Estar certo é um fardo mais que um dom

Passar a vida sem perceber porque é que as pessoas não percebem a nossa maneira inequívoca de exercer a lógica, mais do uma perplexidade, é uma dolorosa maneira de perceber a ignorância dos que nos rodeiam.

No entanto, eles aí andam, errados mas acompanhados. Cheios de amigos, que talvez percebam até os erros que os adornam, mas que se ficam por perto, talvez numa masoquista insistência do voyeurismo pelo equivoco alheio.

O que é que os atrai? Escapa-me.

Quando penso que até eu cometo erros, de vez em quando vá, mas admito, mas que são pesados com a mais pesada medida e taxa, escapa-me a compreensão e mais, a condescendência com que os erros alheios parecem passar pela amigável censura.

Postos em linha, os meus erros parecem pesar o mesmo, os telhados parecem mesmo material e mesmo feitio, mas nada. Tudo parece diferente e as pessoas afastam-se dos meus erros como preferindo a companhia da lepra para um café.

O que torna os meus erros diferentes, já me perguntei tantas vezes, aparecem mimicados em filmes e livros, acontecem como contam as histórias . igualzinho.

Sei mesmo de amigos que cometem erros com amigos e os amigos se queixam desses mesmos erros de maneira vocifera quase decepcionada, pior que sei lá o quê. E depois nada, amigos como dantes.

Sou perseguido pelo julgamento do erro? Serei o único condenado neste tribunal sem sala própria pergunto eu. Porque me calha a mim exemplificar a personificação da pena pela exclusão, pela abstinência amigável.

Para! Anda para a cama e não penses mais nisso. O que é que estás a fazer? Não sejas parvo ninguém te quer mal. Dizes tu. Eu acho que não, e mais, não perceber está –me a consumir como ácido em almofadas, se dormir fosse remédio tomava assim que acordasse.

“és uma pessoa difícil de gostar” disseram-me. Então, mas gostas mesmo de pessoas que sejam fáceis de gostar? Para isso leio romances, e outras histórias que não têm muitas páginas.

Vou mudar.

Para onde?

Mexesse

Darling girl

I must ask you to believe me and I know that is no small favour. 

Trying to be direct and objective in the way I should have been earlier, might cost a lot in terms hurting, but avoiding it has cost me, and you, a lot more.

You are Silje, my Silje, the pancake (I started calling you that because you dripped like a pancake in bed, on me as well if I happened to be on the way, corny maybe but science channel accurate). I personally thieved in protecting and taking care of you because even tho I look up to you in your managing and power girl skills, I knew you needed a person to take care of you on the weekends and the occasional week night, feeding you and tucking you in bed was one mundane simple way this transpired into the physical realm. 

We had a bumpy start and we both just came out of relationships, some left more effectively than others, but we did. I took a leap of faith in wanting to be with you and taking action towards that goal, out of the shear likeness/amazement of your amazing girly self. You did too.

You knew I was seeing someone, even if it wasn't by UN official standards because of circumstances, and we still engaged in bony sex making and close kiss wrap dancing. 

We overlapped and my lack of decision making when it comes to emotional affairs, surfaced. 

I'm general Patton when it comes to leading men into battle/making, but I'm just plainly demented, insane even, by lead fumes aspiration and small island isolation, little Napoleon me, when it comes to emotional action and specially emotional decision taking. (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elba) (napoleon was isolated at Elba after his defeat and the house he lived in for 300 days had such an amount of lead on the paint that eventually drove him insane) 

None of this matters or none of this you care for right now and if you are still reading its because you skipped some lines. I have some problems, an attention deficit, women and drugs. The only problem is I don't sing or play the guitar. And, I still haven't killed myself. The only major problem is you. You, because, you are the last person I want to hurt or do any wrong to for the last 3 years. Exaggerated and corny, maybe, still true. 

Your accounts of my lying and manipulating are all true, to your understanding of things, the truth is in fact, slightly to the side. 

You shocked me. And you hooked me.

You put the fear of your wrath and worst of all, your disappointment, on me. I didn't actually do anything that would hurt you or disappoint you until I did, now. 

I would say I don't care but I do, always did. My respect for your opinion and your judgement was enough to keep me in line all this time. 

I always had my toes stiff when I listen  to your ruthless opinion on anything from scrambled eggs to Syria. I'm serious and if you don't believe me, at this point, I wish you did. 

I decided to write and tell you as I know things and I see them, you wouldn't  have anything less I think, if I'm wrong, change reading now. 

Last August I went to apply for therapy, and a substance abuse group therapy with the nhs, this meant alcohol and anything that would change your behaviour, mine I mean. 

Got a letter saying I finally had an appointment a day after the date, about the same time I got another saying had failed to show up therefore my turn had been passed on. 

I could have argued but I didn't. 

I started working somewhere else and I liked it, your ex was there. (So was mine!) 

My personal frustration with things mounted up and you were there, all sweet and you, like I always liked it. Nothing to do with you, I went on a personal rampage of destruction derby, I had passed the last 2.5 years solely seeking the attention of this pancake that lays on my bed and smells nice when I touch her. 

I had you being a daily pub goer and a full saturday sleeper for the first half of our relationship, I fed you kissed and made love to you every time you opened your eyes. I loved it and the look of you relaxed in my bed was da thing. 

I looked around and in self destructive way, started to blame everything for my personal failures. I know I can be so much more, I know I could write the feelings of this lost generation born on the same small hood I was born too. I want to. The guidance is missing and I'm a shit pilot without a map. You are lost to, but unlike our travelling around where I'm the amazing driver and you the awesome co pilot, this journey I could not navigate. 

The reason I'm speaking solely about myself is because I am, like you so cleverly pointed out, a narcissistic cunt. I know you were anxious about things, about personal development and achievement, but apart from the obvious solutions I could point out, I had no escape plan. 

It's dawning on me that life is not so long. It is dawning on me a lot of things. One things was that I couldn't make it work for you. True that, my blonde warrior. Insecurity and whatever else Freud or the guy in rehab would call it. That was it. 

Like I told you when we talked, I wish things were different, I wish I had said something sooner. Repetitive and uneventful, still true today.

I wasn't having an affair and I wasn't overlapping into another relationship. It happened and it killed me when it did, despite what you might think. I wanted to stop our relationship before and i couldn't find the way to do it. then you started this job that was consuming you and I saw it, I couldn't have that conversation at that time. I promised myself I was going to do it as soon as you got out of it. I didn't plan or want any of this the way it unfolded. 

I love being with you and doing things with you, but I fell out of love. I still care for you with all my hearth and I worry and I want you happy. I just didn't know how to tell you this, how do you hurt the person you care so much for? 

I was hoping you said something to trigger the conversation but still I knew my point was going beyond your expectations. I knew it would wobble you, I honestly didn't expect your reaction as it happened. 

We were together but we had been apart for a couple of months now. I honestly wasn't expecting anything like it. I was expecting it a couple of months ago, I feared it and dreaded to think what you would do, not now, not like things were. But to see you crying on my pillow, after destroying the kitchen and hurting yourself, was at that time, completely unexpected. 

The sight of your crying next to me was cutting, I don't know how to say how sorry I am in every language on the planet. 

You said you didn't want me to talk to you. It's fair, but we spent amazing time together and like you said, you have to make things happen because I was your life, well, you were my life too, the person I call and the person I care for and caring takes your empty spaces away. 

We are an amazing team and I think at some point we should be, please don't disagree on me on this one because as it may sound stoopid and silly now, I hope you know it's true. 

The same way you fall for someone you sometimes fall out. It's shit, but this is as honest as I can be. 

I'm imeasurably sorry for the way I (didn't) handle things, but don't imagine things where there were no things to imagine. I was solely yours for the journey. 

There are no beautiful breakups like there is no way of thinking of the good things that put those people together in the first place in a breakup. 

I honestly, from the bottom of my hearth and all my more gory entrails, and crying like fucking Niagara in a reasonably crowded pub, that we can make up sooner than later, because I miss you like a flea misses his dog. 

All my love like always 

R

Sent from my iPad

O meu pai, impecável pessoa que já vive há algum tempo, perguntou-me aqui há algum tempo, se eu estava a tomar conta da minha reforma. A pergunta apanhou-me de surpresa como uma constipação que já se sabe aí vem, claro que já andava a "chocar" uma pergunta dessas,mas só quando aparece a febre é que se pensa nisso a sério. Improvisando uma resposta que já tinha ensaiado tantas vezes no banho só para mim disse: sou freelancer, esses mimos não são para pessoas que trabalham randomly por conta própria - no fundo no fundo, por conta D'outrem mas entregues aos seus próprios dispositivos.

O meu pai, a quem isso diz pouco, repetiu a pergunta como se eu estivesse na minha primeira aula de filosofia a inventar uma resposta para a definição de "senso comum". A verdade, como foi nessa primeira aula, é que eu não fazia a mínima ideia do que responder adequadamente, quando a única coisa que eu podia dizer honestamente seria: não sei. 

Como se eu fosse o seu único aluno nesse fatídico dia que resolveu aparecer na sala, o meu pai insistiu, e eu precisei, por ambos, elaborar o meu raciocínio. 

Comecei pelo princípio, contando que quando ainda estava em Portugal a trabalhar nos tempos universitários, a recibos verdes como muitos - obrigado dr. soares, a segurança social ou taxa social única, mais o IRS, tornavam trabalhar, quase senão apenas, uma despesa mais do que qualquer outra coisa. Havia um mínimo mensal de segurança social para quem estivesse inscrito que era muitas vezes tanto ou pelo menos metade do que se recebia. Juntando o IRS de quem só a Igreja, e quem pode pagar, escapa, seria melhor que tivesse ficado quieto. 

7 ou 8 anos disto, biscates durante a universidade e primeiros trabalhos no universo da cultura, não me fizeram nunca parar a pensar que um dia talvez não me pudesse mexer para trabalhar, mas ainda estivesse vivo para pagar contas, porque nunca parecia sobrar dinheiro para esses delírios. 

Saí de Portugal sem pensar muito, na 2a geração contemporânea de portugueses a vir para Londres em 2007, quando ainda não havia portugueses em hackney que se vissem. Tive uma bolsa privada inglesa - obrigado Gulbenkian mas fica pra próxima, o que me permitiu não pedir um empréstimo para estudar, e portanto não ficar anos endividado. Os meus amigos em Lisboa por esta altura contraiam empréstimos para comprar carros novos porque mesmo a ganhar miseravelmente, a casa dos pais tem uma renda barata, pensão completa com roupa de cama incluída. 

Não tenho dívidas, o que seria de pensar, é uma coisa positiva, tirando que não é, os bancos gostam de pessoas que devam dinheiro, para lhes emprestarem mais dinheiro. O meu pai entretanto aborrecia-se com os meus méritos baratos. 

O meu primeiro cheque (literalmente) quando comecei a trabalhar em Londres, foi de £3257.50. Eu, que estava habituado a viver com pouco mais de £700 mês da bolsa, pensei que era rico, e como todos os novos ricos, esbanjei em álcool, mulheres, jogo, drogas e rockn'roll. Foi assim nos próximos meses, estava pela primeira vez em muito tempo, a gozar poder fazer o que me apetecia. Devo notar que para para ganhar esse primeiro cheque trabalhei 271 horas em 4 semanas, work hard play hard. 

O meu pai, senhor de uma lógica difícil de abater, disse no seu tom paternalista que a posição lhe aufere, que eu tinha chegado, na melhor das hipóteses -palavras suas, à metade da minha vida, e que daqui para a frente, seria sempre a descer mesmo que eu dissesse para mim que estava num plateau. Tinha eu acabado de fazer 35 anos, o pai estava a fazer de antropólogo intervencionista. 

Desde que presto atenção ao que o meu pai me diz, tinha eu acabado de nascer, que oiço o meu pai dizer que talvez vá ficar sem trabalho "que não sabia como ia ser". Normalmente este discurso vinha depois do PSD ganhar as eleições e os cortes no estado serem noticia. O meu pai, como muita gente da geração nascida em 50, cresceu a ser chateado pelo seu cabelo comprido e gostos musicais, foi para a guerra e voltou, arranjou um trabalho na máquina estatal e com altos e baixos lá tem estado, chateado nestes dias porque acha que vai bater a bota na sua secretaria por causa dos contínuos avanços da idade de reforma. 

Passados 8 anos em Inglaterra, continuo sem pensar em reforma, porque para pensar em reforma tenho de trabalhar e pouco mais, "vítima" assumida que sou, de tudo à minha volta que me estimula. Acho que devo estar sozinho neste sentimento, falo em modo de desabafo e não quero mesmo palmadinhas nas costas, obrigado na mesma. 

"Não percas tempo" dizia-me alguém outro dia num género Paulo Coelho. "O que quer isso dizer?", perguntei para mim enquanto abanava a cabeça naquele movimento afirmativo tentando tranquilizar a minha interlocutora. 

Reforma: não sei. 

The words "household waste" on the bin across the room talk to me about my faraway hometown, my bare back agains this blue chair slaps me back to homerton hospital.

The chubby face of the guy that ran me and my bike over comes to mind.. like Rocky, I want to run in the park till I'm so fit I can slap him away next time we meet.. I still want to meet him again, I still want to be Rocky. 

The angel of relative things sets on my left shoulder, whispers in my ear about his favourite subject: relativity. He tells me how on the night I had my cycling accident episode, just up the road, a guy exactly my age died when one of two cars racing hit him. Next day the police caught the driver but the spaniard was dead. The police would never catch the guy that knocked me off because I lived, didn't make a headline, didn't have an ambulance and paid for my cab home. 

I know he's right but I still wan to be Rocky.. And I want to do it for the other guy too, the dead one, but mainly for myself. Now, I don't really know if this guy was Spanish, because apart from his age the victim was never identified, I just always felt he was, go figure. 

My cock twitches to the right after the first blast of sound. I must say I didn't remember this being so noisy. I had an MRI before when I first bust my knee playing football in college, top scorer I was back then, haven't played since. 

After the little waiting room where I reminisced about my home town, semi naked wearing nothing but my new leather converse and a gown, I was rested in a bed. nice plastic covers hide all of the heavy machinery, something serious is going to happen inside, and as I'm about to be remembered, something very loud. The look of the chamber reassures me time travel is just around the corner, we definitely have the shape, we just miss the technology.

The operational tells me the drill before sending me inside the big time washing machine, I mention that joke from one of my favourite stand up proffets, the one about the Xray technician that tells people everything is going to be fine before sitting behind a radiation/blast proof concrete wall while someone is naked facing radiation, but he misses the point, routine does that I guess. 

I slip inside not wearing my shiny converse anymore , only the gown.  Last minute I have two presents: a furry headphone set with a sturdy cable attached to it, more or less the style of things spaceship crews would wear in 50's films, flying through space with incredible technology and still waiting for those wireless headphones. I hoped  they were blasting sea sounds and children laughing but nothing. Another corded device is placed on my right hand, a switch that makes everything stop, if I had a question mid way the exam or if I felt my body dematerialising "please push button immediately". This guy actually thought that if I felt my atoms move and relocate into another dimension I would ask them to stop.

My cock twitches again, like a little worm on the first light, somehow that thought felt preferable to the idea of magnetic waves hitting my genitalia to the point it moved.

I look up and my name is above me, the machine needs to be reminded that I am inside and she also knows my weight. I've been introduced in many ways but "this is Rui, he's 73kg", felt new and pleasantly flattering.

The noise is alien and the nice futuristic plastic covers are looking less and less reassuring. A lot is going on inside all that whiteness and for a moment my mind sees these moving parts, working and moving at incredible speed colliding with each other spraying caos and noise on a council scale. 

I see a section of the plastic bulge on impact,my body is trapped inside the heaven like tunnel only my head peers out, my analyst has gone rogue I think, just like a Woddy Allen film I think, plus the noise and the violence. A huge hole appears 2 feet away from my head, I'm not sure how long 2 feet actually is but it feels more accurate than "less than a meter away", I can't see what came out of it but even through the furry headphones I can hear it crash into something structural behind me, shortly followed by someone shouting "Matt Matt! Oh my god Matt". Another whole and the shouting ceases. The tunnel light is still on and the vibration has passed fetish levels, the noise has become wild and the metal inside, always the metal hidden under nice plastic, is loose and blasting. How thick is the cotton thread count on my hospital gown, comes to mind, and, if only I had my new shinny converse. This idea has haunted me before, being caught barefoot in a cataclysmic event - I can have a go at surviving without underwear, but shoes... Now there are wholes on the concrete sceilling, I still can't see what is coming out of the machine in a spiral demolition, just the wholes it makes  and the way it sounds like when it hits something, like when it hit Matt.

The shouting and screaming are now distant but definitely more and more varied, this shit is real. I remain inside the machine, my converse somewhere close to my crutches next door except, there is nothing but dust and debris that way. They are leather converse I think to myself "maybe they made it" - a flash of this Getty images dreamlike image of carbonised upside down cows in a field reminds me leather does burn. 

This is a hospital, what better place for something to go wrong. All the moving parts of this MRI unit are going somewhere else, forever free they are spreading the usual caos fast heavy moving machinery makes when it fucks up.

My survival instinct wiggles my toes, then my feet, and I would like to say, my cock, except somewhere in my brain the autonomous decision of ignoring it was taken and I wasn't consulted. That one would have been of very little use at the time so was left out I thought, luckily sometimes your brain is like a franchise of your soul that just says "fuck it, I have control". Good. My weight is still showing on the screen, I'm still inside the machine, what's left of it, and it's only a question of time before everything collapses on me. I must leave. 

Shortly after my accident (the cycling accident that got me to this hospital I mean, I've been told I'm accident prone so i need to specify) I remember thinking how impractical it would be if apocalypse happened before I fixed my leg, I followed anxiously all international crisis and reahsed looking at Central London from my window, past the building across the street,  seeing the typical mushroom cloud from a portable nuclear device someone had detonated on the tube and thinking "fucking shit hit the big fan and you're a dumb ass on crutches". "Positive thoughts" mum always said. 

The dust tastes like liking something you'd find on a top shelf - anytime you feel inclined to lick a forgotten top shelf like most people -  the noise is becoming defending and, if my cinematic education doesn't fail me, coming to a drastic end. By now the disorder around me has reached urban replanning proportions and I can see stars from the massive wholes above me.  An arm still holding another smaller arm drops on my forehead from one of the floors above. I move. 

Some of my sexual fantasies come to mind for some weird reason.. Anal sex was never a predicament or sometnigh of an enciting nature but, now, it sounds amazing. I would trade my best/worst anal sex fantasies for this now. Mind you my worst sexual fantasies about anal sex revolve around a girl asking me to explore her anal self, it just kills the jam, my jam at least. I have this Catholic upbringing where the girl has to have vaginal climax and ask you, politely in whatever sexual lingo she might speak, to come, while she's at it with all her energy and facial mimic. my grandmothe never tough me about anal sex, she did on the other hand, tell me all about cleaning you sin sheet and protecting yourself with a little in bed prayer. Since the age of 12 I thought making myself come thinking of another human of my choice of desire, was a far better way to fall into the lord's graceful sleep. I've been doing it ever since. My left arm is far bigger than my right arm. 

I like headaches. Laying in bed pumped up on paracetamol listening to the rain hitting down on people's raincoats like Jesus ordered an aqua strike, makes me all fuzzy inside and really happy. 

Theeth pain on the other hand reminds you the world can be a cruel dark place where pain and terminal discomfort are the plat du jour for millions of people, including you. 

Normal headaches are a pain but they are like a little cuddle from the universe asking you to slow down, close your eyes and take it easy. Usually, apart from those migraines that feel like road works between your ears, if you just lay down and keep really really still, the pain fades till you can fall asleep in that incomparable ill sleep of the ones that had to call in sick. 

Thoth ache feels like suicide might just do it. 

How often do you have a flu (even man flu), "feel horrible","dying" even, and seriously consider calling all those people you think might have and sell you a gun? A big enough gun to make sure one shot in the mouth (down-up obviously, making sure you hit that tooth on the way so you get that fraction of a second relief before you redecorate your room in Scandinavian brain/blood pattern. 

I like thinking that the last thing I see when my aired skull hits the floor would be that fucking tooth, all it's malice and evil drained and hostless, creeping down the wall with all the other theeth's judging looks sliming down at the same speed. 

Love and paracetamol can cure a headache, good linens and a nice film go a long way and your loved one's eyes a gentle touch makes everything almost holiday perfect. 

"Don't come close to me, I have a germs" "oh come here, I love your silly germs" "ohh, I'm dying" "oh no you're not, want more cake?"

You're not likely to hear that from a soon to be toothless person, people tend to keep a safe distance from tooth aching individuals, not because they fear it might be contagious, but because they know by the blood shot eyes and the incoherent sounds, human sacrifice is one of the things that pain riddled once-loving-church-going humans can seriously consider. 

Hey, if paracetamol is all you have and morphine is nowhere to be found, maybe holding your lover's still warm liver to the moon (in the middle of the night/afternoon who cares) might just be worth a shot. I read somewhere the gods love children best. 

Then there are dentists. Godless orphans that knew no love and found a way to profit from pain. We put arms dealers in jail and let these people walk the streets and breeth on your face. It's god's will apparently.

A situação em que me encontro já terá certamente acontecido a um pequeno país perdido do lado menos agradável do equador.. 

sem receitas, corto na despesa o mais que se pode, o problema é que existir dá uma despesa continua. 

Inversão de marcha

Inversão de marcha

A questão da inversão de marcha e o liberalismo dialéctico.

Tenho para mim que a diferença essencial entre Portugal e o Reino Unido se pode afunilar na questão da manobra de inversão de marcha.

Certamente já grande parte da maioria (pouco mais de metade portanto) dos portugueses, já viu, ou pelo menos viu fotografias das férias dos amigos no facebook, ou viu videos no youtube, com cenas de trânsito no Oriente ou no Hemisfério Sul, onde reina a criatividade e sentido práctico rodoviários. 

Qualquer pessoa que veja estes documentos diários da condição Humana reconhece imediatamente o que é por definição, a liberdade individual.

Em Portugal, o sentido de humor da Brigada de Trânsito, mais ainda que a própria lei, não permite devaneios rodoviário’ liberais.  

 Eu cresci em Portugal nos anos 80, e lembro-me do terror de ir de férias pelos IP’s do nosso país sabendo que a BT andava (e anda) escondida por detrás de um arbusto ou esquina qualquer com a sua “pistola radar”.

Um individuo na Rússia que tem de ir de A para B de motocicleta, com um frigorífico e três filhos, não tem de perder tempo com estas considerações legais, e logo tem mais tempo mental para si e para os seus.

Um exemplar pai de família português vai a suar frio até ao Algarve porque a sogra sempre veio e a criança tem de ir ao colo da tia lá atrás.

A Grã Bretanha está algures no meio disto, se a Rússia ou a Guiné Equatorial pecam por deficit de democracia administrativa, confiam no bom senso dos seus cidadãos, e na sorte porque não, para o melhor fluxo da sua sociedade rodoviária. A questão aqui é que a Rússia ou a Guiné Equatorial nunca foram democracias, o Reino Unido é em essência uma democracia liberal e Portugal não sei. 

No Portugal urbano, a manobra de inversão de marcha é normalmente  acompanhada por um familiar diálogo/monólogo, mais ou menos obsceno, quase sempre irritado: Merda, era ali!

Isto porque, qualquer que seja a solução, não vai ser simples. Virar à esquerda, novamente à esquerda, dois quarteirões para trás, esquerda, e esquerda outra vez. Se juntarmos o fatalismo nacional, a primeira à esquerda é sentido proibido, acrescentando mais uns quarteirões à inicial fórmula, mais obscenidades e tensão alta.

    

Em Inglaterra, na Rússia e na Guiné Equatorial, a inversão de marcha acontece se tem de acontecer, onde tem de acontecer. Não se gasta tempo e gasolina a dar meia volta à cidade porque isso não beneficia ninguém nem o ambiente. São raros os traços contínuos e são raros os acidentes causados por excesso de inversão de marcha.

O senso comum nacional não se dá ao luxo do civismo, vai haver gente que passa à frente de outros pacientes em fila; outros que dão a volta porque genuinamente se enganaram; outros ,únicos, desculpáveis porque têm matricula estrangeira. Quando um desses espertos atropela aquele traço contínuo, o pai que até estava a ouvir o que a filha dizia no banco de trás, tem um episódio de nervos e convulsões abafando o que a participativa criança contava, com buzinadelas e referências menos afectivas. A criança, rapidamente aprende uma valiosa lição e uma série de palavras novas, meio caminho para tirar a carta. 

Como dizia Miguel Sousa Tavares, Portugal está em guerra civil nas estradas. O policiamento que impomos aos outros no trânsito, e mais ainda, o sofrimento, porque estamos em permanente tensão para não deixar ninguém ser mais esperto que os outros, obrigam a que as nossas estradas sejam altamente condicionadas e menos prácticas, porque nós simplesmente não nos sabemos comportar. Se a nossa indignação, e sobretudo energia, fosse canalizada para o Bem, não deixávamos passar as barbaridades a que somos sujeitos por centenas de incompetentes que nos dirigem, esses sim, merecem a ira e a buzina, o tomate e a guilhotina. 

Há em Inglaterra a mesma impaciência que há em Portugal, mas há outra coisa que é o sentido de fluência e iniciativa pragmática que se sobrepõe. A irritação raramente passa do obsceno murmúrio para a buzinadela. Os condutores não ganham úlceras e a vida continua. 

Eu responsabilizo directamente a mediocridade da classe política portuguesa pelas mortes na estrada, pelos acidentes, pelos "toques", pelo preço dos seguros, pelas crianças que crescem a achar que é normal guiar assim. As pessoas não andam bem, aquilo tem de sair por algum lado, o povo era sereno porque andava a pé ou de burro, agora tem tudo carro, não podemos bater nuns, batemos uns nos outros. 

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