hard enough, and that’s why they’re going to die.

A message to the pink ribbon brigade: Stop it! If you want to raise money for cancer research, fine. Find another way. It started as false American over-sentimentality. They have an abundance of it. It spread like a cancer. It makes cancer sufferers feel inadequate. They cannot fight the disease, or stand up to it.  One day, pink ribbon wearer, you may find that out.

My late-wife was in total agreement with what I’m writing. She hated the idea of a ‘war against cancer’. Why not a war against heart disease, or motor neuron disease, or any of the other killers of humankind. Why not a war against the corporations that make the crap we have to eat these days, full of poisonous chemicals, or a war against Monsanto and their deadly products, Perdue Pharma for oxycontin, and all the other purveyors of opiates that have killed or ruined the lives of millions throughout the world?

Get a grip! It’s not a war against anything. It’s a usually terminal disease that cannot be fought by those suffering from it.

As my wife said to me when she was told of her stage four ovarian cancer, “We can only leave it to the doctors, my love, and hope for the best.”

The doctors did their best. They didn’t fail, but sadly were unable to save her, despite the ‘wonder-drug,’ the ‘miracle-cure,’ Lynparza, manufactured by a pharmaceutical giant whose name is very much in the news of late – AstraZeneca.

But that’s another story.