When did all this shouting begin and will it ever end?

THE man wonders when it was that he began swearing at the radio. He thinks it might have been that day the country split and everyone started that argument they haven’t managed to resolve yet.

Did he used to swear at the radio before this? That seems quite possible. Maybe there is just more to feel cross about nowadays. Or maybe it is the news being stuck on repeat that makes him irritable.

The man who swears at the radio wonders if other people swear at the radio, too. Perhaps men and woman around the country join him in an unheard chorus of endless disgruntlement. Perhaps all those swearing people also shout at the television and go red in the face over their social media feeds. There is certainly a lot to splutter and shout about in this spluttery, shouty age.

The man who shouts at the radio has just made toast and coffee for a guest, and he took the precaution of not turning on the radio, as shouting at the radio when a stranger is trying to have breakfast is not a good look. Instead he made pleasant Airbnb small-talk.

Perhaps, he thinks, wondering about the intemperate nature of life today, we’d all rub along better if that’s all we did, made small talk and talked small, instead of shouting big.

Perhaps the difficulty lies in all the things they are to shout at nowadays, the sheer shout-ability of life, the unending vista of shout-worthy things.

Just this morning the divisive man with the orange face and the fly-away hair, the hair that’s almost flown away, has been defending Saudi Arabia over that inconvenient journalist they had killed in their consulate in Turkey.

The orange-faced one thinks that the horribly murdered journalist was an “enemy of the state” anyway, and that’s because he thinks all journalists are the enemy of the state, or at least the enemy of him.

Because he wants to be friends with the country that killed and dismembered a journalist, because he wants to sell them lots of arms, because the country that killed and dismembered a journalist is awash with oil and money, the man of orange hue has decided there is only one answer to all this: shrug and carry on.

The man with the bad Twitter habit, and haven’t we all got one of those, ignored his experts in the CIA, who told him that there was something fishy going on, and said there was “nothing definitive” linking his friend the Saudi Crown Prince to the killing – you know, the man called “beyond toxic” by a leading member of his own Republican party.

Anyway, the man who shouts at the radio takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. All this shouting can’t be a good thing, can it, he wonders. Perhaps one day soon that thing we can’t agree on will be settled to everyone’s satisfaction, he tells himself, while worrying that he is spinning a lie within his own skull.

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