Wandering back through the middle section of The Society of the Spectacle, which contains a coruscating critique of everyone else's revolution. Lenin in particular is getting a (well-deserved and accurate) thrashing.
Throwing in a little social justice.
Because pick your character class.
And I speak as Not-Rene-Russo here.
Jesus now the guy next to me thinks he's Freddy Mercury.
Not even close, buddy.
I am Rene Russo in this analogy, which frankly flatters me.
The Green Goo is completely toxic. I think it was in Thomas Crown.
October day, obviously.
Sitting in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination, mm-mmm...
Euston is giving me the Simon & Garfunkels. I was actually humming Sound of Silence, then my Green Breakfast Goo arrived.
Maaaaaan. There is nothing like a commuter station at nine thirty on a rainy October for bone-deep angst and futility. Society of the Spectacle, indeed.
Like a dandelion seed, I should drift on gentle winds to Sydney. I could just stay there until orbital mechanics trigger my return.
Some part of me knows dark mornings are wrong. Just wrong.
I think I'm a migratory sub-species.
I get like this every winter. Don't worry. I won't talk about it. Unless Dario Cologna is on Mastodon. Then I might.
It's not that I don't care about men's biathlon. My god... can Johannes Thingnes Bø find the kind of form that would allow him to challenge Martin Fourcade? And what about the cross country? The sprint event!!!
For a given value of "all" that is strictly limited to those of you who have the vaguest idea who those people are. In the UK, that's basically me and Mrs H. Maybe a couple of hundred others.