God bless you, Mr Bruce

How a 2017 TV series helped bring me back from the brink.

On Friday morning I deactivated Twitter and cancelled my gig at HOPE.

Great start to the bank holiday weekend.

The fuck-this-shit had officially gone way into the red zone.

For context, earlier in the week I had moved all mine and my late husband’s belongings out of storage and the London mayoral elections had taken place the day before – I spoilt my ballot paper with the words: The entire political class is guilty of democide. Lockdowns and the Covid-19 vaccines kill.

As I sat writing on our smooth, Saarinen Tulip Table, I got a notification that someone had quote-shared my tweet: “Isn’t this illegal”.

I felt light-headed.

I was jolted back into the realisation that we live in a country that punishes free expression. Why did I panic, I had said nothing untrue. The measures taken took many more lives than any so-called virus. Governments around the world knew what they were doing.

As I’ve often said on the podcast, I’ve never really suffered with depression, but the last five years has tested my normally jolly, resilient nature more than any other time in my life. The feeling I often have is: Millions of bereavements piled on top of each other. Jenga grief, pull one out, and the rest could wobble and fall.

The familiar, rational world of checks and balances, debate, tradition, and thirst for truth, goodness and beauty has been murdered by ideologues. I’m not just referring to Covidmania; I include Trans Terrorism, BLM Bullshittery and Climate Cuntery.

I love the smell of communo-fascist alliteration in the morning.

The same morning, I also had coffee with a neighbour who is a bona fide, mask-wearing, quadruple-jabbed, Branch Covidian. He pretty much admitted that I was right about the Covid insanity and the ‘vaccines’. At one point he agreed with me that the Wall of Hearts should be painted over. I nearly fainted with the shock. I should have felt happy, but I had no energy to rejoice. Mark my words, there will be collective amnesia about what was said and done to those of us who questioned and railed against the Shit Show™️.

On Friday evening, I slumped dejectedly on the cool mustard yellow, leather reclining chair I nabbed randomly in a sale, and scrolled through Prime. Through my misty, mole-like eyes the words The Marvelous Mrs Maisel seemed to magically appear, beckoning to me like a shiny, marabou-clad showgirl. I muttered grumpily, “there are two fucking lls in marvellous for fuck’s sake..”. Grammatical impatience aside, I pressed play on the first episode. It was released in March 2017, but for some reason – perhaps because I was busy with Edinburgh shows and Terry’s cancer diagnosis – I never got around to watching it.

Covering four decades, it’s about a Jewish stand-up’s rise to fame based on the life of the great Joan Rivers. When I started watching, I didn’t know it was based on her life and in some ways I’m glad I didn’t. It meant that I had no preconceived ideas. It begins in the late 50s, and it’s visually stunning. I found myself transfixed by the sharply-cut clothes, the whip-smart repartee, and pitch-perfect characterisation. The dialogue crackles like the taper of a freshly lit firework. Oddly, the main character, Miriam ‘Midge’ Maisel – played by Rachel Brosnahan – is the least entertaining. I suspect it’s because it’s difficult to act being funny as a stand-up when you’re not one. Jane Lynch, who plays a character comic called Sophie Lennon, steals the funny. I cackled like one of the crazy inmates at the scene in the mental institution in episode 2, Season 4.

In Season 1, we meet Lenny Bruce who has just been arrested for using profanity in his set. This happened to Bruce numerous times throughout his career. Police used to appear in clubs after a tip off and take him to jail. But this was America, not Soviet Russia. Don’t worry, I’m sure America’s changed for the better over the years thoug… oh.

I thought about the circumstances around my own arrest at the end of June last year. Maybe it was lack of sleep, but through the sacred veil of eternity, I felt Lenny Bruce’s hand reach out, cigarette still lit, and grasp mine. One day, maybe I’ll go down to an open mic comedy night and try some of my new shit. I just hope the police don’t hear about it.

I’m sure there’ll be wobbles in the future, but rest assured that I will always, always write here – partly because it helps make sense of it all, and partly to let you know that I’m OK and probably reclining in my mustard yellow chair watching the rest of The Marvelous Mrs Maisel; down but very definitely not out.

Be seeing you.

A X