Oo-er missus! Apologies to anyone who’s stumbled upon this blog in the hope of finding unplucked jailbait flesh wriggling on a g-string - it's not that kind of merchandise I'm afraid. And I'm definitely not *that* kind of girl!
Nor am I to be confused with the American poet and feminist Laura King. I'm not *that* kind of girl either!
I am the British Egalitarian poet Laura King - who is neither proud nor ashamed of her 'accident of birth' or 'masculinely-challenged status' as political correctness would probably have us term it, and most certainly don't cherish any secret desire to lord it over men or undermine them in any way. Nor do I claim rights to any special treatment on account of my gender, other than the common politeness and courtesy that should be the privilege of all. This Laura King holds just as many doors open for other people as are held open for her and is glad, nay proud to do so! Not that I'm casting aspersions on how many doors the other Laura King opens for people, but I guess they're all automatic Stateside, so perhaps she is never put to the test!
No, this is intended to be a thinking everyperson's blog. The journal of a hopeful cynic. Hopeful that this seedy dumbed-down overhyped tramp of a world can only get better. Cynical that it probably won't, but let's get my pennyw'th in before we all melt down with a mini-ice cap for a last party supper hat. I need an antidote to most I read and books, as the inimitable Quentin Crisp oft said, are for writing, not reading. I suspect it's much the same with blogs, but what the hell? I can do a whole lot worse than my own company if I turn out to be my only company. Well how many people do *you* know who are an improvement on one's own company? Let me know when you run out of fingers and toes.
So why a blog? Well why not take advantage of the last bastion of free speech before they ban it, probably on some some spurious grounds involving the word 'terrorism'.
The powers that be are always terrified of those with a brain. It all harks back to 'Don't teach the peasants how to read, they might get ideas' concept and the days of yore where the only people in the village who could read were the Squire and the Vicar, the microcosms of greater Kingly authority whose job it was to control the flow of information for that parish, and thus run the village, its denizens and its surrounds - not forgetting to collect their taxes as well as tend to their souls!
And the first rule of any dictatorship is the old 'kill the intellectuals'.
Which reminds me. I wonder what my forefathers did - they say the clue is in the surname - perhaps I'm safe after all!
PS: Lest you form the impression from all the above that it's going to be a bitter and twisted rant of a blog, fear not. Well, not all of it at least! There'll be plenty of funny stories, anecdotes, ideas and jottings mixed in among the more controversial stuff, and dare I say it, hope...? I'm not a complete misanthrope, and as a seasoned performance poet, I know all too well that one has a duty to ones' audience to at least be entertaining/interesting if one is going to rant! Some poets may take the view - 'I've suffered for my art, now it's your turn!' but not this one.