Parents of child don’t want to pay 20p a day to save him.

The Mirror wrote this story about a kid being denied a prescription for household cornflower:

400g of cornflower costs 62p in Aldi. This kid gets through 150g per day, so about 20p-worth, or about £6 a month – a pint and a half of beer or half a packet of cigarettes.

This has nothing to do with cost, then, because any parent in ANY situation can find £6 a month to save their child’s life. So instead of just picking up a few packets with their normal shop, they expect to waste time getting prescriptions and making special trips to the chemist, wasting their time, the doctor’s time and the pharmacist’s time.

Their entire position on this is that they expect the state to pay for something they can very easily afford themselves. It’s a “moral” position, and a quite warped one at that. When did we become so utterly weak and spineless in this country that instead of paying 20p a day ourselves, we expect the state to pick up the tab?

When did we become so incapable of self-dependence, so flaccid and feeble, and so parasitic that 20p a day becomes a moral crusade? “Because druggies and gluten-intolerant people get help” is beyond feeble as a response. It is a way of saying that you really can’t answer the first question so you’re going to ask a different one as a distraction.

The people that think their position is right are, in all liklihood, exactly the same people that berate refugees for wanting to come over here. Perhaps if some more of us stood on our own two feet instead of taking every opportunity to sponge off the state, that point might be valid.

As it stands, it is just laughable, because we are far more weak and feeble than any refugee is.

I’m Not My Father’s Son

It will not come as a major shock to many of you, but I know quite a few other gay guys. Without exception, those that I have spoken to in depth on the topic, all of them have some sort of father issues. I do too.

Most of theirs, sadly, are negative. Mine isn’t, and this has for a long time slightly confused me. I do, most definitely, have father issues, but they’re not remotely negative, they’re just issues.

Having seen (and blubbed my way through most of) the stage show “Kinky Boots” it has, for the first time, hit home what it is. There is a song (cruelly close to the intermission!) called “I’m not my father’s son” which details how a character in the play is not who his father might have hoped for, or who his father might compare himself against.

But since in the stage show, as in my life, the father has died, the character will never have the opportunity to show his father that although different, he has been successful in his own way, and is now happy.

Having wasted (and although I choose that word deliberately, I do not choose it in any way lightly) the first four decades or so of my life trying to conform to others’ expectations, I really would have loved the opportunity to sit down with my dad now, staring out to sea over a windswept beach, and just chat about who I am, who he is, and what it actually feels like to be honest with yourself.

He was, in my view, one of the straightest-thinking people I knew, and I think he might have been a little disappointed that I lied to myself and everyone else for so long, but at the same time, I think he would have been satisfied that I got here in the end. “You took your bloody time” might have been his reaction.

I really would have loved to have taken him to Kinky Boots and held his hand while they sung “I’m not my father’s son”, looked at him and shared a smile and a tear.

I miss my dad.