SUNDAY BREAKFAST

One of the major changes in my emotional environment since I made it back to England is that I am no longer a thrall of the 24 hour cable news cycle. No more Keith Olbermann, no more Rachel Maddow, and certainly no more of Glenn Beck’s daily lunacy. I am now living in a place – with a very large TV – where the news is concise and to the point and comes from all over the world, and is not so completely dedicated to the latest in crypto fascist idiot-howling. Indeed, Brit TV seems very much the way I left it except there’s so much more including plenty to avoid. I am, however, at risk of becoming addicted to Eastenders, and Xmas telly was massively predictable – Lawrence of Arabia, The Man Who Would Be King, Dr Zhivago – David Lean, memories of empire, James Bond, Sean Bean as Sharp, and acres of Dr. Who. And then, on New Year’s Day there’s a Godfather marathon. But the news cannot be totally avoided and too much of it over the Yule has been dedicated to politicians round the globe telling the people who elected them that 2011 is not going to be a picnic – gruel for Sunday prole-breakfast – as though somehow it was our fault. But it isn’t our fault. I didn’t drive the economy into the ditch, motherfucker. That was you, aiding and abetting your corporate masters in any bizarre larceny they could get away with. And, meanwhile, in other news, bankers still pick up their obscene bonus cheques and attend masked balls like they were the fucking Doge of Venice. So – finally getting to the point – that’s when a Jack Daniel’s breakfast seems very damned appealing.

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The secret word is Oblivion