Thatcher’s Dead and The Hippies Thrive. There Truly is No God.


Thatchers dead. There we go. This whole thing feels like one big anti-climax. I have been a member of a Facebook group for about five years which was called “Let’s All Jump on Margaret Thatchers Grave” and it was just in anticipation for when she died. Things like this made me expect street parties and stuff, you know? Like the Royal Wedding day. Everyone just pissed in the streets and partying hard but instead of pretending to be interested in a couple of inbred newlyweds it would be an orgy of genuine emotions and heartfelt sincerity.

So, yeah. I’m just sat in my room doing fuck all on a day I have been looking forward to for ages. I have tea though. That’s something. You can never be down if you have tea. Proper tea though, with milk and sugars. None of this green tea shit or the herbal nonsense fucking hippies drink. Normal breakfast tea. Fucking hippies. They make me sick. What with their home-made deodorants and  an unhealthy love for the outdoors. Don’t get me wrong, we all love sitting on grass and being in parks, but you cross the line when it comes to bathing in mud, fucking on acid in the Cotswolds and marrying your bastard children to hedges and sunflowers. And ruining perfectly good t-shirts by tie-dying them. What the fuck is that about? Just buy some clothes you like in the first place. And stop trying to be different. You’re all the same and you’re all disgusting. With your full-moon parties and drum circles. Your parents are crying their eyes out and you just don’t give a fudge, do you?

Why not join the rest of the world by looking for a job, eating bacon and voting?

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