I genuinely admire political activists whether I agree with them or not. Their determined and relentless jack-hammering away in the face of disingenuous, authoritarian government and a largely complacent population can only be commended. And the rise of the internet as a social communication tool has given a platform to a wider audience for those who formerly ranted in the local pub to their mates or buttonholed their neighbour over the garden fence. I should know, as while I am not possessed of the true determination and drive of the pure activist, I do know how to rant.

But as in all walks of life, there are ranters and ranters. There are, for example, many fellow members of the Witanagemot Club who put me to shame. Take Wonko. I might not agree with everything he has to say – or even, sometimes, the way that he says it – but you have to admire his determination and commitment to the causes he champions. There he is every day, whittling away, producing piece after piece virtually all directed towards righting the issues he sees as wrong. And he is not alone of course. All over the web there are thousands of people who have found their voice and found their platform and proceed with a gritty determination to criticise, publicise, denounce and explain – hoping and fighting for change.

Then there are people like me. I share many of the goals of the Wonko’s of this world – I feel the same level of injustice and contempt where it is due – but every now and then I have to turn it off to let my head heal and to repaint the wall. It is, quite simply, easy to get demoralised. And that’s especially true living in a country where democracy has died; where the politicians have completely abandoned the notion of listening or representing the people; where the mainstream media has the government in its pocket – and if not it’s merely the other way around; and where the vast majority of people don’t even appear to recognise that anything is substantially wrong. Mention to an average Englishman that his country no longer officially exists and he is more likely to laugh at such an absurd notion and remind you that we still have an English football team.

So while all sorts of scandalous statements have been made by the new ‘British’ Prime Minister and his unapologetic band of toads, I have remained silent. Perhaps because it is all being said so much better elsewhere. Perhaps to let my batteries recharge. Either way, it’s only temporary. My rage will return.

But until then I’ve been Gordon Browned into submission. I’ve also been Harriet Harmoned and EU treatied; smoking banned and politically corrected; globally warmed and John Prescotted; nearly flooded and seriously wetted; suicide bombed and Alastair Campbelled; West Lothianed and Barnett Formula’ed; George Bushed and Scooter Libbyed; photographed, numbered and ID carded. And iPhoned up to the teeth, which, if I had one, would probably be tapped.

See? Underneath this calm facade I’m still burning inside.