kay scorah.

internexpert.

The Suffradeads; voting rights for dead people.

(Warning 1 – contains arithmetic and arithmetic puns)

(Warning 2 – not funny)

deadpeoplevoting

The EU referendum was held in the UK on 23rd June 2016.

The date on which the UK is set to leave the EU is 29th March 2019.

144 l_o_n_g weeks after the referendum.

A gross length of time in so many ways.

On 23rd June 2016, 17,410,742 people voted to leave the EU.

16,141,241 voted to remain in the EU

A majority of 1,269,501.

It’s a cheerful fact that an average of 12,000 people a week die in the UK, of whom approximately 10,000 are over 65.

That means that roughly 1,440,000 over 65s who were able to vote on 23rd June 2016 will be dead by 29th March 2019. (Sorry, friends).

64% of over 65s voted leave. So, that’s potentially 921600 dead Brexit voters between the referendum and the exit.

At the time of the referendum, the UK population of 15, 16 and 17 year-olds was approximately 2,106,000.

These people will almost all be eligible to vote by the time we leave the EU. They will be 18, 19 and 20 years old.

71% of 18-24 year-olds voted remain

So, roughly 1,495,260 18-to-20 year olds who would have voted remain will be leaving the EU.

To re-cap, on the leave date of 29th March 2019 the UK population will probably include:

17,410,742 leave voters minus 921,600 dead leave voters = 16,489,142 living leave voters, or 49%.

16,141,241 remain voters plus 1,495,260 newly eligible remain voters  = 17,636,501 living remain voters or 51%

A majority for remain of 1,147,359.

Seems fair that we leave the EU, right?

Seems fair that we don’t have a second referendum, right?

Yup.

Fair to dead people.

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Not sure if you’re an immigrant or an expat? Take our simple test to find out.

If you’re one of the *232 million people living in a country that you were not born in, then you’re probably wondering where to draw the line between “ex-pat” and “immigrant”. (Unless you are a British person living anywhere overseas, or a French person living in South Kensington, in which case you have never even considered yourself to be anything other than an ex-pat). So we’ve developed a simple 2-minute quiz to help you out.

First, find photographs of the people running the country you’re currently living in. By this we mean politicians, business leaders and media owners. In reverse order.

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Now, take a look at our handy skin colour chart, and find **your skin colour.

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If you are the same colour as, or paler than, the ruling elite in the country you are in, CONGRATULATIONS!! You are an ex-pat.

If your skin is darker than that of the ruling elite then you’re an immigrant.

There are a few exceptions to this rule. If your skin is the same colour as or lighter than the ruling elite, AND you speak or attempt to speak the language of the country you are living in, then I’m afraid you’re an immigrant. Ex-pats know that they do not need to learn other languages because they only ever hold conversations with other expats, and don’t all the locals speak English/French/Dutch/Spanish anyway? (It has come to our attention that some expats do make the mistake of learning how to instruct the staff in the local language. This really isn’t necessary, and in our view is a rather vulgar show of sycophancy or condescension.)

There are also some rare instances (for example if you are an Irish person living in England) where you don’t need to decide whether you are an immigrant or an ex-pat, because most people in the country in which you reside don’t realise that the country you come from doesn’t belong to them.

Next week: Not sure if you’re racist or xenophobic? Maybe you are one of those lucky people who are both! Take our simple test to find out.

(*Daily Mail stat., so who knows what the real figure is.)

(** If you are Donald Trump or a member of the Simpson family, we’re sorry but your skin colour does not appear on this chart. We’re still working on the section for fictional characters.)

“5 Things You Must Do To Make Labour Unelectable”

Our ever popular series, “x things you should y about z”, returns with this insightful piece by Antonia Bleargh. Political Correspondent.

  1. Make sure that you persuade as many people as possible that there is no point whatsoever in voting because you are exactly the same as all the other parties. Did you know that between May 1997 and June 2001 Tony Blair’s government managed to reduce the number of people who could be bothered to vote from 71% to 59%! Yes, a massive 5 MILLION voters turned their backs on the electoral system in just 4 short years. Marvellous achievement!
  1. Don’t make this an indiscriminate cull. Take care to ensure that the people that you alienate most effectively are those who might have been most likely to vote for you. Just look at the sterling work that Labour carried out in this regard amongst young people; 51% of 18-24s voted in 1997 compared to just 37% in 2005. Again, a brilliant vote-losing strategy, precisely executed.
  1. Shake off all those poorly paid, needy types. Middle class lefties are almost impossible to get rid of (give them a couple of decent bottles of cut price Primitivo from Waitrose and they’ll soon forget about illegal wars and such trivia). Instead, focus on getting rid of working class voters by giving peerages to your posh media mates and continuing to keep decent housing unaffordable. New Labour leads the way again; “(Labour) has suffered a cataclysmic decline among working class voters.” John Trickett. May 2015. New Statesman.
  1. Make sure that you squabble amongst yourselves like ferrets in a sack. Bully the boys who dare to be a bit different by giving them girly nicknames like “Alice in Wonderland”.
  1. Remember, it’s more important to be in power than it is to represent the people.

    Antonia Bleargh. Political Correspondent. With apologies to John Tenniel

    Antonia Bleargh. Political Correspondent. With apologies to John Tenniel

That friend you can depend on. For Charlie.

August 26th 2011. I’d taken a little show I’d made to New York. Cast of 3, including me.  It was the opening night and I was shitting myself, to be honest.  We were onstage as the audience walked in. A mad looking bastard with white hair strolled in and took his seat in the middle of a row half way back. I squinted into the lights. Then I mouthed. “Charlie?” I had no idea he was even in town. He just waved.

That was Charlie all over. No ceremony. He was just there for you if he thought you might need him. No fuss.

2012. I moved back to London after almost 20 years away. Saw Charlie a few times. One night my phone rang, really late. It was Charlie. He was outside. He’d had a bit of a problem and needed somewhere to stay. I let him in, we had a drink and put the world to rights before he sloped off to the spare room like my drunk brother.

That was Charlie all over. No ceremony. He had a way of making me feel useful. No fuss.

Now he’s gone. He checked out Monday evening. No ceremony. No fuss.

To his family and all his other friends, lots of love. I’m going to try my best to be a bit more Charlie.11041713_10153155534832922_6090886241022825664_n (1)

 

Moon and sun

The moon once said to me,

“In my light, you will always be beautiful.”

She was a slender crescent, loved by all the sparkling stars.

She was full, round and blue. She was orange.

She was everything, and she was beautiful, too.

 

And then the sun came up, and I forgot about the moon.

 

The sun said, “I will shine, but you must hide away in the shade.

He said, “Let me show you all the things that are more beautiful than you.

“Let my light make clear your flaws, your scars, your wrinkles and your weaknesses.”

 

His brightness burned my eyes, his heat my skin,

and when he saw that I was cold, he hid behind a cloud.

 

At last, the sun sliding below the horizon, I heard his harsh voice call,

“I am leaving. Without me you are invisible.”

 

Then at my back, I heard the moon’s fierce whisper,

“No. Be gone, sun. Without you, she is invincible.”

 

Kay Scorah August 2018

I see. You see.

Crying. Too much mascara.

Elephants drinking in still water lake. Reflected.

North of England industrial skyline. Inverted.

What do you see?

Different experiences, different cultures, different context, different mood. How often do you stop to ask others what they see?

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Humans are so weird about food

Human A, “Aw, look at the cute little calf! It’s so adorable!”tumblr_msdoeqe14g1stlkgho1_500

Human B, “Yes, isn’t it!

Human B, “Want a beefburger?”

Human A, “Yes please!”

 

Human A, “Eeeek! Look! A spider. Someone kill it, please! I can’t stand spiders!”

Human B. “I’ve squashed the spider.”5-6-HOWARD-4live-spider-sample

Human A. “Thank you!”

Human B, “Want a spiderburger?”

Human A, “Yuk, Gross! Are you crazy?!”

Snow day

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she came

to tell the

to buy a warm

end. And shurrup moaning about the

The second and final day of this Stark Raving Sane blog.

6 more examples of the miracle by which things sensed are transformed into emotions, which in turn become drops of water which exit through my eyes and down my cheeks.

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  1. I was first told that I couldn’t sing when I was about 3 years old. To this day, 60 years later, every time I start to sing I feel that I am unacceptable, unwanted and ugly. Frankie Armstrong on Radio 4 is talking about the cultural crime of robbing people of their singing voice. . and I am crying my eyes out while making the coffee. Not singing.
  2. A procession of primary school children on a London street. 2 by 2. Holding hands. The full spectrum of skin colours on those soft, small fingers.
  3. An older woman – my age – at Marylebone station greets a younger woman. They hug. My muscles remember that yesterday evening I hugged my son.
  4. The bass line on Marvin Gaye’s “I heard it through the grapevine”
  5. I help my mother with the clasp on her gold necklace.
  6. In class, G stands up, reluctantly, to give his presentation. He always looks at the floor. Never makes eye contact. Until today. Today, for a moment, he looks up, and looks straight at us. And he smiles.

Day 1 of The Stark Raving Sane Blog. Rainbows are OK. As long as they’re all green.

IMG_0517(Yes, I’m the same person that sometimes does the funny blog. But this one isn’t.)

I cry easily.

I used to blush a lot.

At school, I would get into trouble for getting uncontrollable fits of the giggles.

I sometimes lose my temper – lash out, scream.

Sometimes I can’t pick up the phone because I don’t have the courage to speak to people.

Normal people probably don’t cry several times a day.

I do.

Almost every day.

I’m crying as I write about crying. That’s how much of a crier I am.

So, you see, I have strong emotional reactions. So strong that some people say I’m crazy.

So I come up with the usual crazy-person justifications;

What if it’s not me? What if our definition of “sane” is too narrow?

So narrow that we stifle everything brilliant and different in ourselves.

So narrow that even justifiable outrage is silenced.

More drugs sold to keep us all in the middle of the spectrum.

As if we’re banning rainbows, unless they’re all green.

 

Here’s 8 things that made me cry today. I’ll tell you more another day.

  1. I received a sweet note from the man who is afraid that his son doesn’t love him.
  2. A mum with a little boy. She had just picked him up from nursery. He was crying. I heard her say, “Did you think Mummy wasn’t going to come back from work today? I will always come back from work to collect you. Silly sausage!” My dad used to call me sausage.
  3. Tobey reminded me that Sam died 3 years and 6 months ago.
  4. I congratulated someone on starting a big new job. They wrote back, “Oh Kay, how can I ever forget you! I have been building on those bits of training you gave me continuously all these years. You were one of my first and best teachers to help me get to where I am today.”
  5. On the street, I passed by the man who dresses like an elegant pirate every day. As we passed each other he said, “Hello, beautiful crazy lady.”
  6. A man on crutches playing football with his small child.
  7. My cousin cried as she talked about her mum’s death.
  8. A woman on the bus told her kids to be quiet. They weren’t really loud. Just little kids. I smiled at her. She spoke to me softly, “I can’t stand it when people say awful things to them.” She was wearing a headscarf. Her little boy came over and hugged her. He kissed her forehead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Traditional gender-based workplace dress codes..

“traditional gender-based workplace dress codes [ … ] encourage a sense of professionalism in the workplace”. Teresa May 2011

Here at *Porcito we are 100% behind the Prime Minister, a position we particularly enjoy when she wears those figure-hugging skirts and leather trousers. And we are proud of our people. We want all employees to experience the dignity and confidence that comes with traditional gender-based workplace dress codes. Following today’s press coverage we want to remind our male employees of the guidelines:

Manspreading is obligatory. Any man found sitting with his knees less than 40 cm apart will be sent home without pay. Crossing your legs at work (with the exception of the aggressive ankle-on-the-opposite-knee pose) will lead to immediate dismissal. HR has arranged for lunchtime ballet-barre classes to be provided in the conference room B3 every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for any man struggling with his turnout.

Trousers must be tight enough to clearly show the shape and size of your man-sausage.

The bottom button of your shirt must at all times be left open, so that your hairy lower belly is clearly visible. If you wax your belly hair, or are naturally hairless, ahem, “down there” you MUST have a 6-pack. André’s “Glutes and Abs” classes take place every morning from 7.30 to 8.30 in the park on the corner. (If you are spotted with neither belly hair nor a 6-pack for a period of more than 6 weeks, and you don’t attend André’s class this will be grounds for immediate dismissal).

Bum crack. We understand how difficult it can be for those of you who wear suits to work to expose your bum crack. For this reason we only impose the bum crack rule on maintenance staff as follows:

First, you will be graded on a scale of 1 to 10 by a panel of female staff members. (10 = Ryan Gosling and 1 = Donald Trump).

Having received your grade, you will be required to follow the natural order of things as follows:

8-10: Your choice, you can expose as much or as little of your bum crack as you like. It’s irrelevant, as all we want to do is gaze into your eyes and dream.

5-7: Between 2 and 6 cm of bum crack to be exposed when kneeling or bending

Less than 5: At least 6 cm of bum crack to be exposed at all times.

Finally, if your knuckles do not naturally drag along the ground as you walk around the office you must wear arm extensions, or reduce the length of your legs.

*Not to be confused in any way with Portico “providers of high quality, tailored front and back of house guest services.” whatever that means…

The Jabbermay. (With profound and sincere apologies to Lewis Carroll.)

Twas brillig and the slithy Gove

Did fawn and fondle with the Trump

All mimsy were the Tory droves

(But David Davis got the hump).

 

Beware the Jabbermay, my son!

The pants that shine, the heels that purr

Beware that Doctor Fox, and shun

The furious Andrea.

 

“Seven days! Seven days!” he heard a wailing

And turned to smite the sickening Hunt

But his bike was toppled by the Grayling

And he fell to earth with a startled grunt.

 

And, as he lay there in a daze,

The Jabbermay, in Vera Wang

Came clicking through the Brexit haze

And incoherently she sang,

 

“Thou canst not fell the Jabbermay!

I scoff at ye, O Labour squabblers!

The Trump and I will now make hay

While you spout internecine cobblers.”