Tell Me

Tell me, are those rock and roll dreams in your eyes

Tell me behind what door your treasure lies

Ever gone broke in a big way

Ever done the opposite of what the experts say

Tell me, tell me

How many of you good folks are beginning to consider restoring normality to your world? His Nibs seems to have had enough of Boris’s lockdown and “new normality”. I have to say I’m really glad because we had a few folks around and it was such a laugh. Most importantly, I received lots of treats cheese-wise, with a load of halloumi keeping me well content.

His Lordship was a bit “not with it” the day after but when friends John & Sarah called he perked up from being the half-dead, barely alive person lazing about all day. There was a splendidly vigorous debate about education when yet again – listen, I’ve heard him spout off this so many times I’m bored – His Nibs said why can’t schools establish the special talents of each individual child and then spin the rest of their education around those talents. Self esteem is the key he cries, and sometimes I really wish he would put on his academic head (I promise you, dear friends, he actually does have one much as he denies it) and develop his ideas into a practical concept. I have heard some of his long-time friends tell him that he has been going on about it for so long it is time he had a plan!

His painting has been coming along. No, I don’t mean it’s getting any better – it all looks very squiggly to me – I mean he’s very prolific and there seem to be new one’s of varying size every single day. He loves doing it and it keeps him very quiet!

In addition, His Nibs seems to have turned the living-rom into a pretend art gallery. There are paintings everywhere, all round the wall units, on the window-sills, on the floor. So far he has not turned me out of my favourite places of comfort, but I just have this feeling that it could happen.

At the same time as calming himself with his painting, he is beginning to get agitated about the media all getting excited about the nation having to face tax increases. Now, to be fair, The Boss explained it wasn’t necessarily true at this point. Just talk. But “the rich” seemed to be starting to object because the initial ideas seemed to be aimed at them. That started a rant.

I pretended to sleep. But he wouldn’t stop.

“This country has sold all its silver, all its gold, all its property, all its natural resources (and much more) plus we make sod all these days.”

“Now we have printed god knows how much money. Oh…and the cost of Brexit not yet taken effect. Whoops! The day of reckoning fast approaches. Obviously.”

“When the unemployment figures reach incredibly high figures as furlough ends, when inflation starts rising fast after the money printing (in case you didn’t realise printing money was the same strategy as Mugabe in Zimbabwe and Chavez in Venezuela) only then will the masses realise what is happening to them.”

“We are all going need some good luck because I have no idea what to do except perhaps emigrate somewhere!”

I wouldn’t wish these outbursts to create the impression the Old Boy is in something of a depression. Nothing could be further from the truth. With all his artistic delights, he is mostly permanently in a state of high enjoyment. Linked with the fact that we are rapidly returning to normality – out to lunch at the pub with a lot with mates being the major characteristic – he tells me that if he could give up current affairs life would be as good as it gets.

But he can’t, can he? He spent an hour talking to me the other day about his despair at the demise of America under “that crook and liar”. He started on Bumbling Boris after thrashing the Donald, issuing me with this gem that “at least under Corbyn we would probably have had less favouritism to friends”. From my observations atop the settee I’m not so sure about that analysis.

Meanwhile I’ve been trying prepare myself for the new football season. I didn’t actually realise the old one had finished until we had yet another game on tv recently and the Football Guru that he is remarked that he thought United should have insisted their players took a break. I decided not to comment that the way they had played half the season, they were all on a permanent break!

I reflected that seeing as some lad from United had managed to get himself in trouble somewhere on an obscure Greek island, that wasn’t necessarily wise counsel.

At least I am able to catch up on my rest currently because it is the Tour de France. I am now familiar when this is on tv each year because Him Indoors starts wearing hooped tea shirts with a beret and a string of onions and garlic hanging around his neck. I do think though that addressing me in French for three weeks is taking it a bit far. “Bonjour Monsieur Dylan, comment allez-vous aujourd’hui” is not the morning greeting to which I am accustomed.

I leave you as always with my good wishes to stay safe. I have decided not to burden you with some of His Nibs views on it all. Suffice to say we have more friends coming around soon, and when I politely enquired as to whether they were all part of our bubble his reply, barked out at me in an aggressive manner was “Boris can stick his bubbles up his ***””.

God bless folks, love you all.

Woof! Woof!