Showing posts with label Gold. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gold. Show all posts

Tuesday, 30 January 2018


SCENE III. Woods and cave, near the seashore.

Enter TIMON, from the cave
O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth
Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb
Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,
Whose procreation, residence, and birth,
Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes;
The greater scorns the lesser: not nature,
To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,
But by contempt of nature.
Raise me this beggar, and deny 't that lord;
The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,
The beggar native honour.
It is the pasture lards the rother's sides,
The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares,
In purity of manhood stand upright,
And say 'This man's a flatterer?' if one be,
So are they all; for every grise of fortune
Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate
Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique;
There's nothing level in our cursed natures,
But direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr'd
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:
Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!


Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate
With thy most operant poison! What is here?
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods,
I am no idle votarist: roots, you clear heavens!

Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair,
Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.
Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,
Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:
This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed,
Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves
And give them title, knee and approbation
With senators on the bench: this is it
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To the April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds
Among the route of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature.

March afar off

Ha! a drum ? Thou'rt quick,
But yet I'll bury thee: thou'lt go, strong thief,
When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.
Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

Keeping some gold
Enter ALCIBIADES, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA
What art thou there? speak.
A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart,
For showing me again the eyes of man!
What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,
That art thyself a man?
I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.
I know thee well;
But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and strange.
I know thee too; and more than that I know thee,
I not desire to know. Follow thy drum;
With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules:
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;
Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine
Hath in her more destruction than thy sword,
For all her cherubim look.
Thy lips rot off!
I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns
To thine own lips again.
How came the noble Timon to this change?
As the moon does, by wanting light to give:
But then renew I could not, like the moon;
There were no suns to borrow of.
Noble Timon,
What friendship may I do thee?
None, but to
Maintain my opinion.
What is it, Timon?
Promise me friendship, but perform none: if thou
wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art
a man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for
thou art a man!
I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.
Thou saw'st them, when I had prosperity.
I see them now; then was a blessed time.
As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots.
Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world
Voiced so regardfully?
Art thou Timandra?
Be a whore still: they love thee not that use thee;
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth
To the tub-fast and the diet.
Hang thee, monster!
Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits
Are drown'd and lost in his calamities.
I have but little gold of late, brave Timon,
The want whereof doth daily make revolt
In my penurious band: I have heard, and grieved,
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,--
I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone.
I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?
I had rather be alone.
Why, fare thee well:
Here is some gold for thee.
Keep it, I cannot eat it.
When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,--
Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens?
Ay, Timon, and have cause.
The gods confound them all in thy conquest;
And thee after, when thou hast conquer'd!
Why me, Timon?
That, by killing of villains,
Thou wast born to conquer my country.
Put up thy gold: go on,--here's gold,--go on;
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove
Will o'er some high-viced city hang his poison
In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one:
Pity not honour'd age for his white beard;
He is an usurer: strike me the counterfeit matron;
It is her habit only that is honest,
Herself's a bawd: let not the virgin's cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps,
That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes,
Are not within the leaf of pity writ,
But set them down horrible traitors: spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse: swear against objects;
Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay soldiers:
Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.
Hast thou gold yet? I'll take the gold thou
givest me,
Not all thy counsel.
Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven's curse
upon thee!
Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more?
Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,
And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,
Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable,
Although, I know, you 'll swear, terribly swear
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues
The immortal gods that hear you,--spare your oaths,
I'll trust to your conditions: be whores still;
And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,
Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up;
Let your close fire predominate his smoke,
And be no turncoats: yet may your pains, six months,
Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs
With burthens of the dead;--some that were hang'd,
No matter:--wear them, betray with them: whore still;
Paint till a horse may mire upon your face,
A pox of wrinkles!
Well, more gold: what then?
Believe't, that we'll do any thing for gold.
Consumptions sow
In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins,
And mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice,
That he may never more false title plead,
Nor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen,
That scolds against the quality of flesh,
And not believes himself: down with the nose,
Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away
Of him that, his particular to foresee,
Smells from the general weal: make curl'd-pate
ruffians bald;
And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war
Derive some pain from you: plague all;
That your activity may defeat and quell
The source of all erection. There's more gold:
Do you damn others, and let this damn you,
And ditches grave you all!
More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.
More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest.
Strike up the drum towards Athens! Farewell, Timon:
If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again.
If I hope well, I'll never see thee more.
I never did thee harm.
Yes, thou spokest well of me.
Call'st thou that harm?
Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take
Thy beagles with thee.
We but offend him. Strike!
That nature, being sick of man's unkindness,
Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,
Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd,
Engenders the black toad and adder blue,
The gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm,
With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven
Whereon Hyperion's quickening fire doth shine;
Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,
From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!
Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,
Let it no more bring out ingrateful man!
Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;
Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face
Hath to the marbled mansion all above
Never presented!--O, a root,--dear thanks!--
Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas;
Whereof ungrateful man, with liquorish draughts
And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,
That from it all consideration slips!
More man? plague, plague!
I was directed hither: men report
Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.
'Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog,
Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee!
This is in thee a nature but infected;
A poor unmanly melancholy sprung
From change of fortune. Why this spade? this place?
This slave-like habit? and these looks of care?
Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft;
Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot
That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,
By putting on the cunning of a carper.
Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive
By that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,
And let his very breath, whom thou'lt observe,
Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,
And call it excellent: thou wast told thus;
Thou gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome
To knaves and all approachers: 'tis most just
That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,
Rascals should have 't. Do not assume my likeness.
Were I like thee, I'ld throw away myself.
Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself;
A madman so long, now a fool. What, think'st
That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moss'd trees,
That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip where thou point'st out? will the
cold brook,
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,
To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit? Call the creatures
Whose naked natures live in an the spite
Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,
To the conflicting elements exposed,
Answer mere nature; bid them flatter thee;
O, thou shalt find--
A fool of thee: depart.
I love thee better now than e'er I did.
I hate thee worse.
Thou flatter'st misery.
I flatter not; but say thou art a caitiff.
Why dost thou seek me out?
To vex thee.
Always a villain's office or a fool's.
Dost please thyself in't?
What! a knave too?
If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on
To castigate thy pride, 'twere well: but thou
Dost it enforcedly; thou'ldst courtier be again,
Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery
Outlives encertain pomp, is crown'd before:
The one is filling still, never complete;
The other, at high wish: best state, contentless,
Hath a distracted and most wretched being,
Worse than the worst, content.
Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.
Not by his breath that is more miserable.
Thou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm
With favour never clasp'd; but bred a dog.
Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded
The sweet degrees that this brief world affords
To such as may the passive drugs of it
Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself
In general riot; melted down thy youth
In different beds of lust; and never learn'd
The icy precepts of respect, but follow'd
The sugar'd game before thee. But myself,
Who had the world as my confectionary,
The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men
At duty, more than I could frame employment,
That numberless upon me stuck as leaves
Do on the oak, hive with one winter's brush
Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare
For every storm that blows: I, to bear this,
That never knew but better, is some burden:
Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time
Hath made thee hard in't. Why shouldst thou hate men?
They never flatter'd thee: what hast thou given?
If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag,
Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff
To some she beggar and compounded thee
Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone!
If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,
Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.
Art thou proud yet?
Ay, that I am not thee.
I, that I was
No prodigal.
I, that I am one now:
Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee,
I'ld give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone.
That the whole life of Athens were in this!
Thus would I eat it.
Eating a root
Here; I will mend thy feast.
Offering him a root
First mend my company, take away thyself.
So I shall mend mine own, by the lack of thine.
'Tis not well mended so, it is but botch'd;
if not, I would it were.
What wouldst thou have to Athens?
Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt,
Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have.
Here is no use for gold.
The best and truest;
For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm.
Where liest o' nights, Timon?
Under that's above me.
Where feed'st thou o' days, Apemantus?
Where my stomach finds meat; or, rather, where I eat
Would poison were obedient and knew my mind!
Where wouldst thou send it?
To sauce thy dishes.
The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the
extremity of both ends: when thou wast in thy gilt
and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much
curiosity; in thy rags thou knowest none, but art
despised for the contrary. There's a medlar for
thee, eat it.
On what I hate I feed not.
Dost hate a medlar?
Ay, though it look like thee.
An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst
have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou
ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means?
Who, without those means thou talkest of, didst thou
ever know beloved?
I understand thee; thou hadst some means to keep a
What things in the world canst thou nearest compare
to thy flatterers?
Women nearest; but men, men are the things
themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world,
Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?
Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men.
Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of
men, and remain a beast with the beasts?
Ay, Timon.
A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t'
attain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox would
beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would
eat three: if thou wert the fox, the lion would
suspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused by
the ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would
torment thee, and still thou livedst but as a
breakfast to the wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thy
greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst
hazard thy life for thy dinner: wert thou the
unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and
make thine own self the conquest of thy fury: wert
thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse:
wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the
leopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to
the lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on
thy life: all thy safety were remotion and thy
defence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that
were not subject to a beast? and what a beast art
thou already, that seest not thy loss in
If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou
mightst have hit upon it here: the commonwealth of
Athens is become a forest of beasts.
How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city?
Yonder comes a poet and a painter: the plague of
company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it
and give way: when I know not what else to do, I'll
see thee again.
When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be
welcome. I had rather be a beggar's dog than Apemantus.
Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.
Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!
A plague on thee! thou art too bad to curse.
All villains that do stand by thee are pure.
There is no leprosy but what thou speak'st.
If I name thee.
I'll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.
I would my tongue could rot them off!
Away, thou issue of a mangy dog!
Choler does kill me that thou art alive;
I swound to see thee.
Would thou wouldst burst!
Thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose
A stone by thee.
Throws a stone at him
Rogue, rogue, rogue!
I am sick of this false world, and will love nought
But even the mere necessities upon 't.
Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave;
Lie where the light foam the sea may beat
Thy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph,
That death in me at others' lives may laugh.
To the gold
O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce
'Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler
Of Hymen's purest bed! thou valiant Mars!
Thou ever young, fresh, loved and delicate wooer,
Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
That lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god,
That solder'st close impossibilities,
And makest them kiss! that speak'st with
every tongue,
To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!
Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue
Set them into confounding odds, that beasts
May have the world in empire!
Would 'twere so!
But not till I am dead. I'll say thou'st gold:
Thou wilt be throng'd to shortly.
Throng'd to!
Thy back, I prithee.
Live, and love thy misery.
Long live so, and so die.
I am quit.
Moe things like men! Eat, Timon, and abhor them.
Enter Banditti
First Bandit
Where should he have this gold? It is some poor
fragment, some slender sort of his remainder: the
mere want of gold, and the falling-from of his
friends, drove him into this melancholy.
Second Bandit
It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.
Third Bandit
Let us make the assay upon him: if he care not
for't, he will supply us easily; if he covetously
reserve it, how shall's get it?
Second Bandit
True; for he bears it not about him, 'tis hid.
First Bandit
Is not this he?
Second Bandit
'Tis his description.
Third Bandit
He; I know him.
Save thee, Timon.
Now, thieves?
Soldiers, not thieves.
Both too; and women's sons.
We are not thieves, but men that much do want.
Your greatest want is, you want much of meat.
Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots;
Within this mile break forth a hundred springs;
The oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips;
The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush
Lays her full mess before you. Want! why want?
First Bandit
We cannot live on grass, on berries, water,
As beasts and birds and fishes.
Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes;
You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con
That you are thieves profess'd, that you work not
In holier shapes: for there is boundless theft
In limited professions. Rascal thieves,
Here's gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o' the grape,
Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth,
And so 'scape hanging: trust not the physician;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
Moe than you rob: take wealth and lives together;
Do villany, do, since you protest to do't,
Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery.
The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea: the moon's an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun:
The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears: the earth's a thief,
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen
From general excrement: each thing's a thief:
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power
Have uncheque'd theft. Love not yourselves: away,
Rob one another. There's more gold. Cut throats:
All that you meet are thieves: to Athens go,
Break open shops; nothing can you steal,
But thieves do lose it: steal no less for this
I give you; and gold confound you howsoe'er! Amen.
Third Bandit
Has almost charmed me from my profession, by
persuading me to it.
First Bandit
'Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises
us; not to have us thrive in our mystery.
Second Bandit
I'll believe him as an enemy, and give over my trade.
First Bandit
Let us first see peace in Athens: there is no time
so miserable but a man may be true.
Exeunt Banditti
O you gods!
Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord?
Full of decay and failing? O monument
And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow'd!
What an alteration of honour
Has desperate want made!
What viler thing upon the earth than friends
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends!
How rarely does it meet with this time's guise,
When man was wish'd to love his enemies!
Grant I may ever love, and rather woo
Those that would mischief me than those that do!
Has caught me in his eye: I will present
My honest grief unto him; and, as my lord,
Still serve him with my life. My dearest master!
Away! what art thou?
Have you forgot me, sir?
Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;
Then, if thou grant'st thou'rt a man, I have forgot thee.
An honest poor servant of yours.
Then I know thee not:
I never had honest man about me, I; all
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.
The gods are witness,
Ne'er did poor steward wear a truer grief
For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.
What, dost thou weep? Come nearer. Then I
love thee,
Because thou art a woman, and disclaim'st
Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give
But thorough lust and laughter. Pity's sleeping:
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping!
I beg of you to know me, good my lord,
To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts
To entertain me as your steward still.
Had I a steward
So true, so just, and now so comfortable?
It almost turns my dangerous nature mild.
Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man
Was born of woman.
Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,
You perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim
One honest man--mistake me not--but one;
No more, I pray,--and he's a steward.
How fain would I have hated all mankind!
And thou redeem'st thyself: but all, save thee,
I fell with curses.
Methinks thou art more honest now than wise;
For, by oppressing and betraying me,
Thou mightst have sooner got another service:
For many so arrive at second masters,
Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true--
For I must ever doubt, though ne'er so sure--
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous,
If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?
No, my most worthy master; in whose breast
Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late:
You should have fear'd false times when you did feast:
Suspect still comes where an estate is least.
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,
Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,
Care of your food and living; and, believe it,
My most honour'd lord,
For any benefit that points to me,
Either in hope or present, I'ld exchange
For this one wish, that you had power and wealth
To requite me, by making rich yourself.
Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man,
Here, take: the gods out of my misery
Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy;
But thus condition'd: thou shalt build from men;
Hate all, curse all, show charity to none,
But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs
What thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow 'em,
Debts wither 'em to nothing; be men like
blasted woods,
And may diseases lick up their false bloods!
And so farewell and thrive.
O, let me stay,
And comfort you, my master.
If thou hatest curses,
Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free:
Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.

Exit FLAVIUS. TIMON retires to his cave

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

North Of Heaven

"If y'want the position o' God, then tek t'responsibilty."

Stephen Baxter

"LOTS of planets have a North..!"

Only in the North, and in Northern people and in Northern Hearts have I ever encountered have I ever encountered actual Englishness, the much-vaunted, much-lauded "British Values", loyalty and quiet pride, modesty, warm humour and wit, genuineness, radicalism and agitation, GOTH, a sense of self, place and nation, bravery, stoicism and cheek.

They are our best and only tribe of unrepentant patriots - but their loyalty, always is only to The Nation, and it's People, and to the story of this land.

Not to The Court.

Not to the usurped and tainted Crown or its office-holders, Mistresses and Favourites, Viscountesses, false-pretending Pomp and Circumstance 

Not to the Privy Councillors and Toilet-Room Toadies in WestMinster

Not to The City, it's Banks and Guilds and Corporation or Toxic (Human) Assets.

And not to the bloody BBC LicenseFree Enforcement and Revenue Recovery Unit - Jog on, pal.

It's Grim Up North
by The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu

Oldham, Lancs,
Hebden Bridge,

It's Grim Up North,
It's Grim Up North.

Lytham St. Annes
The M62,

It's Grim Up North,
It's Grim Up North.

Cheedle Hulme,
Accrington Stanley,
and Leigh,
Ikley Moor,
Are all in the North.


And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy lamb of god
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem built here
Amongst these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spear, o clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built :


In England's green and pleasant land.


Thursday, 23 June 2016

The New 1945

"You Lot...? Really?
You Lot...? 

Cheeky bastards...."

The Organising Committee of the 
Popular Front to Build for The New 1945 needs your help, and we're up against the clock on this one.

I get pessimism and despair. 
I do.

Meaning that I can dig them - by which I mean that in the sense in which I "get" them, I recognise and appreciate them for what they are, meaning that I understand their nature and their role  , as well as utility - as opposed to the "I often experience them" sense of getting them. 

Or at least, with less and less frequency I have found at any rate, at least of late - long may it continue, God Wi77ing.

I have known, and I know depression, imimately. 

Biblically, you might say. 

She remains with me in all places and times as an old and constant friend with rare and highly dubious, yet undeniable benefits. 

And she's always there, just out of sight, lying in wait to pounce right on top of my head and try with all her strength to f**k me as mercilessly as she can, regular as clockwork, as soon as I sense complacency or contendedness looming, as soon as she senses a gap or a breech in my vilgiance opening or the minute she   calculates that my guard has begun to sag or started to slacken down.

But we all each have our demons and she just happens to be mine - in the Chymical Wedding that occupies what I suppose must pass for my brain, we're joined at the hip and stuck with one another now, no matter how much we might tear at one another and try to wage unholy war for momentary, transient domination and subjugation of the other, neither one of us is going  to get anywhere, so much as a single step away on our own against the wishes, will and consent of the other. Til Death Us Do Part. 

It's after all isn't her fault, after all, not really. 

She can't help being what she is any more than I can choose to be what I am, within a certain bandwidth of degrees of freedom of choice, at least for the time being, and I realise now, my future options and odds-on likely best hope to achieve my next Level-Up are just a complete non-starter, ball-breaking deal-breaker unless I can ensure her complete cooperation, take a firm grasp on my Depression, break it to my will and keep it on a tight leash - which turns out to be very fortuitous that I was able to achieve this milestone of self-discovery in order to reach this key resolution as firmly and concretely as I have, given the fact that she's actually really into all of that, as luck would have it... The filthy, witchy little wenchy whoremongering slut of a hell spawned succubus that she is - I don't see why that should even have come as a surprise. Not that it did, as in fact turned out.

So I live with depression every waking minute of my day, and for as long as I can remember, and will until the day that I die, and probably even after beyond that - she'll try her damnedest (literally) to drag me back down to Hell with her and lie for all enternity caught locked in her excruciating embrace,  lost an entangled forever in her arms and by her legs where she is free to inflict upon me never-ending pain and spiritual torment and agony, as she tortures me so exquistly, like a small boy savouring the pure thrill and relish of the experience of power of slowly pulling each of the legs off of a captured and terrified spider, stretched out over the course of an æon. 

If instead, I succeed instead in dragging her up behind with me by a collar or her hair only so far Up as even one of Mormon Heavens, it'll have some sense of victory at least, or so it seems like, on days when I feel as though I'm tiring. Like today, actually. 

I can't lie to you and pretend that Mormon heaven wouldn't be a disappointing achievement, should I end up making it there, but consider all the extra weight I'm carrying here on the journey, not to mention the endless setbacks, complications and distractions that have to be dealt with in turn, as the arise (and they will) en route along the way.

All of which also applies with reference to Degree, Mum and Dad, by the way, if you somehow are reading this right now - I know how it sounded, and I realise that it wasn't quite what you had expected of me (admittedly, to be fair, not that you had actually, y'know, TOLD me what you had expected of me, either at or, - ideally - y'know, sufficiently and generously ahead of such time as I might have been  still able to actually, y'know do something about it, but never mind), but I forgive you.

A 2:2 is what it is and I Yam What I Yam, and knowing that and those things and all the rest , I know that I did well.

Michelle from Eastenders got a Third.

And she wasn't dragging a malevolent daemon halfway up her hill as she went, she just shagged Dirty Den and had his iligitimate teenage love-child... In which case, actually, I retract that last critical completely.

A Christian Demon may be a Djinn or malevolent spirit, or a fallen and disembodied Angel sworn to plague men's souls in service to Lucifer or The Enemy, but a Greek or Hellenistic Dæmon is guardian animal, some supernatural beast or monster brought forth into The Flesh, as a created creature of the Olympian gods to protect and keep safe some great horde of treasure, some secret roadway or path, or some equally precious and valuable thing, as like the gorgon Medusa and her two sisters, the Gryphons and millions-strong swarms of wingèd serpents of Scythia that guard the Crimean Tree at the End of the World from which hung the Golden Fleece of the epic ode of Jason and the Argonauts, the Giant Ants of India that dig up Gold dust out of the sands of the earth, or the man-eating Thracian Sphinx of the tragedies of Oedipus Rex, the she-monster lying in wait by the side of the road, waiting to devour any who failed to answer her cryptic riddle and supply her with the correct passwords. 

I didn't understand it then, but now I do - my depression is a part of me, a part of who I am. 

It is me - an equal and opposite aspect of me gone mad, created to protect me, to keep me safe, mindless, savage, pure instinct, a legendary, deathly dark black, monstrous vision of me and all that I am, that I made up somewhere, some time, for some reason a lifetime or maybe more ago, like some kind of psychic Doomsday Device to marshall all of my strength and will and courage and rage to fight myself free from some place and time and situation where there seemed as though there was absolutely no last shred of hope left, as I was being backed down into a corner, checkmated in every direction, with no room to manuvere, no end in sight, no other way out, no options open and no help on the way and no cards left to me to play.

Probably, I assume, or I am guessing, that at or before (I must have been) around the age of six (back when I was still counting birthdays [ like that matters ]), I can only conclude, having given it much thought and rumination in order seek out, hunt, stalk and chase down  each of the clues that have led me to reconstruct this particular Truth, that reveals to me the Origin Story of my Dark Heart and the Blackness that encircles the very centre of my soul......

[I'm] a walking study,
In Dæmonologie...

If we can survive 5 years under Winston Churchill's 1-Party State during the Blitz, Wartime Austerity, a Police State and Rationing, I am prepared to suffer through a similar fate to  bring on the new 1945 and the next NHS.

Britons Can Take It.

You've just named the core leadership of Churchill's Cabinet in the One Party State of 1940-45.

Clement Attlee led the Churchillian Coup of May 1940 as the ranking member of New Welcome Lodge No. 5139, created at the behest of the Head of British Masonry at that time, the Nazi Prince of Wales.

As for Nye Bevan - as for how he was able to get the Doctors, GPs and crucially, the British Medical Association on-side and on-message and on-board with the NHS in the first place : "I stuffed their mouths with Gold."

He paid them off.

The BMA is also, as one would obviously imagine for such a ruling class institution, somewhat Masonic...

Don't misunderstand me - training, studying and qualifying as a junior doctor is expensive, lengthy, stressful and incredibly hard work.

But there is a galaxy of difference between the labour intensity, over-work and burden of professional responsibility a junior doctor on a ward working overtime, understaffed back-to-back irregular shift patterns in A&E, a surgeon or specialist and a General Practitioner with a cosy private county practice.

They basically get £100-150,000 a year from the State to essentially perform the same tasks as a skilled administrator, perform triage, risk assessment and make referrals and pastoral care. 

Because of the way it was negotiated in 1947, in a such a damned, chaotic, heist-like rush.

That was such a worthy caper, the Lavender Hill Mob would have been proud to have pulled it off.

GPs essentially have picked up much of the slack left behind by taking on the major aspects of the functions formerly provided and carried out by the parish vicar prior to 1940.

And vicars generally don't cost the public purse £150 grand a year (plus final salary pension).

Junior Doctors and front line emergency staff (which mean NURSES AND AMBULANCE DRIVERS, too) ought to earn A LOT MORE.

But the money has never been there for anything other than below poverty-level wages, training or recruitment because the General Practioners TAKE so much and contribute so much LESS.

All this furore over The Tory Government vs. The Junior Doctors is nothing but The Pledge towards The Prestige, when that was never the issue - The Turn has always pivoted around question of the real battle it has always been between The General Practioners and the Nurses et al. over All The Money as to who gets to keep the heat on and eat meals that come in tins vs. who gets to grow laconically rich and upwardly mobile, socially.

That's why we need a NEW 1945.

Better than the last one, better prepared (we've got the next 5 years to get it right), coolly calculated rather than patched and cobbled together out of desperation and pieces of old sticky-tape and string, free from all of the dangerous compromises embedded, deep-rooted within the core foundations of the first one.

The Wise learn by studying the mistakes and errors of others.

Don Corleone's patròn swore "I believe in America".

Sod that for a lark - why not try believing in yourself, your friends and neighbours and going out to try and inspire them to feats of grandeur?

So how about we all just agree between ourselves to say that we each affirm that I believe in you, you can have confidence in me, so roll up yer sleeves y'great jessie, ye, and come on and let's all get stuck in, lad.

There's work as needs doin'.

"This time, there'll be a THIRD Covenant - and it's going to be written by each and every one of you.

Really....? You Lot....?

You Lot.