I’ve come to the coldest place on Earth again. Why would you do that asks the sensible ones? Because my Mum lives here, well actually downstairs from here. The coldest place on Earth is may Mum’s house, specifically the top floor, while the 2 rooms she lives in downstairs are really hot, but humid as the damp is drawn out of the walls, the top floor is just Baltic, mum blames the pump or something for not getting the hot water to reach the radiators, but then Mums not a plumber. I’ve got the usual duvet and woollen blanket from the war, which is actually bloody toasty, and although its so old it still works, 1 careful lady owner see.

We’ve got a funeral to go to; one of Mum’s best mate’s husband, a kind of surrogate Uncle, such as they are. Spent a lot of time with him unto 10 or 12 then was sent away to school and only saw him again a handful of times great bloke reminded me of Willie Rushden, which is a great thing. So I’ve come over to Leicester from Clinton upon Teme into the Hornets nest of Base Racism. I’m expecting a few crackers at the wake afterwards, maybe the staff will be of a foreign persuasion, some may be with brown skin, and I can bet there will be a disapproving murmur of  “Much better in My Day” to paraphrase  a brilliant tune by Gazelle Twin; I think we must have met similar types.  

So Sadly this advent we’ve got a funeral, and “there will be masons so there may not be anywhere to park” hence we’re leaving about 90 minutes before the actual funeral which is 10 miles away maximum. I’ll be picking up one of Mum’s mates and the whole thing will be very sad, most of Mum’s mates are really old and this is the type of event they don’t look forward to but proves to be an ever present feature on the antisocial calendar. Mums told me the route we have to go, because her way is better than the sat nav and I’m going to follow her directions to Elizabeths house, to the funeral, to the golf club for the wake, back to Elizabeth’s house and back home to drop her off, then I’ll use my own map reading skills, which I possess in some quantity, to get me home, it is at that point that I will have a few cans of beer and drink a toast to my dad, who passed away 2 years ago. I think I’ll stay a bit longer with Mum to make sure she’s alright and not blame her for Brexit and remember Dad, and not blame her for Brexit.

Its a funny old thing, this country. Every day we wake up to another Tory scandal and someone else defaults on a large home loan, with the spectre of homelessness fingering bank accounts of the lenders. What have we got in there then, what can we cut down on, what luxuries can you cut out? Get rid of Sky, get a dodgy memory stick, give up the fags, buy them from Europe, stop going to the pub, get a bag of cans in. This country, this country. This week I really felt for the first time, I’d really rather live somewhere else, in Europe preferably, but I can’t because of Brexit. And there in lies the problem, the future fucked by the people of the past, thats how this referendum will be remembered. I wouldn’t normally talk about this but I’m at my Mum’s one the eve of the anniversary of my dad’s death and the funeral of a surrogate Uncle and yet Brexit. Who wants to be ruled by Brussels? She swallowed it. Hook, Line and Sinker. And that depresses me.