I am on holiday.
Not because I had anywhere to go or anything particular to do. Certainly not because I had any pressing family duty to deal with. Simply because I am sick of having every move micromanaged by bores of room temperature IQ.
But there was a masterplan of sorts. For this should be the week in which I finally start writing again. Freed from workplace inanities, the words would flow freely and I would again start to publish like clockwork. This would be handy because – coincidentally – the bi-monthly deadline for a publication who always want me is approaching and I have not written a word (or even chosen a subject, to be honest).
Um! No, still no ideas.
And the year started so well too. While on the one hand the old markets are closing, new ones rocked up. I seem to have said all I can about Manx campaigns to combat religious privilege to publications who want to report them. Anyway, there are no new campaigns to speak of, while the publications who once wanted to know are now duller and more dogmatic than the religiots. So why bother?
In their place, I was surprised to get offers from libertarian and proudly individualist sites I follow away from those mocking purely faith-based bansturbators. This was fun, but in the last two months not much action there either.
It isn’t that the topics and campaigns have gone away: if anything they are becoming more necessary. But in conversation with some of those behind them, I find that – like me – they are too worn out, distracted or overwhelmed by dayjob responsibilities to research and write as they used to. Interestingly, I also find that some of the wittiest and fieriest writers share something else with me.
The state – and even their own families – are not capable or willing to deal with the failing health of elderly relatives, so all their spare hours are spent plugging the gap. Wouldn’t it be the greatest irony be if Britain’s fieriest libertarian hacks all gave up holding Nanny HQ to account simply because they had to check on Mum?
One answer, which one or two of us are tentatively exploring, is to write about that instead.
Now, the MOR print press and cyberworld are already overflowing with dullards who blog like some provincial Mother Theresa about the topic. Stuff that for a game of soldiers.
Time for such natural interfereniks to be elbowed aside by drunks, rock-and-rollers and party animals. Think Republican Party Reptiles Do Daycare. Or imagine an Ab Fab plot where June Whitfield’s mother character develops serious Alzheimers, and Edina and Patsy must somehow cope without spilling a drop.
Sounds like a plan.