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423 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 10, 2009
And the thing which is currently raising my ire – easily raised, admittedly – is the mobile telephone. A pox (or should I say a brain tumour?) upon all those who carry this frightful instrument.He's very cheery with the prisoners who are mostly small time criminals in and out of prison, and who mostly treat their women and children very badly, beating up one and not supporting the other, and many of them are on drugs, some out of boredom. The women of these men are uniformly stupid. Their men kick their bellies to cause abortions, say they aren't really violent to them, "just a smack on the face, nothing she had to go to hospital for," and about choking, "I know when to stop". The women are frightened to leave them because of being tracked down and there being further violence, but also, most say they are in love with them, and 'he's not like that all the time. Only when he drinks.'
Alas, as any gimcrack psychiatrist will tell you, there is in all hatred a liberal dose of self-contempt, and so it is with my abhorrence of the mobile telephone, for I possess one myself, even though I know it makes me look a little like a Jamaican drug-dealer.
At least my conversations on it are sensible and important, however. I have to keep myself contactable at all times wherever I may be, just in case one of the newspapers wants me to write a ringing denunciation of one or other of the many manifestations of modern British degradation and depravity. It is possible, after all, to make money out of depravity without being depraved oneself.
Each man kills the thing he loves, but each woman is killed by the thing she loves.