UK Column and Vanessa Bealey do a quick (anecdotal) comparison of the UK health service (in case you’ve forgotten, once the envy of much of the 1st and 3rd worlds) and Syria’s health service. Especially for my brother-in-law, still a defender of the NHS.
Yes it’s a video but only a few minutes. Watch from 35:30.
The total lunacy going on in UK schools is beyond madness. I wouldn’t like to imagine the PTSD that’s being produced in the younger generation.
I would hazard that it’s far worse than when my parents were young, in the early 1940s, when the blitz raged and the Battle of Britain was being fought in the skies.
At least back then there was some means of escape from it all (either at home or overseas).
Now there is no escape.
The lunatics are worldwide.
One of their better episodes, mainly because of the lesser reliance on reading out the text on slides, word for word. Perhaps this is for benefit of audio only audience but it’s becoming worse, and The Monday editions with David Scott harrumphing inarticulately are becoming unwatchable. His sulking in the Extra Time of Mon 1st Nov was mortifying.
A real shame.
You just have to know their biases, and discount for them: pro-ukmilitary, pro-‘One Single British ukNation’, anti-Irish-reunification, anti-Scots and Cymreig independence, and even inclined to scoff at indy, and its proponents…
But mostly they seem to be sceptical, and evidence-driven. They’ve done steady good work on calling out the scamdemic. Discounting for the biases, that qualifies them as proper journalists worth attention, I reckon. I follow them for their content, and ignore the very obvious potential for ridiculing them; they could indeed be ridiculed for their comedisable oddities, very easily. But how is that relevant to their good content?
Health Surface
Places of sickness nurse me cold,
Attendant whiteness glare in dark,
Straighten out the winding sheet
Twisted round in poorest dreams.
Shattered proofing of the lost,
Splinter shackled, little wounds
Of cruelty and truth, they tie
The one way sickness up inside.
Regressive smile, a baby’s laugh,
A learnt contortion of the mouth,
Places of laughter leave me cool,
Hot fire dying down to ash.
Beauty breezes through so swift,
Endless roundabout of grief.
Not much to ask, a rightful place
Where nothing matters, but can’t touch
Without a sinking heart, this sigh
Could be the wind among the leaves.
This pain does not belong to me,
They’ve taken everything away
To nurse the sicknesses of loss,
Instilled with fear and bleachy guilt
Impatient winds up in her cloth.
The tired shoes are splitting up
With weighty promises of love,
Waiting for the last to fall away
Buckle noose around the strap
All that separates the flesh
From green grass or sinking mud.
Stagnating, knowing the delusion,
Clean sheets waiting for a body,
Slapped into life and slowly gutted.
A place of sickness is to die in
Tired of the cruelty and lying,
Drip-fed tears of the forsaken.
They say, “Well soon have you up and walking”.
Took the prison for a stronghold.
Took the lies for a love-song.
Paid for life on a shoestring.
Waiting for the last to fall away
Buckle noose around the strap
All that separates the flesh
From green grass or sinking mud.