pipsterish

Elon Musk is Ms Scribe's unexpected sock puppet comeback.

I can't get education thanks to northern college. There's no point being here. I'm trapped in my small town due to disability and now I'm trapped because I can't change my circumstances. I need to return my foster cats... then I can go.

One of your members is excluding me from education by not offering reasonable accommodation for my disability and won't allow me to appeal.

In one of your tweets you say you are vice chair of the board at Northern College. This is your own new policy, which excludes disabled people like me, in contravention of the Equality Act 2010, and which no one seems to be able to speak clearly about or define.

I am being discriminated against on the basis of disability and denied access to study at @northerncollege

Well @northerncollege just denied me access because of my disability. I can't walk and don't have a powered wheelchair so can't attend via public transport. I can't afford £25+ in taxis each day and am not allowed to stay residentially. So I don't get to have an education or change my life. Thanks.

Beit Lahia is forced to leave today, is ethnically cleansed, last city in north Gaza.
Keep in mind that these people tried to remain and hoped the world would stop the horror. But no more.
Please share my campaign.
gofund.me/0a8a0d77

Tottenham fans.

The bell jangled before Jeremy could open the door for himself and he admitted two other gentlemen before he escaped onto the cold streets, instantly warmed by the solidarity of those around him once more.

"Populism," K muttered, again in a mood, and Reeves dotted an 'i' with satisfaction.

Reeves looked up, smiled, and said “Merrrr…” then stopped, uncertain, blushed in shame, and looked down at the accounts again. They were hard because he wasn’t truly qualified for them.

“It’s the 25th, if you want to come. You know where I am.”

Kerr glowered. “Good afternoon!”

Jeremy shrugged and prepared to rejoin the throng outside. “Merry Christmas, Bob,” he said on his way to the door.

“Still,” said Jeremy, unmoved by the display of temper. “We’ll be having a get together. A few, actually. There’s Christmas, and the first day of Hanukkah. You’ll be welcome to either - my friends won’t mind.”

Keer narrowed his eyes. “Good afternoon, Sir!”

“Don’t talk to me of Hope!” Stammer shouted, rising up from his seat and pointing a shaking finger. “She’s not my mother!” He annunciated his next words so clearly even Reeves shivered. “I. Was. Adopted!”

... imprisoned,” here he paused to look at Jeremy’s attire meaningfully, “and hung by their own antisemitic scarf.”

Jeremy looked immensely troubled, but more than that - concerned. “You were not always this way,” he said. “When Hope was alive, you -”

Stormer snorted. “Genocide indeed,” he murmured derisively. Then he looked up from his papers that told him how much extra he was earning per day being PM and stared right at Jeremy. “If I had my way, everyone who went around talking about genocide would be rounded up...

“Free Palestine,” he muttered, as if warding off a curse. “Populism!” he added venomously, as if that was a bad thing.

Jeremy laughed. “Oh, but surely you cannot mean it. ‘Tis the time for peace and goodwill to all men, women and children. We mean this time to end the genocide and occupation.”

“Good day, brother,” said Jeremy in a merry fashion, throwing the scarf around his neck. “Free Palestine!” He exclaimed, for the sheer joy of it, clearly not expecting anyone in the room to respond to him. But respond Keir did.

When as much peace had been restored as possible, they were both interrupted by the tinkling of the bell as someone came in from outside, glowing and breathless with happiness and some kind of infernal excitement.

...chance of the crowd carrying him away.

He saw a few older people while he was carrying out his task, and he returned inside to the cold office beleaguered by some emotion he could not explain, but he suspected the old people were getting help with their heating bills. And it bothered him.

Just then, as if to divert them from any musings about the cold, dead quality of their hearts, there was a huge chorus of voices outside, and a swell of humanity moved through the narrow streets. Immediately Reeves was instructed to close the shutters, which he did determinedly. There was no...

I guess we can all look forward to 'assisted dying' being part of DWP conditionality at the next change of government. If not before.

Keir looked up, but it was just one of those exclamations brought on by the fact that the office was devoid of warmth. Like a sneeze. There was heat, but it seemed somehow to be swallowed up by the two people within, the way a sponge absorbs water.

Imagine, if you will, two sponges in a bucket.

Compared to the cleaner who was at that moment in the building, they were not working. Compared to the carers who they seemed for some reason to despise, they were not working.

“Working people!” announced Reeves suddenly, as if aware of the irony.

It was Christmas Eve (it is always Christmas Eve in a ghost story - Jerome K) (yes you are right, tyvm) and Keirth was working in his office with his clerk, Bob Reeves. “Working” is a relative term. I mean to say, they were working, but compared to someone on an oil rig say, they were not working.

That has to be understood, or nothing of the truths in this story will follow for you, dear reader.

I belabour the point (looks innocent) because it’s important to realise that Labour is dead. It does not follow that hope, community or solidarity are also dead. But Labour itself, as a place for those things to live and thrive was no more.

Of course Keirth knew Labour was dead. How could it be otherwise? Hadn’t he himself arranged for the election of those who would hammer in the nails of the coffin lid?

Their eyes were dead, as dead as Labour, which was also quite, quite dead.

I am of course, unsure why there should be anything particularly dead about the eyes of the security staff. After all, they had work, and so were to some extent immune from the desperation of the people they interacted with on a daily basis, but the wisdom of common knowledge wins out.