Let’s just get this out there.

It’s all YOUR fault.

We don’t have enough housing for the population.

That’s your fault.

Our sainted NHS is a badly managed shitshow with a postcode lottery that will determine the quality of our care.

That’s your fault.

Our roads are a joke, if pothole dodging were a sport, we’d be world class, along with India and Gaza.

Public transport in rural areas is almost nonexistent.

Both of those are your fault.

Nonces, rapists and terror suspects are out on bail or given laughable sentences.

Middle class women that made a mistake on social media have been imprisoned, Lucy Connolly’s appeal failed so she’s still in prison at our cost despite being no threat at all to the public.

That’s your fault.

The Metropolitan Police arrested and charged a Jewish man for taking the piss out of Hezbollah.

That’s right.

A fucking terrorist organisation is being protected from offence by our police.

That’s your fault.

Our government just gave away the Chagos islands to a foreign power that’s a client state of China.

That’s bad enough.

We’re paying them somewhere between 10 and 30 billion pounds too.

That’s your fault.

In one street In Leicester, at least 43% of the population don’t speak English.

I’m willing to bet that some areas are even worse.

Many of these people are having their whole lives funded.

By us.

That’s your fault.

Our councils have lost the battle to square the finances in the face of this huge influx of immigrants and are penalising the council tax payer as a result. Even though services reduce year on year.

That’s your fault.

Over SEVEN MILLION people in the UK are functionally illiterate, a staggering figure and one that should terrify us all.

We’re breeding generations of people that will find the concept of electricity and running water impossible to grasp if we don’t put a stop to our decline.

That’s your fault.

Our Prime Minister has been apparently targeted by a gang of Rent Boys, but the press, as usual are more or less silent.

The same Prime Minister has been called a congenital liar so often that he probably thinks it’s a compliment.

That is also your fault.

Rape, murder and assault figures are at the sort of levels that we used to associate with failed African states. The numbers are hardly reported and if you want to discuss them, you’re a fucking bigoted racist, gammon Nazi.

Or something.

That’s your fault.

It’s all your fault.

Or should I say Our Fault.

It’s nearly unfixable now.

What comes next is going to be grim.

Happy Sunday.

Some statistics from this week.

Forty Seven days

Two years

Ten miles

Thirty nine hours

Twelve years

Ten hours

Today’s the 18th of May, it’s a Sunday and I’m sat in the garden, drinking beer, listening to bird song and watching Cairo drift off to sleep in the sunshine.

Or I was, she’s wandered off again. It’s even money as to whether she’s gone hunting or wandered off for a doze. She was so broken yesterday after walks and ‘helping’ me work and playing with the water gun, that she could barely move.

Milo’s definitely asleep somewhere, we did a nearly six mile walk earlier and he’s also had a couple of patrols around ‘his’ land.

It’s been forty seven days since I left work – I only know this because they haven’t closed my accounts properly and I’m getting mails telling me that my phone is out of policy.

I miss it even less than I thought I would. My days are still full, but not tied to an artificial timetable.

And for the first time in weeks and weeks, I went to London on Thursday.

It was a full day, up at six, walk the dogs, home, shower, put a suit on and drive to the station.

Train to London, cab to the Army and Navy Club and then lunch in the bar above Waterstones on Jermyn Street.

On to Piccadilly for a couple of drinks with the son of a friend who passed last year – and one of my feral ponies.

Meet The Smurf, go for dinner in Mayfair and catch up on her recovery. She’s 90% there but the strain of a very close call with death and a genuinely life altering operation is there on her face if you know her well enough.

I pretend that I don’t and keep the compliments flowing on a semi-regular basis.

Get a text from one of the other feral ponies – three of them are in town.

Meet them at the Cellar Door – chat to the singer, she vaguely recognises me – have I been there before?

Erm. Yes. Twelve years ago, we went there a lot.

Drink like seahorses with the ponies, one of them pays for it on his corporate card, I’m apparently four people from Security.

Onto Soho with the ponies and The Smurf, three clubs, litres of gin and all of them packed off in cabs by 3am.

Off to bed.

After ten hours of drinking.

And I can’t fucking sleep.

Breakfast in the club, cab to Euston and a train back home – I’m in First so I have a bit more food.

Home for a quick lunch and then a walk across the fields to install a new kissing gate for the parish.

Walk back home to get chainsaws, saws and a fucking tomahawk so that we can clear the tree stump from Hell.

Many hours later, ten miles of walking back and forth, more swearwords from a couple of us than I think the third of our group has heard in their lifetime and the motherfucking stump was cleared. The cunt.

And our gate was installed.

Home for a couple of beers and a bit of dinner.

And sleep.

I’d been awake for thirty nine hours at that point, I’d walked ten miles and was somewhat surprised to make it to early evening.

Yesterday was a day of walking and more work , the dogs had some fun on the canal and helped me check a shed in a copse of trees that I’m going to repair for varmints.

And today was spent walking, doing minor jobs and chilling.

It’s been two years since my Dad died and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel today.

Life is there to be lived, I miss him, but can’t bring him back.

And I won’t be sad.

Life is here for us to enjoy if we so choose.

I choose to.

Remember to live.

Those stats won’t stay still

Sunday, May 11th 2025

A beautiful, glorious, sunny and warm day.

A day to spend outdoors, in the fields, in the park, on the streets, in your own garden.

An almost perfect English Summer’s Day.

If you’re not looking at the news of course.

Don’t go outside?

Fucking Hell.

Our ancestors are so mortified that they’re actually cringing in their graves. They’re too traumatised to spin.

We’re that pathetic.

It’s around 1830 right now and I’m drinking a beer while I cook dinner. The doglets are both shattered.

Milo because he’s walked around 5 miles today in the killer heat ( spoiler, I carry water as well as home made treats like dehydrated chicken and chicken sausages) – Cairo because she’s followed me all round the land while I cut bits of tree down and burn them – oh yeah, I dug a wildflower area over too. And also because we played for the best part of an hour with the hose and the water gun.

She absolutely loves it and so do I,

We get to play in the open air, she goes absolutely fucking apeshit, and I laugh.

A lot.

I can’t tell anybody how to live their lives, I can’t say what’s good or bad. I can’t say what’s safe or dangerous, but I can tell you what I know.

Days like today are for spending outside, having fun or getting things done. Or both.

The day that the MSM can tell us to avoid sunlight are apparently here

All we can do is laugh at them.

Hide inside.

Fuxake 😂

See that line in the field behind the dogs?

We made that, we did it over a few years and we did it by walking the fields.

Hardly anybody uses it, apart from the chap that owns all 216 acres of it and it links to more fields, a short road past a vineyard and even more fields.

I know this because we walk it regularly, anywhere between four and seven miles on a given walk – and Milo still has enough energy at the moment to run for the sheer joy of it for lots of the time.

Cairo is still propelled by rocket fuel but she’s better at coming back now after she runs off on the hunt.

We do a LOT of walking and we added some time on today to help look for a farmer’s lost dog ( not found yet, but I’m hopeful it’ll turn up soon).

Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, I think.

You don’t have to be the life of the party or one of those fucking people who wants to be everyone’s friend.

But when you get offered a choice, take the nicer one if you can.

Walk instead of driving sometimes, take a moment to look at the everyday beauty that you miss if you’re head-down and hurrying, or calling another driver a cunt because they don’t want to drive as fast as YOU do.

Take a breath.

There’s miles and miles of bluebells around here right now, they’re ethereal, beautiful and short lived.

Like us.

If you can, choose that slower, nicer path, enjoy these days while we have them.

Happy Sunday all