Illuminated phosphor

“…morose expressions laminated by a thin sheen of grime and sweat; hangdog mugs smeared with London…”

Charlie Brooker is, lest any doubt remain, The Man.¹

¹ Just to clarify, I don’t mean in the sense of the personification of an overbearing globalised corporate plutocracy, as in “sticking it to the Man”, or any suchlike hated authority figure. No, my aim is simply to praise his prose, and point up his point. Perhaps I should have sacrificed punchy transatlantic brevity and coolth for the sake of clarity. But, well, I hope I’ve done my best to put things right with this little footnote, albeit at the expense of brevity. It only remains for me to thank you for your patience, and wish you a good day.

Hoodwinked

No sun — no moon!
No morn — no noon
No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member —
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! —
November!
[Thomas Hood, Whimsicalities (1844), ‘No!’]

Except that it’s supposed to be August.