Saturday and its been a long night, I wake up feeling shit and instantly know I am not going to make it to Birmingham to see Ballet Rambert dance Peaky Blinders. Fuck is the extent of my vocabulary for a while. After a cup of coffee it expands a bit to For Fuck Sake. My partner and I quickly agree that I am not going and that she and our eldest daughter will go instead. I print off the train tickets and go back to bed. My family Uber off to Brum. I lay there muttering Fuck quite a lot and eventually find a pair of loose shorts and an ice hockey shirt and get myself another coffee and a fried egg sandwich. I am so fucked off with myself and decide I can’t just lay around like some snowflake so I head for the garden. Slowly and gingerly I pot out some petunias and get the patio pots looking okay. I “nibble” at other containers, resting and muttering fuck to myself, which no doubt amused the neighbours who were sitting the other side of the patio wall. Eventually I can do no more and indulge in a cornetto from the freezer. My eldest daughter sends me pictures of Birmingham Pride going on. A friend sends me pictures of the beach in Whitby. I retreat to the lounge and think about what I would do as a poem for this moment and start to draft the blog. I write a sonnet to express today.
Too sore for Peaky Blinders a sonnet Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Cancer.
Well I seem to have captured the mood and the sense of inarticulate rage quite neatly in the Sonnet format. Shakespeare would have been proud and no doubt had Caliban recite it in honour of Prosper who nicked his island and bad mouthed his mother Sycorax.
Well I’m going to watch rugby and rest now for the rest of the day and imagine myself watching ballet and being enculturated. The rugby comes and goes, my family return from Peaky Blinders having had a good time and I eat pie and chips before Annika and a final bash at the blog. Night meds and its time to see if I can sleep tonight. I’m still sore and still feel shit.
