About Saraband

Portuguese turned Scot. Writer. Painter. Supporter of an Indy Scottish Republic. LGBTQ+. Feminist. Book lover. Gamer. MA in Medieval Islamic History. Owned by two cats. I live in Edinburgh with my handsome fiancé.

We can’t let division win

Al-Hubb, 23x31cm

Painting with the Arabic word for love, “Al-Hubb”, written in calligraphy. 23x31cm, oil on canvas. ©Saraband

Twitter can be mental. I love it. I guess most of you who use it also share this love/hate relationship with it, because we all know we’ve made some wonderful connections, but also seen a lot of crap. I guess that social media has all the problems of our modern society but they become amplified with the added layer of echo chambers, and the inability to provide some much needed nuance around complicated issues, a difficult thing to do with a 280-character limit (can’t believe we survived the 140-character era).

Today, in one of Twitter’s typical abilities to catch us unaware, a bitter little straight man popped up on my timeline, taking issue with the fact that I describe myself as a feminist on my Twitter bio (and, indeed, in life), and also support the Trans community as part of the LGBTQ+ family. The man assumed I was some radical activist wanting to erode women’s rights, which I’m not, and I absolutely don’t want to. So a discussion ensued, he ended up admitting that he had jumped in too quickly (although offering a backhanded apology, so fuck him), but I was left shaking because the whole thing caught me by surprise. Admittedly, I deal very badly with people making false assumptions about me, I have to work on that.

Whilst still reeling from that exchange (I took screenshots of it all before blocking him, by the way), I decided to do a wee spontaneous vlog on Twitter about my views on the subjects of male feminism, self-id laws, and the need for compassion in a debate that is becoming a mud-flinging mess on all sides. You can watch it here:

Keep in mind that it is a two-minutes long, unscripted video, so of course there’s a lot more to be said. It does not offer solutions to the questions around self-ID and women’s rights: to be frank, as a gay man perfectly at home in the body I was born with, it’s not my place to offer those solutions. I should listen to what women have to say, and how we can protect the Trans community without infringing on anyone else’s rights.

I will always stand by my sisters fighting for the right to be protected from male violence, and I will always fight for the right of my Trans friends to live dignified lives. These two things shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Don’t let the patriarchy divide & conquer us, when we should be fighting it together.

Diversity is not about saying that we’re all the same. We aren’t. Trans people are unique, as are women, gay men, straight men, etc., and there’s uniqueness within every single one of those groups as well. Diversity is about acknowledging that those differences exist, but respect them, and ensure that we are all able to live dignified lives. I know I owe the rights I enjoy today, as a gay man, to both the Trans community that has always fought for me, but also to my Lesbian and Straight sisters, who fought for the LGBTQ+ community at large. Let’s bring that compassion back, and keep the slurs and the dogmas out of the debate, for everyone’s sake.

Oh, and cheerio to anyone saying I’m not, or can’t be a feminist. I can feel the heel of the patriarchy on my neck, every day of my life as a gay man. I know the challenges I face are different from those of my sisters, and I know I still benefit from white male privilege every day of my life. But we are in this together, in a movement with women at the front.

I’ll not let any straight man dictate if I’m a feminist or not. The approval I need has been given to me in the knowing look of my female friends, and they will let me know when I step on the wrong foot, as we all occasionally do, because we’re all human – that’s the point.

Brexit: a lobster allegory

theresa lobster

Picture the following: Theresa May, a chef with no previous cooking experience, has been tasked with humanely disposing of a lobster, before boiling it to perfection, in order to present her gourmand voters with the perfect Brexit feast.

Now, being humane doesn’t come naturally to Theresa, so she tries to kill the lobster with a wooden spoon, ignoring the perfectly sharpened set of knives that could have delivered a quick kill. Fuck that, murmurs Theresa, as she bashes the poor lobster repeatedly, whilst daydreaming about the days where running through fields of wheat was spine-tinglingly exciting. After a while, so convinced of her brilliance that she fails to notice the lobster is still alive, she just chucks the numbed creature into the cooking pot.

However, rather than having the water boiling and at the ready, Theresa May thinks she should, once again, ignore everyone else’s better judgement and go for a very, very slow cook, leaving the flame at minimum heat. The lobster, at this point, is just trying to perform harakiri – or seppuku for the pedants among you – with its own claws, rather than suffering through this existential purgatory at the hands of an incompetent fool, but its claws are tightly shut with an elastic band. The creature is stuck in a red, white and blue pot, not quite cooking because the water is not boiling, but certain that, with enough time, it will die of exhaustion.

As all of this goes on, and Theresa leaves the kitchen for a bit, a few parliamentarian chefs come in and start playing with the pot. Some turn up the flame to the max, while others rapidly pull the pot away. They all laugh and throw witty jibes at each other, before the chef speaker patronisingly asks them all to behave, before he too has a bit of fun with the pot and the poor lobster. The creature looks up in hope, but is met only with eyes exuding sadistic glee.

Theresa pops back into the kitchen and the other chefs clear their throats, complimenting her excellent skills before leaving – they take the sharpened knives with them and look knowingly at each other. Theresa looks into the pot, and is surprised that the lobster is still quite lively. So she leaves everything exactly as it is, because, why change something that isn’t working, right? Instead, she gazes at the wooden spoon in her hand, daydreaming once more. This time, she’s imagining a blue-clad fairy appearing and turning her into wood, just like the spoon, because she’s exhausted of unsuccessfully pretending to be human. A reverse Pinocchio, that’s Theresa May’s greatest wish.

Of course, if you think Theresa’s lobster is bad, imagine how would a lobster alla Gove taste. Or, heaven forbid, lobster with Boris on the side, served with a Rees-Mogg reduction. No, Theresa May, masterful cognoscente of all thinks democratic, and agent of the people’s supposed and outdated wishes, will make sure that we all eat her disgustingly cooked lobster. It’s her buffet or no one else’s – just the tyrannical seasoning that British democracy has been asking for.

Hours go by before sheer exhaustion finally claims the lobster’s life, but not without it having one last epiphany. I’m fucked, the lobster thinks. But not as fucked as those who are about to eat me. Theresa May rings a bell, tells that Brexit is ready to be served, and evaporates out of existence, her satanic purpose fulfilled: a country’s population sacrificed to keep the Conservative Party… conserved.

Theresa May is roadkill – someone drag her out of the road

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Today, on what has been dubbed Brexit Day (even though we’re already into our first short extension), Theresa May brought her deal to Parliament for a third time. Again, it was overwhelmingly rejected by the House of Commons, not in the least thanks to her own backbenchers, as 34 Tories voted against their leader.

Theresa May’s political capital is now so exhausted it has run into the negatives. She’s roadkill. She’s a carcass run over by a mix of her own lack of leadership, and of the cutthroat civil war raging within the Tory Party. Show no hint of pity for her – she has shown none for the innocent victims of her hostile environment. What’s left to us now, is for someone in Theresa May’s own party to step out of their car, and remove the carcass blocking the way, so that normal traffic may resume – we can’t continue this insane ping pong over a deal now thrice defeated.

Theresa May has failed as a party leader. She has failed as the leader of the United Kingdom. She has even failed in her bribe to the DUP, who couldn’t wait to stab a political knife on her back. She’s a failure, and that’s how she’ll be referred to in the brief footnotes of history.

What creature will the Tory party spawn next?

Getting rid of Theresa May will ameliorate none of our problems. For those of us who see the Tory party for the nasty, greedy, self-centred institution that it is, there’s no hope that they will ever produce a leader remotely agreeable to our palate. But there’s no way that we can move on with Brexit while Theresa May stays.

Gove? Rees-Mogg? Leadsom? Johnson? Cunt? Oh, Hunt, I mean. Sorry. They’re all different facets of the same nasty party, no doubts about it. Different flavours and shapes to the same vapid, poisonous stool water that comprises the political expedience of their illustrious politicians. But it will allow the UK government to move ahead with a different plan, and allows us all to organise the opposition to it in a different way. Theresa May’s deal is done and dusted – enough.

I still think these are all pointless delays to the inevitable People’s Vote. But one thing at a time. For now, there’s one thing we should all say to Theresa, at least those of us in Scotland absolutely scunnered with this whole process: away an’ shite, hun. Cheerio.

Brexit: The Last Chapter Of This Union

Life is Theatre, 42x29cm

“Life is a Theatre”, 42x30cm, acrylic on canvas, by Saraband

 

For two and a half years, what were supposed to be calm and constructive discussions on the nature of the Withdrawal Agreement between the UK and the EU, have instead been comprised of a Tory party slowly lining up a series of metaphorical barrels under these isles. Explosive barrels filled with lies and populism, mixed in with the uniquely flammable nature of English exceptionalism, ready to blow up once the Brexit No Deal match is struck.

This has been a national meltdown, due to the complete ineptitude of the Westminster’s system, and the tethering constraints of its archaic procedures. Everyone says that we must find a sensible approach, but everyone’s sensible approach looks like complete lunacy to the people sitting on either side of them. And if the smaller parties in the UK Parliament have managed to stay united, the shock-waves produced by the earthquakes of Tory and Labour division haven’t been without effect.

These are the worst of times, and these are the worst of times – Dickens was wrong

There’s a lot of irony, to Brexit. Not least the fact that it is a creature spawned from the arcane rituals of British Nationalism. What we are hearing is one last scream of a dying Empire, wanting to celebrate its supposed superiority with defying arrogance and lack of self-awareness. But that is the creature that exists in the dark, for when we look at it under the glaring light of rational thought, what we see is a pathetic little critter, crawling on its last days, gasping for attention. Brexit is a pitiful bogeyman at best, and now the world is pointing and laughing – when it’s not throwing its hands in the air, despairing at the stupidity of a neighbour tearing itself apart, risking the destruction of the entire suburb in the process.

In a way, Brexiteers wanted to make Britain Great Again, like the special edition of Irn Bru bottle that America elected for President. And they did. The United Kingdom has become the centre of the world once more – but now it is no longer the one poking fun at everyone else’s supposed inferiority. No, far from that. The world has become a reality show, and Brexit Britain fills the prime time spot. This is a show meant to be bad, filled with incredibly stupid people, so that everyone else watching can feel a bit better about themselves. Britain has become The Great Joke.

What does the future hold?

At this point, fortune-tellers would be better trusted at predicting the future than any British journalist. Some pretend like they know exactly what is happening, but the truth is that no one really does. The only thing clear, right now, is that there’s no clarity whatsoever.

By the time you end up reading this post, the first paragraph might have been made obsolete. You may go back to your Twitter feed to discover that Brexit has been cancelled, or open a trusted news website and find out that the EU has rolled out emergency plans and No Deal is imminent.

Whatever happens, Brexit has been like a fire, bringing with it panic, fear, and much sweating. But, after the smoke has cleared, and we see the wreck of what’s been left behind, we can rest assured that the putrid skeleton of the institutions in this country will be exposed for all to see. Westminster is not fit for England’s purpose, much less any of the other three nations. May Brexit euthanise it, and replace it with a democratic system fit for the twenty-first century.

So, let the fire of Brexit purge away the toxicity of this Union, and let England set out to fill whatever destiny its people democratically demand. Let Scotland retake its rightful place as a sovereign, outward-looking, European nation. Let Ireland heal the last of its open wounds and accept that, it doesn’t matter if you’re a Protestant, or a Catholic: you’re Irish. And may Wales realise that a country’s size should have no bearing on the boundless possibilities of a future where its people have the first and last say, not their next-door tenants.

Maybe we’ve been looking at Brexit all wrong. Maybe, this was just a ceremonial celebration of the 312 years of Union, and a way of putting it out of its misery with a last show of political fireworks. Boom. Flash. Rejoice!

Maybe. Maybe everything will turn out fine. Because, the alternative, in which we all sink together in a mutually destructive Union where every nation’s aspiration is smashed under the heel of Westminster’s inequality, is one which I can’t even dread to contemplate.

 

I was destined to become Scottish

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Me with a few of my own paintings

Okay, I must come clean – the title of this post may not be entirely honest, because I don’t believe in destiny. However, I can’t find any another word that quite captures what I want to tell you, so forgive me on this one occasion. I promise that everything else you’ll read here to be written with the utmost honesty.

Following the massively positive response my love letter to Scotland received, with hundreds upon hundreds of tweets, comments and messages that I got both here and over at Wings Over Scotland, where I was invited to share that blog post, I thought I’d expand a bit more about my relationship with Scotland, and how it started very early in my life, when I was just a wean back in Portugal.

My first novel was Scottish

I have an older brother, Tiago, who was born six years before me, in 1985. As a child of the mid-80’s, he started collecting comics from a very early age, and from as long as I can remember, I would take his comics into bed with me and look at the pictures, because I couldn’t yet read. I’m sure I made my own stories about what went on, as most children would’ve done. But the habit of going to bed at night, with a book, something which my I saw my dad doing every single day of his life, is a habit that has never abandoned me.

Transitioning from short comics to my first novel, however, was a huge deal. So huge, in fact, that I will forever remember the moment I first saw that novel, where I was, what I felt, and the excitement of wanting to get home so I could get started. I was around 9 or 10 years old, and I was with my dad at this shop in Vilamoura’s marina, where he used to get the newspapers, cigarettes and stuff. The shop also had a few books, and although I usually went to look at the magazines and comics, on this occasion, I went to the literature section, where I saw a bright blue spine sticking out. I pulled the book and looked at the most awesome cover I’d ever seen: two knights jousting, mounted on their horses, with a medieval castle standing in the background. That book was Ivanhoe, by Walter Scott.

Ivanhoe

The old Portuguese edition of Ivanhoe that I first read

I remember my dad asking if I was really going to read it, and me promising to do so. So he bought me the book without any resistance at all. I had no idea what it would be about, or who Walter Scott was. In fact, I read Ivanhoe and liked it so much, that I got my dad to buy me Rob Roy afterward. When I tried reading that one, I hated it. It took me until I was a teen to pick it up again and actually enjoy the book. And it was only then, when the internet was already thing, that I googled who Walter Scott was and learned more about this Scottish author who would forever be the person behind my first novel.

Ivanhoe may also be the seed for my love of history, and why I later graduated in this area at University. So this is a story whose ripples have far extended into my life.

I grew up with a “borrowed” Scottish auntie

One of my best friends while growing up was a boy named Luís, a year younger than me. His father is Portuguese, but his mother, Carol, is a Scottish lass born and raised in Edinburgh, who later moved to Portugal. In fact, Luís’s parents became best friends with my own parents, and so we were together all the time. I called him cousin, and his parents were like an aunt and an uncle.

As a young kid, you don’t think too much about these things, so I never took any notice of Carol’s peculiar accent in Portuguese, how she constantly messed up with the gender of the words, or paid any attention to what her being Scottish actually meant. But there were a few things which I markedly remember about her, aside from being a genuinely loving person and to this day and someone I regard very dearly as a family member. It was the way in which she pronounced the name of a brand of cereals: Golden Grahams. I had never quite heard anyone pronounce the name in that manner, with such music. Me and her son loved asking her to say it repeatedly, I assume, much to her despair – but she always indulged us.

Another thing about Carol is that she used to cook Shepherd’s Pie a lot when my parents went over for dinner, especially because my dad loved it. Again, I couldn’t imagine that a part of Scotland’s culture and heritage was literally nourishing me as I grew up. It was something I only realised later, looking back all these years, and which doesn’t fail to amaze me.

carol photo

My partner Roger, auntie Carol and I in Edinburgh, last year

A love of Celtic music, myth and history

Another weird thing about me growing up, was that I have always been drawn to Celtic music, for no reason in particular. It’s not something that my parents ever heard, it wasn’t something that I was introduced to. I don’t remember exactly how it started, but it was probably with something like Enya, moved on to Celtic Woman, and later Loreena McKennitt. These were mostly Irish songs that I heard, but then, as I matured and also grew out of Enya and Celtic Woman, which I no longer enjoy much. I discovered traditional bagpipes songs from Scotland, and the Runrig songs sung in Scottish Gaelic – An Toll Dubh being my favourite to this day. Braveheart’s soundtrack was also one of those that I went on listening to throughout the years.

Thank goodness for the internet, and how it allowed a young teenager in the south of Portugal to grow up with access to all of this. There were so many songs in Gaelic that I listened to, both Irish and Scottish, some of their lyrics imprinted eternally in my mind, even though I don’t speak the languages.

I guess this love of Celtic culture was borne out of my initial fascination of things like Neo-paganism and Wicca, which I discovered in my teens. As an atheist growing up in an atheist household, I’ve always been fascinated by the mythological and lore-rich aspects of certain religions, and I was deeply fascinanted by these New Age movements that drew influence from Celtic mythology. Alas, I never managed to actually become a believer – the concept of god, even if female, remained utterly bizarre and irrational to me – but I read a lot of books on Irish & Scottish mythology, which perhaps helped me better understand part of the Scottish soul which I now experience on a daily basis.

We must not forget, also, that the Celts migrated through the Iberian Peninsula, and indeed there is some heritage from that culture within Portuguese traditions, particularly in the North. Could that help explain any of this? Who knows.

Life has a way of being constantly fascinating

There are two things in my life, two loves, that grip my soul in profound ways. One, is the love I have for my partner, a love whose flame was ignited on the moment I first laid my eyes upon him, and which hasn’t flickered in the slightest in these almost seven years. I can never rationally explain how I feel like we were meant to be together, because I don’t believe in those things – but, all I can say is that Plato’s theory of the souls being divided by the gods, and us spending a life looking for our other half, is the one that best captures how I feel about Roger, my best friend and love of my life. The one who makes me whole.

The other thing I cannot rationally explain is why I felt like I had finally come home, almost in the same moment I first breathed Scotland’s air after arriving here. I don’t believe in a soul or anything of the sort, but the only way I can describe that feeling, is that it felt like my soul, who had never felt at home in Portugal, could finally breath, for it was now where it belonged. And since that first moment, back in November of 2015, that feeling has remained unchanged.

In fact, when I fly back to Portugal once a year, and although I love to visit the folks back there, I feel sad. Because I am going away from where I want to be, away from the one place where truly feel like myself.

Perhaps it is best that I cannot rationalise these feelings. That they are so deeply emotional may explain their overwhelming power. But the fact is that, in a way, something of Scotland’s spirit grabbed me from a very young age, thousands of kilometers away, and in my hear of hearts I know that this will never cease to be. I may have a Portuguese complexion, and my accent may never be like a native, but I have no doubts that these elements don’t make my soul any less Celtic. Any less Scottish.

BBC and Xenophobia: Why I Cancelled My TV Licence

nae BBC

When there’s sufficient distance between historians and the events taking place today, regarding Brexit, it will be interesting to read the analysis of the role played by the BBC during this time. As an immigrant, a category often used to score cheap political points during the political debates or used in newspaper headlines to push divisive agendas, my gut feeling is that the corporation has been instrumental in both heightening the xenophobia prevalent in Brexiteers’ obsession with people like me, and it has failed in any substantive way to offer an accurate representation of the actual facts, because it’s obsessed with this damaging notion of balance – that both sides of an argument have equal validity, even when one of them knowingly fills the airwaves with porkies.

A month ago, I decided to give up on my TV Licence. Why? Not because I want to live in an echo chamber and only listen to the stuff I agree with – I’m perfectly comfortable with Conservative voices. But I can’t stand lies, blatant propaganda, and the manipulation of the truth to convey a specific agenda – that’s what prompted me to say cheerio to the BBC and move on to brighter, less xenophobic pastures than anything on live TV / iPlayer / BBC radio.

Enough of talking about British expats, and everyone else being an immigrant. Enough of talking of EU citizens as tools that are either needed to “pick our strawberries”, or disposed of whenever they become inconvenient. Enough of the BBC putting nasty idiots like Boris hosting political shows, or failing to proper scrutinise the rhetoric coming out of some politicians.

BBC has played a major role in the negative rhetoric about immigration

One of the greatest examples of the corporation’s role in projecting the voices of hatred and division is its flagship political show, Question Time. Be it the propensity of right-wing voices with unpalatable views (the toad from UKIP), the shady lobbyists from obscurely-funded “Think Tanks” (Taxpayers’ Alliance), or xenophobic journalists manipulating the anxieties of their viewers/readers (that idiotic lass from the Daily Mail who is a pal of Arron Banks), the fact is that the show constantly puts on the panel people who have little of worthwhile substance to contribute.

And then there’s the audiences. Don’t get me started on the audiences. From the frothing at the mouth gammons that go on 1-minute rants about immigrants and this country needing to take back control, to the questionable plants purposefully given a microphone to convey the producers’ narrative. At first, I was skeptical of people going on about the show’s producers having an agenda, but after the Billy Mitchell scandal in Scotland (a failed UKIP candidate invited to the show several times and who later admitted in a Times interview that the producers had called him because they wanted his views), it became obvious that there was no amount of “Oops, we didn’t mean it!” that could disguise the agenda being played.

But the BBC doesn’t care. They have been called out on this several times, and yet they keep doing it. I have cancelled my TV Licence more than a month ago, but I still get the wee clips from Question Time shared by people on my social media, and, quelle surprise, last night there was a guy going on about the stupidity of having democratic referendums (that guy’s mind will be blown with the concept of having regular elections, by the way, because that’s the essence of Democracy – letting people change their minds). People were quick to point out that it wasn’t just an uninterested audience member who had casually happened to have been given a microphone.

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Another “random” audience member. Yeah, right.

I watched the first episode with Fiona Bruce, back in January, with the hopes that she would bring with her much needed change to the tone of the show. Yeah, fuck that. If anything, Fiona has heightened the most pervasive aspects of the show. The Daily Mail “journalist” and Arron Banks’ pal I mentioned earlier, in one the January shows, went on a rant about freedom of movement based on a hateful lies, and Fiona didn’t do her journalistic duty and contradict what was being said. That’s a disgrace. It also doesn’t help my sense of self-worth, as an immigrant in Scotland, that part of the audience cheered her xenophobic twattery (video below).

The problem extends beyond Question Time

Question Time is the prime example of everything that’s wrong with political coverage on the BBC, but it certainly isn’t the only culprit. From Politics Live constantly doing right-wing talking points and inviting people from shady think tanks, to Andrew Neil attacking journalists like Carole Cadwalladr on his own Twitter and the BBC refusing to chastise him, to actual actors being asked to play the role of a vicar as part of an audience Q&A in Newsnight.

The BBC has not created the right-wing monster taking over the public debate in this country – but they have fed it, contributed to its growth, and done nothing credible to acknowledge their own failings. From the times they would put a climate denier against a scientist to debate climate change, creating a false sense of equivalence, to them purposefully lowering Diane Abbott’s microphone volume on Question Time to make her look weak. It’s incredible what’s being done in plain sight.

No matter its cultural output, which I’ll happily admit has quite a substantial amount of high-quality content, like Killing Eve, Fleabag and Bodyguard, the role the BBC has played as the voice of the UK establishment, a particularly Tory/UKIP tinged voice (have you counted how many times Toad Farage has been on shows like Question Time?), has been detrimental to this country.

I could also go on about how Scotland is parochially treated within the BBC, including its elected representatives from the SNP. I could tell you how, despite me not being a fan of Corbyn in any way, the BBC repeatedly uses fake Tory talking points and smears to attack Corbyn’s leadership. I could go on about some of the individual journalists, broadcasters and radio hosts who peddle demagogue lies to their audiences. The sad thing is, there’s no short amount of things on which to criticise the BBC.

Enough of paying to be diminished as an immigrant

Me and my partner don’t watch much TV – gaming and reading have always been our main sources of entertainment. But we did watch the news, both on the BBC and Channel 4, every night, one followed by the other. Yet we decided to give that up, because we cannot bring ourselves to give our hard-earned money to the BBC, to legitimise the xenophobia they’re feeding.

There were times, after watching Question Time, where I went to bed genuinely distraught and disturbed, made to feel like a burden on this country, even though I know full well the facts, and they are quite clear that immigration makes a massive financial contribution to the UK, on top of the cultural gains we get from diversity.

So we have plugged the antenna cable out of our TV, and have been experimenting with trials of Netflix and Amazon to see if we like them. YouTube has got me covered in terms of following live proceedings in the House of Commons, as well as Channel 4 news clips which they upload regularly, and I continue to read the same newspapers as before, so I keep up on the latest without going through the BBC filter.

I have no time for those who don’t pay the TV Licence but still watch it. Armchair rebels – yeah, we have enough of that. You’re not putting your fist up to the BBC, you’re only showing the middle finger to the people who lawfully pay their TV Licence. And you’re still contributing to the BBC ratings. If you want to send them a message loud and clear, stop watching any live TV or Iplayer, and cancel your TV Licence – and tell them exactly why when you fill out the form.

That’s what we did, and let me tell you, the past month has been like a detox for the brain.

Twitter can bring out the worst in people

This is not one of the posts I usually write for this blog. But something so remarkably fun (and sad) happened on Twitter, tonight, that I couldn’t but feel the need of putting it up here, not least for my future reference.

You see, I’m an optimist, and so I look very positively at Twitter. Yeah, sure, it’s full of disgustingly vile people who will fight over anything. But I’ve also met many a fine people in whose lives I’ve grown genuinely interested, and who I care about to various extents. And, crucially, most people tend to be polite, funny and warm – like in the real world.

However, had a particular interaction tonight that encapsulates the pettiness of this social media bubble. I’ll let the below image speak for itself, but let me just end by saying this: if your immediate response, when confronted with your own smugness, is not to laugh at yourself and recognise your error, but instead to double down and lash out in a horribly xenophobic manner, you’re just a vile, nasty, ignorant little shit, and it will always be a pleasure to put in your place.

Especially when English is not even my native language.

 

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A lesson in smugness

If anyone is wondering, deprecating and denigrating are synonyms when used in this context:

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Dictionary reference