Berchtesgaden, 1935
 
So this was life and death when the mutt-pack of evil vermin sniggered and gloated and smirked.  This is what animals who belong in the Zoo found so fucking funny.  Oh I so deserve to suffer, don’t I, and didn’t they just love it, these so-called senior nurses. And those animals remain untouched and I’m supposed to just quietly die.
 
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH
And so later we shall  return to my plight which has been a low-grade horror show in the last month because it is evil to insist filthy animals, swaggering bestial baboon men and their slobbering exemplars of subhumanity women behave like human beings.
 
Let us say I am not in a good mood.   I have had a month of acute stress, my mother having been admitted to hospital as an emergency on 18 October and discharged on 28th , during which time I have done my best to be both full-time carer and full-time employee.
By her discharge after trudging to the hospital every day and stress and living on Paracetamol and so disguising the pain from having done too much my legs felt so trembly I was frightened standing up, stood sobbing in horrible crowds at Oxford Circus, and I stumbled in tears and distress and horror through equally horrible crowds on the platform at Victoria, a low I shall not readily forget. Later I carried home 2 litres of milk, 1 litre of disinfectant  and 1.5 kg of potatoes together with sundry other groceries on my back because I have no money for a delivery because the minimum order amount was out of reach.        Really good for my spine, of course.  Why tell them so they can get off on it, as of course the baboon men, the animal men all do.      They think I deserve it.           Whatever happens to me, no-one will lift a finger to help me, no-one will come near me.
 
There followed a weekend with £1.60 in the world.   That too. My mum managed to sign a cheque to me I had written out and I was full of trepidation that her signature was so doddery the bank would say it was forged.        £101.61 was then all I had in the world when the cheque cleared.     It’s the electricity bill, stupid.
 
Sleeping on Katie’s sofa in the sitting-room on the ground floor next to her bedroom. It’s not particularly comfortable and I am so tired that I don’t wake up when I need to piss so by now it’s a bit pongy too.      Yes, you’ve guessed: I can’t afford the quantities of Dettol needed to er resolve this issue.
 
And then I got it clean and then I collapsed exhausted and pissed again.
 
Mother-daughter dialogue
 
Look - come and sit in the sitting-room for a minute while I remake the bed - no, not on the sofa, it’s wet - because I’m so tired I piss in my sleep
 
Or else sleeping in an armchair with my legs on the pouffe, it being more comfortable than the sofa. Not sure when I last had a proper night’s sleep nor have regular and sane meals featured too prominently.   Fortunately I have always been a great milk-drinker. There are 34 g of protein in a litre of milk.
 
Working at home in Katie’s sitting-room and lugging my dear old but large PC up and down the stairs all adding to the fun.
Sat listening to Katie burping, retching, hiccuping, a sort of reflex until I just want to scream stop it, stop it, stop it.      Was     terrified it’d trigger another bleed
At least when she wasn’t retching, she was well in an undefinable way that includes interest in food and conversation.
 
She was given Metoclopramide for the retching which works.            Unfortunately if coincidentally otherwise deterioration, can’t get comfortable, can’t sleep, can’t lie, can’t sit and an obsession with falling, a trembliness which is new
 
Endless faffing around with the pillow until I’m crying because I can’t get the pillows right.     Maybe no-one can.     And Katie can’t get comfortable.
 
Not coincidental just got worse
 
Of course I may not have any emotional support, they may not be anyone I can turn to,
 
Oh the cheque bounced, but just because I miscalculated and oh the fucking hours I spend calculating, a day before her pension was paid in, and I found that out at half past twelve on Tuesday morning and then I just felt sick, because I had no money at all, and had to ask a kindly neighbour for a loan in the morning to enable me to get to work and us to eat and in the evening I had to bring home another ton weight on my back in order that there be food in the house,            carried home on my back 4 pts of milk, 75 ml orange barley, a large loaf 1.5 kg of potatoes and sundry other groceries because you stupid cunts I have no fucking choice - almost no fucking choice, I could have taken advantage of Boris’s fares cap brought half of it home and then gone out again but since I was dead on my feet anyway - what the fuck
I must’ve looked so fucking awful three separate total strangers asked me if I was all right. Of course I said yes thank you.
 
Doubtless had I been about to pass out these nice people would have been happy to call an ambulance and stay with me till it arrived but what I actually needed was a transfusion of money.
 
I couldn’t not spent £10 on Internet access because I have to work at home   and I can’t not buy 4 pts of milk because bread and milk are the staples of my fucking diet Along with potatoes, onions, brown rice and lentils.
 
Of course it has never been possible for anyone to come near me, anyone to offer me help, financial, practical, emotional or political.
 
So then I got paid money I’d earned but a cheque is a cheque and banks are banks and cheques still have to be cleared so my hand-to-mouth existence continues until that cheque is cleared
 
My legs have nearly recovered back to their ‘normal’ pre-crisis wonkiness.      Do you know what it’s like for any activity to be an ordeal, the 3 days I go into work, carrying a little tray down the corridor.         Letting out little animal noises, whimpers of distress.
 
Never knowing how Katie is going to be from hour to hour, never mind when I get home from work. Constant doing, cooking up veggie soups to get both food and drink into Katie, cleaning up, emptying the commode, catching up on work in the small hours. And trying to make up my mind if she’s imminently dying of course.
 
Of course it’s all just a game to mentally damaged, mental defective vermin,            A huge joke with my health and my life the butt of it: a hunger game for their entertainment.
Nobody has to do anything.    That would be silly.    Think of all the offal who would be distressed thereby.
 
And more carrying home of heavy shopping on my back, of leaving work practically too tired to move and having to detour to the supermarket to load up.
 
So then last weekend I stopped the pill for the retching because of the psychological side-effects and crossed my fingers and Katie didn’t promptly be sick.
 
Until Thursday morning when she’d started retching started again and she’s asking me to call someone, GP, ambulance, someone, and there am I plugged into the VPN with one half of my brain working and the other half screaming and a sort of second brain trying to get Katie clear on whether ambulance now or GP later and meantime I gave her another Metoclopramide and she settled and the the GP came later and changed it to Cyclizine. Well, the one on Thursday night was OK, but I gave her one Friday morning and at the end of the day another and Katie spent Friday night hallucinating. Nice hallucinations but hallucinations, nonetheless. Knowing she was hallucinating. Have just Googled Cyclizine withdrawal.            Psychoactive drug known to cause visual and auditory hallucinations, previously available OTC and used for legal highs.            Oh right.
Bye-bye Cyclizine. By now, Saturday lunchtime, she’s a bit groggy but back in her right mind.
 
Oh what big men they all are. No-one messes with them and their filthy criminal world, no-one upsets the vile mutt-pack who run the place for them.            Don’t I just need to suffer alone for my ‘insolence’, ‘impertinence’, the crime of being a normal human being.
 
So then somewhere in all this a letter came for Katie from the solicitors handling the Will of the old friend of hers who’d left her money saying the payment had been raised and the money as unreachable as the stars, and certainly it will help but it has to be taken into account that all the care and other benefits she gets will promptly have to be paid for, and so windfall though it is it’s not the riches it appears at first sight.
 
And just about everything else going wrong, TV ceased to work again, top of the plug came off the fan heater and eluded replacement, bloody plug of the kitchen sink vanished, probably accidentally in the bloody rubbish bin, which I shall have therefore to empty out and sift through. Why am I not screaming?       Well of course partly I am.
 
There is no point in sobbing and screaming.  It doesn’t help anything, least of all me. I could probably work myself up into a state where I had a heart attack from pain and horror and revulsion but I do not think that is constructive.  Revulsion at filth, at sickness, at stomach-churning vermin. I took a Grade 5 job as a PA.  I was demeaned, degraded and physically abused. The whole world is on the side of the demeaners, degraders and abusers, ganged up against me. So 20 years later I’m grossly disabled and looking forward to a future of pain, poverty, cold.  You’re all diseased, mentally sick. 
You want to hear something funny. I bought a mobility scooter, so I could at least get outside, but it and I are for the moment trapped inside because of the so far impossibility of getting it over the stepped and ridged threshold of the outside front door, the solution to which lies in the world of ramps, but because it is the door of a block of flats no permanent solution is possible so any solution has to be susceptible of being carried by me. Hey, life’s for learning.  I now know a great deal more about gradients and loads than I did three months ago. 
 
Nobody tells them they’re filth.  Nobody tells them to say it in the open or save their breath.  No-one would ever dream of doing anything normal.  No-one would ever dream of demanding the norms of a free, democratic, rational and civilized society. 
 
I think I have a clear idea where we are.  Screen goes whooshy.  It is Berchtesgaden, 1935.  See the glittering chandelier, the excellent stables, the fine wine. Such lovely people, completely charming. Load of grotesque nonsense.  The absolutely appalling things that have been said about Herr Himmler.  I mean really.  A more erudite and charming man one can hardly hope to meet.  Far far from the broken bodies and wrecked lives. 
 
Do we not all move in the best circles?  A bent ugly old crone such as I cannot break the spell.  Words could break the spell, fact could break the spell, therefore language, fact are to ignored, suppressed.  What was it, murder-machines, programmed to destroy.  Rage against the machine.  These are not human beings.
 
Are you, Blair, are you, Milburn, are you, Linch.  Mad, sick evil animals.  What’s the fuss about, apes?  Other mad, sick, animals.  Deformed diseased  vermin.  Hum and haw as though it were all terribly difficult, terribly complicated.  Dismiss out of hand all fact, reason, morality.  What the fucking Christ is the matter with these people?  They’re evil, rotten to the core.  They want to tear everything down, a society ruled by hysterics, psychopaths, freaks, criminals, by ignorance it is forbidden to correct by knowledge, by lies it is forbidden to confront with truth, by malice, by spite, by stupidity.    Here’s a fine specimen of a vile obscene freak, the fat brute Boden who was Chief Nurse, the ape who has no language, no fact, no reason, no ethics to support it, and so butchers, the psychopath who demands obedience to its ravings, the traitor who considers itself empowered to ignore democracy, the cowardly freak who skulks dribbling and blustering and whining behind closed doors, spreading evil lies that cannot be publicly challenged, the bag of rotting flesh composed of lies and malice.  The sexually sick animal woman who thinks nursing suitable for a woman and ridiculous to think that women can be humans, choose the kind of human we want to be, ridiculous that a woman can be intellectual, educated, capable of argument, the dirty fat freak who doesn’t thik a woman being physically independent is naice, is ladylike and so brought its club down on my spine to stop it.  The dirty animal who thinks others are its property, subject to its rabid filth.  The sordid common criminal, the sick animal who exercises unaccountable and so criminal power and believes every word that drips from its twisted animal mouth is to be obeyed, the frank pervert who demands I comply with its injury of me  – and the sick freak grovelers who worship power, worship violence, abandon all fact, all ethics, all reason to apes with clubs
 
I laugh at you daily, filth.  I laugh at you daily, offal. I can do nothing.  My only weapons are language, fact, reason, morality and these are spat on, shat on, mocked, despised.  Universally spat on, shat on, mocked, despised by the vermin who rule. 
 
Depict the subhuman filth in bondage.  I can probably do that.  Slave-collars round their necks.  Chains running to their anklets too short to enable them to stand upright, but they hate standing upright, they think it’s evil, you gotta obey, you gotta be owned, you gotta do what Master says.  All independent action of heart and mind is forbidden.  Chains running between their legs on which they rub their filthy animal selves off as they prostrate themselves and writhe and moan and press themselves into the ground desperate to annul themselves, to submit, to please.
Hate love, hate mind, hate anything clean, anything honest, anything upright, anything open, crawl around in filth and squalor and malice and lies, coating themselves in sickness and dirt, picking up handfuls of filth and rubbing it over their faces, stuffing it into their mouths.
 
And calling it good.  That is virtue and so of course to them I am evil.  All any of them cares about is how distressed are other filth and garbage who belong in Broadmoor.  Oh how I have fucking upset freaks, psychopaths, traitors, butchers, liars, criminals.  Look at the sick animals.  
 
And I shit on you filth daily, diseased bloody vermin.  Every evil lie to be cherished and protected and shielded from truth.  Every evil liar to be maintained in its delusion, nurtured, upheld.  Every psychopath confirmed in its madness, clucking and cooing, how terrible it has been told others are not its property, it must be so distressed, it’s just really mean and awful to upset the sick freak like that, of course other people must do and be and think and say and write and read only what it permits, of course others must be creatures of its will and choosing and be brutally punished if they refuse.  Of course it’s evil nonsense that people are free, separate, independent, running on separate tracks, coming from somewhere else, themselves, what they have chosen to be, not what has been dictated to them.  Of course anything that offends Master is evil, and everything that does not accord with the squirming unicellular excrescence that passes for Master’s brain is forbidden.  You just have to accept that.  If a sick monkey finds Athens or relativity or Marx, literacy, reason unacceptable, these things may not exist.  Everything has to go to drag us all down to the level of sick monkeys. I just gotta understand.  You can’t say that. It is inconceivable to them one is not a slave, one’s existence is not dictated.  There is a point beyond why haven’t they all been hanged.  The point where you know what you are dealing with is insanity, the criminally insane, unreachable by human means, to whom violence is normal, corruption is normal, sickness is sanity.  Creatures who live in a world that exists solely in their heads.  Intelligence is forbidden.  Reason is forbidden.  Fact is forbidden.  There are only the ravings of an ape in a paper hat waving its club.  The State is corrupt.  The University is corrupt. 
 
What I understand is that it is forbidden to be me.  Forbidden to be intelligent, rational, literate, literary, honest, moral, free, democratic and female.  Forbidden to be person I choose to be, forbidden to think my own thoughts.  Forbidden to express them and be capable of expressing them. 
Forbidden to be able to walk properly, to run, to move about the world without being reminded of who thinks himself my master, who has had the insolence to impose his vile filthy monkey self on my body and impede every move I make.  That I have been and am used as a punchbag by vermin, subhuman inadequates who tremble and quiver if they do not control those around them, who are terrified of others as equals, individuals, with equal rights who might therefore ask them who the fuck they think they are and what the fuck they think they’re playing at, tell them to go fuck themselves.  All must crawl.    I shit on you daily.
 
The Aristocrat by G. K. Chesterton
The Devil is a gentleman and askes you down to stay
At his little place at What'sitsname (it isn't far away).
They say the sport is splendid; there is always something new,
And fairy scenes, and fearful feats that none but he can do;
He can shoot the feathered cherubs if they fly on the estate,
Or fish for Father Neptune with the mermaids for a bait;
He scaled amid the staggering stars that precipice the sky,
And blew his trumpet above heaven, and got by mastery
The starry crown of God Himself and shoved it on the shelf;
But the devil is a gentleman, and doesn't brag himself.

O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away,
And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay
At the little place in What'hitsname where folks are rich and clever;
The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse forever;
There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain,
There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain;
There is a game of April Fool that's played behind its door,
Where the fool remains forever and April comes no more,
Where the splendor of the daylight grows drearier than the dark,
And life droops like a vulture that once was such a lark:
And that is the Blue Devil, that once was the Blue Bird;
For the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn't keep his word
 
Rather end up in a wheelchair in the gutter than be vermin like you, dirty filthy sickening vermin like you, Blair, like you, Milburn, like you, Linch, like all of you, walking rot and disease, filth to the core, completely corrupt.  Of course if there were any civilized people around, they’d help me, but there are none left.  Dirty little sick freak, arent you, Naylor, dirty, dirty old animal, filthy dirty old ape. What's the matter with you, ape.  This is a democracy.  Accord by its standards, you insolent evil ape. Can't cope, can you, inadequate monkey.  Inadequate ape can't cope with people being free to speak, pathetic inadequate sad sick psychotic old monkey, dirty sick monkey can't cope with accountability, transparency, your sick sad freak ego starts to quiver and tremble at the notion it has to give rational justification for its sickness, evil, treason, and of course transparency stops your sickness, evil, treason.  Bloody pathetic freak who thinks itself set on high to command, order the lives of others. You, Linch, pathetic pervert chimp, thinks it sits on a little throne pulling strings, manipulating, bending and corrupting and perverting everything to its will behind closed doors where the dirty old monkey can't be reached, challenged.  Say it in the open you obscene vermin, say it in the open where everyone can hear it and anyone can challenge it.  Pathetic old freaks can't cope without control, can you, can't cope without power, can't cope with people being equal in rights and free to answer back.  Can't cope without the criminal power to destroy people who say things you don't like.  Saddo freak filth.

But of course it's pointless.  Corruption and evil are now universal.  Any fucking normal sane human being would have howled the place down at the assault on my spinal fusion, howled the place down at the assault on democracy, but they're all freaks and sickos and grovellers and vermin.  Any fucking normal sane human being would have demanded it all in the open, demanded the facts, but not these vile dirty pervert vermin. 
   
Everyone crawls to evil, to sickness, fascism, bestiality, corruption and calls it good.  Do just bloody tell me, you sly, sordid, squalid, twisted, depraved, degraded, degenerate, perverted dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty  filthy little animals, what I have done wrong.  Over what you hum and haw, pervert vermin.