HOW TO BE . . . A COUNTRY BUMPKIN (PART II) IN AMERICA

Okay, part II of my new life as a country bumpkin. 

I haven’t taken to wearing dungarees, chewing on straw and belting out Tammy Wynette numbers just yet, but my country living is still in its infancy and there is a lot to learn. 

To be honest, the motivation that led me to seek solace away from New York City was unexpected. As an adult, I’ve lived in cities all my life, in several countries. I love the flexibility that city life offers – of restaurants, night life, people. Coronavirus and lockdown changed all that, and NYC in particular feels less safe. Crime and violence have increased to such an extent, I no longer feel at ease on the streets where I once happily wandered home from my local bar at 4am (always the last order at the food truck en route). Being seated six feet apart from people when dining gives me a sense of isolation that often reduces me to tears. I am very lucky to have work and my health; despite having been sick, I now have the virus antibodies – and yes, I know they don’t necessarily last, so I err on the side of caution. I was just ready for a change of scenery, and one that didn’t involve a trek to the airport for a long flight to the UK or LA and being trapped at Minneapolis airport for eight hours.   

   

I still have my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, but since moving to Beacon, I spend less time in the city. Being in the country brings so many benefits but is not without its stresses, too. So, here’s a follow-up to the last blog, at a time when I am learning how to adapt to this vast change of lifestyle.

1. There are no 24-hour stores in which to buy a pint of milk for my essential morning cup of tea. It is quicker to find a cow and pull on its udders it than wait for Key Foods to open

2. Everyone knows who you are and where you came from within a week. In these isolating times, it’s rather comforting. “Oh, you’re English Jaci,” I get in tones that might mean “Great to meet you”, or “So you’re the nut job we’ve been hearing about”. It seems churlish to correct people on my country of origin, and nobody understands it anyway. I can spend a 45-minute ride to the airport with a taxi driver, painstakingly explaining the geography of the UK, only to arrive at my destination with a parting: “So Wales is the capital of England?” Whaddever.  

3. People are breathtakingly nice here – so much so, that I think they must be bag snatchers, just warming me up for the big SWAG descent. In the city, I take all my belongings to the rest room, just to be on the safe side – the only downer being that the waiter thinks I have left, and I return from the rest room to discover he/she has thrown away my dinner.

4. Unlike most people, I’ve never found NYC that expensive. You have to know where to go, what deals there are to be struck, both spoken and unspoken, and this applies pretty much to every bar and restaurant when you are a regular. By comparison, the country is extortionate. I talked about upstate NY in Part I, but here’s a more detailed breakdown about my visit to Hudson, a lovely town further up the valley, where the cheapest hotel room available was $884.80 – for just two nights! SIX HUNDRED AND NINETY SIX POUNDS. A meal for two of us, with tip, was close on $300, and we didn’t even have a bottle of wine, just a couple of glasses each. I know I am repeating myself, but I’m still in shock. The story is that with the mass exodus from NYC, everyone has put up their prices, although locals tell me it’s always been this way because the assumption is that visiting New Yorkers are the ones with the dosh to throw around.

5. Hiking. Everyone’s a bloody hiker. I’m not. I walk a lot, usually miles a day, but I am not going to head off into the hills in a pair of worn leather boots, nursing a water bottle. Neither am I desperate to hear anyone’s tales of having done that. Unless I can see a Marriott by standing on a small box, I have no interest in the prospect of being trapped on a mountainside, away from civilisation and having to drink my own urine until the rescue services arrive.

6. Alcohol in my local wine shop is close on double the price of what I pay in NYC, where I have 15% off at my local store, Grand Cru, and 30% off on the delivery order I make online with Union Square Wines. The latter recently did a deal in which they offered free delivery anywhere in New York State. I ordered so much to be sent to Beacon, they must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. The number of boxes in my apartment also made it look as if all my Christmases had come at once. All 61 of them.

7. Conductors on the Metro North line I take to and from Grand Central Station are so polite and friendly, I think they must be in league with the SWAG snatchers. When I show them my barcoded ticket on my iPhone, I expect them to whip it from my hand and jump from the moving train, leaping for joy at their latest stash.

8. Restaurant staff are equally polite. After just one visit to my local Italian, Brothers Trattoria, I was greeted like a long lost relative – “JACI! MY FRIEND!” – and even though neither of the brothers is Italian, I greet them with the enthusiasm of Don Corleone after a successful hitjob. 

9. The Hudson Valley continues to astound me with its beauty and, with fall upon us, the changing colour of the leaves warms my heart at what is and has always been, my favourite season.

10. Where do I celebrate my birthday next month? That’s the big question. Most of my friends are in the city, but my new local, the Roosevelt Bar in Hudson Valley Food Hall is such a joy, I’m tempted to celebrate in the country. Country bumpkin or city girl? Decisions, decisions. 

HOW TO BE . . . A COUNTRY BUMPKIN (PART I) IN AMERICA

So, before I upset people from rural areas who might assume I am calling them unsophisticated and stupid, I am not. I have met dozens of unsophisticated and stupid people in the many cities in which I’ve lived or visited the world over; I grew up in the countryside (actually, bad example: the headmaster at my junior school told me that unless you were wearing glasses by the age of seven, you were destined to be one of life’s failures. I started wearing them at 50, you four-eyed twat).

Interestingly, 'bumpkin' was originally the name that the English had for the Dutch, whom they portrayed as small, comic and tubby. Now, that sounds far more accurate, at least in my case. Despite my having lost 10lbs in weight during lockdown, I still have quite a round middle, I am still only five feet tall, and I am still hilarious (although I suspect the phrase means being laughed at, rather than with. That’s ok, poke fun at me at your peril; my pen really is mightier than your sword will ever be, you lily-livered lummox – if you just had to Google lummox, you really need to get thee to a sword-sharpener, pronto).

Under normal circumstances, I’m not very good being surrounded by greenery; even the lettuce section in a supermarket has me running for cover behind the mushrooms. I love the Seine and the Hudson that are the heart of Paris and New York City, respectively, and have now lived for equal amounts of time in both (seven years – and still counting, in the case of NYC). I crave late nights, meeting people from out of town (bumpkins), and having the widest choice in food, drink and ambience. In essence, I like to live life in a Lights, Camera, Action kind of way (I have to be the star, by the way; back of the queue, bumpkins).

Coronavirus and subsequent lockdown changed all that. Initially the epicenter (US spelling with that word now – live with it) of the virus, the state of New York was brought under control by stringent measures that, although tough, were largely adhered to and pushed the state, in particular the City, right down to the bottom of the infection and death rate chart.

But the civil unrest that came following the death of George Floyd has made the City feel less safe; also, hotels being utilised to house the homeless brought a whole new set of problems. I have utmost sympathy with the dispossessed and disenfranchised in any society, but these hotels have become, in some part, safe havens for people who, at night, go out to hound diners forced to eat outdoors, or anyone just out for an evening stroll. Times Square is a hideous theatre of hypodermic syringes. I’ve been harassed for money and have been verbally attacked for being white (never small, comic and tubby, funnily enough).

So, I started to look for an escape in upstate NY – a place I did not know well, having visited the smallish city of Beacon just three times. I returned to take another look in July. Indoor dining had already resumed (NYC doesn’t get it until Wednesday this week, and even then, at only 25% capacity), people largely obeyed the compulsory wearing of masks, and life had returned to some semblance of normality.  

I decided to split my time between NYC and Beacon. I’ve spent the past 25 years living in at least two places at the same time and while I know it’s an extravagance, I prefer to spend my money on that rather than on clothes, shoes, et al. I am not good staying in hotels, where loneliness consumes me, and the number of people who die in hotel rooms, either by their own hand or by accident is never a surprise to me.

I need my nest . . . well, nests . . . and so installed myself in Beacon, in two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment (much cheaper than my place in NYC and $1700pm cheaper – though not so cheap when you decide you need both). I have a balcony with a view of the Hudson, the same as I have in Manhattan, and am slowly adjusting to the pace of country life.

My life has changed in oh, so many ways, and this is going to take a follow-up blog to be able to tell you how. But let’s start here, with just a few thoughts about my new country life.

1. There are no single, successful, heterosexual men looking for a Dutch-like small, comic and tubby woman of a certain age, just as there were none in NYC, Paris, Wales, London, Marbella, Los Angeles. I am fast running out of continents and have now, officially, given up.

2. Why would I go apple picking? There is a thing called a supermarket, where they wrap fruit in bags for you, thereby allowing you more time to spend at the bar not picking apples. And I hate apples. Well, maybe hate is too strong, but they seem to take a lot of effort: peeling, getting the maggots out, de-coring them. It’s why I never got into drugs. How can anyone be arsed to go through the palaver of rolling, sucking, injecting, or whatever they do? A ring-pull on a can of Stella is as much work as I ever want to put in of an evening.

3. I am even more of an All You Can Eat Buffet for insects in the country than I am in the City. In NYC, mosquitoes munch on my ankles; in the country, the mosquitoes can’t get near because of the fleas that seem to have a lease on everything if it stands still long enough.

4. Everything in the country is stupidly expensive, with upstate NY taking advantage of the mass exodus from the City and charging people stupid money: the cheapest hotel in Hudson last weekend came in at $484.80 – for one night. Dinner was between $200-$300 for two, with just a couple of glasses of wine, not even a bottle.

5. Enjoyed train journey back to the City.

More thoughts to follow in Part II. Right now, too busy peeling apples.

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

SERIAL KILLERS AND DOWNTON WITH NOODLES

 

You can never find a plumber when you need one. And then, what are the chances, when you have a blocked drain, that an expert turns up and uncovers evidence that you’re a serial killer.

The irony in this story is that Dennis Nilsen, the subject of Des (the nickname Nilsen gave himself), is the person who calls in the drains man, claiming the bones of a takeaway are the guilty party in the blockage. It’s all over when the police ask, ‘Where’s the rest of the body?’ and Nilsen says, ‘In the cupboard.’ Suffice it to say they didn’t find a side of fries. 

   

Based on Brian Masters’s book, Killing for Company, the three-parter begins by painting a picture of Britain in 1983 and, in particular, London, where the streets are full of vulnerable homeless who have come to the city in search of a better life. Some of them might have found it, had it not been for the seemingly ordinary civil servant working in Kentish Town Job Centre, picking up boys and men in bars and taking them home to strangle or drown them and tend their corpses. An estimated 20 victims met their gruesome ends in his two apartments.

   

This is a true horror story that David Tennant (Nilsen) makes all the more chilling in his extraordinary, understated portrayal. The calm and ease with which Nilsen initially speaks with the police is downright creepy in Tennant’s performance: the fixed stare, the ego quietly enjoying being centre stage, his bizarre relationship with Masters and what might be written about the crimes. ‘I just don’t want those poor men exploited,’ he says, during their first meeting. ‘I’m here to comprehend,’ says Masters.

   

It’s a long time since I read the book but remember being struck by what, as a gay man himself, seemed to be Masters’s morbid and, at times, almost salacious fascination with Nilsen’s world. It is a great read, though, and one that delivers a far deeper, more complex exploration of the subject than the drama, which to me should have focused more on the perspective from the biographer’s point of view, rather than that of the police. 

Despite the fine acting performances, the cops’ story is just one of missed opportunities, bungled investigations and a result that saw Nilsen convicted of only six murders. Unable to agree, the jury had to deliver majority verdicts, which makes you wonder who was roped in for jury service back then. How much more evidence did they need? Did they really think Kentucky Fried Chicken was the underlying problem?

   

Why did Masters continue to visit Nilsen for ten years after his conviction (Nilsen died in 2018), and did he come any closer to comprehending what the police never stood any chance of doing? Read the book – it’s as fascinating an insight into the biographer as it is into the killer, but in the drama feels more like an adjunct to the story rather than the pivot of it. At least the drains man has his 15 minutes of fame when he poses for the press; I bet he never had to sign on at Kentish Town Job Centre. 

   

It’s yet to be revealed what The Singapore Grip is in the drama of the same name, but if you really want to know, ask a gynaecologist (let’s just say Brian Masters won’t be the definitive voice on this).

   

Based on J G Farrell’s 1978 novel, it takes place in the early 1940s. Singapore is under colonial rule, the British are about to surrender to the Japanese army, and Charles Dance is running around half-naked.

   

I never thought I’d be seeing so much of Mr Dance’s naked torso in my lifetime. Recent pictures in the press have shown him frolicking in the sea with his new Italian producer girlfriend, 20 years his junior. Now, here he is again, tending his roses as Monty Webb, who for some reason needs to be topless and in a sarong. Expect the Charles Dance Christmas calendar this year.

   

The drama is very ITV Sunday night: Downton accents, pretty women, and a bit of racism thrown in for good measure. Webb takes in Vera Chiang (the proverbial mystery, possible dodgy foreigner, played by Elizabeth Tan), when she is threatened with deportation back to China. Quite why he does this is anybody’s guess, but her first action upon arrival is to rush towards the torso. She doesn’t get much chance to do anything else, because Webb has a stroke and dies.

   

There’s the proverbial villain in the form of Joan (Georgia Blizzard), a nasty piece of work and daughter of Webb’s equally villainous business partner, Walter Blackett (David Morrissey). Webb’s son, Matthew (Luke Treadaway) now inherits daddy’s fortune, so Webb is in cahoots with his daughter to get them hitched.

   

How could it all go wrong? My guess is that Matthew will fall for Vera, which will be one in the eye for that uppity Joan. 

Downton with noodles.

   

It’s watchable enough, but gripping it is not. Not in the Singapore sense. 

Or the Dennis Nilsen sense, come to that.

   

   

   

     

MAKING UP

The smallest, and usually the most unlikely thing, can set me off.

   

Like everyone else, I am finding it tough under Covid-19 restrictions, but now with a US travel ban in place, I am finding it harder than ever. I live by myself, I have relatively few friends in New York, and, while I love my apartment, I’m finding it tough not to be able to go to the gym or enjoy my daily swim.

   

I look at properties online, fantasising about where I might buy a place. I buy things I never knew I didn’t need (yes, you read that right) from Amazon (but then isn’t that what it’s for?) and spend subsequent days sending them back when reality hits home. This week, I splashed out on cosmetics from Laura Mercier.

   

I’d been on Zoom, chatting with a friend, and commented on how lovely her skin looked. Having been a Clinique, Clarins, Estée Lauder and, more recently, a Maybelline girl (that’s what pay cuts do to you), I decided to try the Mercier foundation my friend swore by. Well, two foundations, to be precise – the matt and the luminous. And a concealer. And a powder to conceal the concealer. And a powder to hide the luminosity of my shiny nose when the blackheads decide to emerge from the camouflage of foundation. Oh, yes, and a face powder to cover it all up. And an eye shadow, because suddenly, the fifty I have in my make-up drawer suddenly all seemed the wrong colour. My friend thought I also needed a primer, but as I have three I have never used, I resisted. Still, $236 (with the 15% first time buyer discount – a bargain!) for 30 seconds’ work on the internet wasn’t bad going.

   

I went to call Mum to tell her about the new make-up I’d discovered. A beautician and hairdresser at 16 when she left school, Mum loved her cosmetics. She was always exquisitely turned out, in her clothing, hair and make-up, and she was always on the lookout for something new that might hide the increasing number of lines on her face. “Can you see any difference?” she’d ask me, having ordered the latest new miracle cream she’d seen advertised on TV (I swear she kept the shopping channels in business, and her Amazon cache was what made Jeff Bezos a billionaire. I worry for him since Mum died).

   

Of course, I cried at yet another moment realising she was not at the end of the phone; and I cried because she hated the hospital stays that put an end to her putting on the face of which she was always so proud. “Your father has never seen me without make-up,” she would say during my childhood, a sentence I chose not to explore too widely.

   

I remember the day I realised Mum was getting old. With Dad, it had been kissing him goodnight on his 60^th birthday, which would turn out to be his last. The smallness of his bones beneath his pyjamas felt as if they would snap under my hug. With Mum, it was her rouge. When I returned home on one trip from the States, she was, as ever, in full make-up, but on each cheek were two large red circles, as if she had attempted an ill-fated and abandoned attempt to mimic Norma Desmond. Then, I noticed that one of her eyebrows was shorter than the other; that she had let the dark hair on her upper lip grow; that her mascara was smudged beneath both eyes. It felt like the shock of seeing the later work of a once great artist, flawed and without merit.

   

Mum always said that the best present Dad ever gave her was an Elizabeth Arden vanity case, packed with goodies. It was probably the only present he ever got right. The Christmas he bought her the amethyst necklace and earrings that would have been fine for someone of 90, not 40, stands out; but that was a veritable festive dream compared to the year he gave her a china bird.

   

As usual, he’d bought her present just as the shops were shutting on Christmas Eve, following his office Christmas drinks. He showed me the bird when he got home and I told him she’d hate it. When the big unwrapping came around, I was praying I would be wrong. Mum’s face fell, but she looked at the monstrosity and mumbled something about the pretty colours, the shape of the bough upon which said hideous bird perched.

   

Before the turkey was in the oven, the house rang out with “WHAT MADE YOU THINK I’D WANT A BIRD? I HATE BIRDS . . . !” followed by every insult imaginable to our feathered friends. Her voice was even louder than the morning when Dad woke her at 6am to see the hot air balloons taking off for the Bristol Balloon Festival. “WHAT MADE YOU THINK I’D WANT TO BE WOKEN AT THE CRACK OF DAWN TO SEE A BUNCH OF BALLOONS?!”

   

But the Elizabeth Arden vanity case was something else. I used to love sitting on her bed as she got ready to go out dancing (my parents, brother and I were all ballroom dancers), watching the layers as they built – foundation, rouge, eye shadow, mascara and, finally, the lipstick: the seal of approval that marked a job well done.

   

I was less happy when Mum did my make-up for Old Tyme dancing competitions. When you are dragged out of bed at 6 a.m. to have your hairpiece welded on and are told off for blinking and smudging your mascara at 8 a.m., then smothered in bright red lipstick to make you look 30 years older than you actually are, little girls’ dressing-up fantasies begin to lose their appeal. Not for mothers, however. With the same enthusiasm with which Mum used to apply my lipstick, she decided to put her make-up skills to good use when her sister Audrey returned from India with a sari for me and Mum decided I should go as an Indian to the school fancy dress Christmas party.

   

Pouring water into a basin, she tipped in some powdered cocoa and mixed it with the sponge. “Chin up,” she said, lifting my face.

   

I saw the brown, dripping lump come towards me. “I don’t want it,” I protested.

   

“But you’ve got to look like an Indian.”

   

“I don’t want to.”

   

My pleas were ignored, and the cold, wet sponge continued to smother my face. I felt it trickle through my eyelashes and slip through my lips: a strong, dark taste of cocoa and the smell of chocolate. My experience with early morning mascara had taught me not to cry, but I hated the sensation of chocolate drying on my face.

   

There was not enough time for me to look in the mirror, and for that I was grateful. It would be a full 20 minutes before I got to see what a real Indian looked like, but from the moment I entered the school hall, I felt I already knew.

   

The chocolate was a mistake. If the entire Indian army had descended on the school, I could not have attracted more attention. There was an angel, face as white as a bleached rabbit; a doctor, who looked as though he had been dipped in emulsion; and three girls with white blonde hair who had chosen to come as the Beverly Sisters. I was the dirtiest girl in the class and I hated it.

   

I asked to go to the toilet and walked down the long corridor to the girls’ cloakroom, tripping on my sari as I went. Inside, I looked in the mirror at the painted face that met me there. My eyes were black holes, and my lips had disappeared into my face. Bits of my hair were stuck to the cocoa, and my teeth were too white for my head. It was not me. I felt as if someone had tilted me up, spilled me out and left me with nothing but this hideous, dark, orange shell.

   

I started to cry. Small tears at first, trickling down the side of my nose. Each drop of salt lightened the brown by one shade. Then more tears came. Quick, plopping drops that stripped the wall of cocoa in long, powerful strokes. Each one thickened and brightened the parallel lines of white made by the first tears, and I could taste the combination of cocoa and salt as it ran past my nose and into my mouth. I wiped my face with my sari, staining the apricot and unwrapping the headpiece in the process.

Now, between the patches of brown, the colour of my own skin was beginning to show through, and I could see my freckles. Slowly, I was being given back to myself. As my own whiteness returned, I stopped crying and splashed my face under the tap. The water turned brown as I watched my second face disappear in the flow. Finally, it was clear. I looked in the mirror and smiled. Apart from a patch of brown in the corner of my mouth, Cocoa the Clown had completely disappeared.

   

Today, I am thinking about Mum, make-up and cocoa. And I cry for the face that is gone.

       

HOW TO BE . . . A SURVIVOR IN AMERICA

This has not been a good week. 

I know that so many have it far worse, especially the sick and those who have not been able to be with loved ones at the end of their lives. And yes, I have work, my health and a roof over my head. But I live alone and there are days when the isolation feels unbearable.

   

It’s not just to do with being alone, though. I spend most of my life by myself and work from home; the major difficulty is the onslaught of news – or, rather, no news other than Covid-related news, or the rants of a president who cares more about self-promotion and fighting Twitter instead of the virus.

   

It’s at times like this I have to remind myself why I decided to come to the USA in 2008. It was November 4^th, the eve of my 50^th birthday and I stood in a bar, crying in front of a TV screen as I watched the news: Barack Obama, a black man, had been voted President of the United States. Tears of joy. I wanted to be part of history; to be in what seemed like a progressive country that appeared to have made steps forward in fighting its history of devastating racism.

   

Fast forward to November 8^th 2016. I am standing in Mr Biggs Bar and Grill in Hell’s Kitchen in NYC. I am watching a TV screen as the votes of each state come through. And when Hillary Clinton concedes defeat to Donald Trump, I cry again. Tears of disbelief. Of despair. I wake the next morning and my first thought is that I have awoken from a bad dream. My heart is so heavy, it has to be coaxed out of bed. I finally drag it into submission, acknowledging that whatever my personal opinions, Trump got the gig. Maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe he will be surrounded by experts and advisers who truly will, in the words of the campaign slogan, Make America Great Again.

   

Today, my body feels barely able to withhold the weight of my heart.

   

In isolation, I have to keep reminding myself of the greatness I have discovered here in spite of the president, not because of. There is a range of talent - in music, theatre, all the arts, that is truly breath-taking on a daily basis. In New York City, and in particular my area, Hell’s Kitchen, there is a sense of community that I have rarely found in one of the many countries in which I’ve lived. My seven years in Paris probably comes closest; elsewhere, loneliness has invariably been my doubles partner.

   

The beauty all around me is still apparent: the sunsets I see over the Hudson from my apartment window every night continue to fill me with wonder and remind me that the sun will rise again; the Midas touch that alights upon the glory of Central Park in the fall will soon be there.

   

And the people will come back, too. Released from incarceration, NY will come back stronger because, as the Governor of NY state Andrew Cuomo says, we are #NYTough, #NYStrong, #NYSmart; nowhere is this more true than in New York City, a place that has entered my soul; its presence there, and my feeling a part of it in the shadow of something much bigger than anything of us, is what helps me get by.

   

There is currently a level of toxicity in our lives at a time that should be uniting us; where leadership should be strong, it has been petulant and weak, ignorant and arrogant.

   

I have been reminded of King Lear and, while some believe the president does not deserve the accolade of being a Shakespearean tragic hero, to me there are many comparisons that bear examination.

   

Why do bad things happen to Lear? Because he is easily flattered and doesn’t recognise true, honest love and loyalty when he sees it. He descends into madness because of the bad things that subsequently happen to him; and then, because of his madness, he puts into action even worse things that are eventually his downfall. Lear has many flaws – arrogance, ignorance, lack of judgment, and each contributes to the other; he has narcissistic personality disorder. To me, it all sounds very familiar – although the president would probably be flattered at being compared to a king. That’s ego for you.

   

King Lear was apparently written when Shakespeare was in lockdown during the plague of 1606, when all the theatres were closed. It would be nice to think, at this time, with Broadway dark and looking unlikely to reopen anytime soon, that playwrights are busy scribbling away the next generation’s masterpieces.

   

Every time I read or hear an Obama pronouncement, it still fills me with hope. His presidency was not without its problems, but his humanity and ability to lead in times of crisis shines through - still. I miss him. Especially in a week like this one when I feel the shutters of hope in so many areas of life have come down.

   

There is an election coming up in November; I am not optimistic about the result, and the thought of another administration under this president is truly distressing. Just four words come to mind, the final ones from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness: “The horror! The horror!”

   

CNN’s Don Lemon said this week that there are two viruses in America – Covid-19 and racism, and the street riots have been labelled not protests, but an uprising.

   

This is a time of disturbing unrest and it’s not being helped by a man purporting to be a leader throwing his toys out of the pram when Twitter picks him up on peddling misinformation. His response? A threat to close them down for threatening his free speech. Does he really not see the irony?

   

And then they picked him up on his glorifying violence by threatening to send in the guns to shoot the raiders and looters protesting the tragic, unnecessary and despicable murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. 

How does this calm an already incendiary situation? Small wonder the black population of America is angry. Enough is enough.

   

I can only repeat: The horror! The horror!