Post 328: Things can only get better

Seriously, what is wrong with people? I used to think I was an ok judge of character but again I have been proved wrong. The majority of people I have met since my stroke have been good to me and not seen me as someone to take advantage of but then again there have been one or two that have badly let me down and undermined what slender faith I have in the human race. I try and devote much of this blog to the good stories and nice people but me being human and I'm assuming the several regular readers of this are human, it is sadly some of our worse experiences that stick in the mind. By the way, any non-humans reading this – I think you'd be within your rights to destroy this whole damn planet, there are one or two nice people worth saving but the human race seems to be a bitter disappointment most of the time. All together: 'We're sh*t and we know we are' etc So the reason for this glum prognosis and my augmented Misanthropy today, if you've been following this blog, my last housekeepers turned out to be the most awful *rseholes. The good news is that they are now gone but they left in a hurry, leaving the parts of the house they lived in as if squatters had been living there.

Of course it's a ridiculous thing to say but it's enough to make you believe what the Daily Mail says, I am certainly starting to mistrust anyone who speaks a foreign language in front of me when they could speak English. This is a patently ridiculous viewpoint but firsthand evidence is what makes me write it. I couldn't care less if I'm labelled racist, I just know how it has made me feel from when I was in hospital and right up to now. Yet another good Samaritan, a lady called Ruth, who happens to be a magistrate has been giving me legal advice about the CAB (Citizens Advice Bureau) action about me withholding payment from my last carers because they did the bare minimum (basically dossing for the last month) and has told me not to mention their names but I will say this, they were clearly running away from their debts after we found TWO letters from debt collection agencies with unpaid bills of over £1000 each in the mess they left. I have copied these and sent them around. I now have to phone up these agencies to stop Bailiffs taking my stuff and I anticipate the credit rating associated with this address is mud. Lucky I don't plan on ever borrowing any money. How anyone would have the balls to try and pursue me for money they didn't even earn while they owe over £2000 is beyond me. This is the 2nd time a carer has run back home from their debts and it is a worrying pattern. I don't subscribe to any religious code of ethics. Instead I subscribe to my own 'don't be a dick' version which is superior in every way and they're being dicks Even if I say it repeatedly, it's obvious how not to be a dick but it's amazing how much of the world just are. There are girls who go on about how they are 'arsehole magnets' when it comes to relationships – sadly, with some notable exceptions, it appears to be like that with me and carers, and the worst thing, it feels like it's my fault. I try as hard as I can to be gracious, to basically not be a dick but people (with the caveat there are exceptions) can't seem to stop themselves. Speaking of exceptions, I've finally managed to get to a gig this month. As gigs go January is like the Sahara desert

without any of the good bits, it's barren because concert promoters quite rightly assume that no-one has got any money and all the sensible people are on detox and going to bed boringly early so there's nothing, ok, apart from Cirque de Soleil and that's hardly pushing the envelope. So I went to see the Maccabees

at a sold out Brixton Academy on Tuesday. Now, I know more about Quantum Mechanics than I do about the Maccabees but I'd heard they were good. It might even have been Nick 'do you know who I am' Grimshaw (a classic twat)

saying something about them on TV that made me take note. It's more because I like going to live gigs by tidy bands at Brixton Academy, it's even better if I can go with a genuine enthusiast. Luckily a lad called Sam

who volunteers for a charity called Remap mentioned that the Maccabees had once showed up at a student party at his house in Bristol. Forget knowing their repertoire, that sort of knowledge'll do nicely, plus he's a new mate and he's the type of guy that seems totally trustworthy despite his passion for Drum and Bass. We have a laugh and we did have a laugh. The Maccabees are an Indie-pop outfit that are good but'll never set the world on fire, a bit like Maximo Park. They'll release another album and keep going for five years, will probably kill it at Glastonbury one year. They'll have a great time! Oh, is that the time? Blah, I'll keep soldiering away at trying to snap out of being a crap human. At least when my new carers start I have some confidence that the house'll not be a pit – that I'll be able to try and live out the next year without worrying I'll be ripped off, forgotten and basically taken advantage of. 2012 will hopefully be a turnaround year and predictions of the end of the world are hopefully exaggerated even if my view of humanity is as lofty as the public's opinion of that woman who put that cat in a bin. Despite being a miserable bastard I'm lucky to still have kind friends like the people I've just had lunch wih, the Tress family

and my fellow fool from university Guy,

who Gina and I have decided (apart from a slightly rounder chin, looks identical to how he used to

although he quite rightly misses his wife and kids who are in the states) (on the Tresses, I've known Gina since university, and she's one of the few girls in the world who can say without any irony 'I need to put some weight on' she's looking 'bang tidy' -an expression normally reserved for tv presenters, models and starlets, her charming husband Olly takes me to allsorts of gigs, their two kids, Bruno and Tallia are damn cool)'bang tidy' is one of my favourite expressions at the moment in the laddish banter I have with my trainer when discussing the merits of TV presenter Holly Willoughby

as 'This morning' tends to be on in the background of my thrice weekly 'torture' sessions. There is a definite sense I have been saved by the 'Iberian connection' of my Spanish trainer Jose and my Portuguese friend Isabel, who between the two of them are kindly covering my mornings and evenings until mid February. I'm having one of those rare episodes: 'I'm lost for words' . this proves how farcical it is to 'mistrust foreigners'. Meanwhile my Aussie weekend housekeeper maintains continuity and keeps me sane. Thankyou Bianca.