Alright, I’ll confess. In the end I caved and I went on what can only be described as a spectacular holiday.
For four weeks, the most handsome men that money could buy carried me on their shoulders because of the debt crisis in Greece. They did it for nothing but the sheer gratitude of touching the flesh of a person who had a five year plan. Remarkable specimens, as if plucked from the very ancient vases they now hawk on the roadside to catch the greedy eyes of lusty tourists.
It’s the sort of horrible holiday anecdote that I might try and wrangle into relevance if I were a weaker writer with no morals or talent or conviction, but a righteous laurel or two to rest on on those dark days where anyone considers my content beyond the fleeting clickbait drivel I package it as, callously taking advantage of a demographic which truly lacks powerful representation in a media landscape that is less and less interested in the stories of any but the most powerful – like Mia Freedman, say.
I’ve had some things on my mind, and by absorbing the sun’s rays directly to the portions of the brain dedicated to rage and talent, I return to my position armed with my most caustic brand of righteousness yet. If anything, my time off made me unhappier, and the rippling musculature of the most beautiful examples of a collapsing economy massaged a sense of the unjust nature of all things deep into my baking skin.
The usual forces wish to make the usual changes, but I shan’t abide them. If they attempt to force anything unpleasant onto the masthead, I will wither them.
I have never been so tempted to embrace The Internet, if only to easily share my wonderful, digital photographs.