Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Ready Or Not...


Now is not the time to return to blogging.  I’m just buried with paperwork right now, doing lots of good deeds vaguely associated with living in the early days of a better nation, and emphatically not sitting in an armchair eating baked beans direct from the tin and binge-watching old Countdown episodes.  My counsellor says that’s all in the past.

Nor, however, is it the time to be frogmarched to the polling booth to indulge a poisonous right-wing cabal’s power fantasies.  I mean, another bloody vote?  Bridge of Earn Village Hall will be charging us rent soon.  Including a Cooncil by-election, that’ll be eight visits to the polls since we moved back to Scotland less than four years ago.  That’s as many visits as I had in 15 years of living in Maidenhead, studiously body-swerving Theresa on the odd occasions she chose to bore her constituents to stupefaction in the High Street.

I suppose, looking back, it wasn’t the time last June for Scotland to be wheeched out of the EU as if we’d drawn the short straw on United Airlines.  Nor was it the time in November for the laughably misnamed “free” world to have a fickle tantrum-throwing six-year-old narcissist elected to its self-proclaimed leadership.  Nor, when the seemingly inevitable thermonuclear holocaust envelops us, will it be the time to be kissing my arse goodbye as the Faslane fallout floats across from Forgandenny.

So here I am, reporting for duty, feeling like it’s the first day of Primary 7 and I’m outdoors in my rugby kit, the wind whipping icy javelins of drizzle into my cheeks, dreading the moment someone throws me the ball and I get pounded so far into the turf that my atoms fuse with the earth’s crust.

I’ve been away so long it’s like a whole new induction course.  So much information to process.  Ruth Davidson and Kim Jong Un – how do you tell them apart?  Does the surname “Torrance” really mean “rivers of pish”?  Is Glenn Campbell’s resemblance to one of James Kelly’s haemorrhoids coincidental?  How long can Murdo Fraser go on telling jokes before someone laughs?  Which is worse, listening to Annie Wells or being repeatedly thwacked in the face with a wet lavvy brush?

At least there are some familiar sights and sounds.  Jackie Bird is still on the telly, so I’ve signed up for another course of hypnotherapy to stop me spray-painting “LIAR” all over the screen.  Kezia Dugdale, expertly tutored by George Foulkes in the art of irrelevance, is still getting an inordinate amount of airtime, sounding increasingly like a hearing aid on the blink.  Ditto John “Professor Branestawm” Curtice, seemingly the only life-form in the galaxy qualified to recite the bleedin’ obvious about voter intentions.  Meanwhile, Willie Rennie continues to amaze medical experts by holding down a job in front-line politics, despite having his brain replaced by a Tunnock’s teacake in 1983.

Meanwhile, there are the questions, always the damn brainless questions, fizzing with hostility, white noise searing the eardrums.  What currency will you use?  The poond? The pibroch? The Eck? The babybox?  Which way will the Queen’s head face on your stamps?  What will the forty-fifth word on page 69 of your constitution be?  What pension will my unborn grandchild be paid in 2088?  Won’t the United Nations declare you a pariah state?  How will you defend yourselves against invasion by Klingons?

And, of course, you have to smile benignly and take it, because any other reaction will be slammed as “Cybernat Abuse” and Daily Mail goons will be legally entitled to rake through your bins.  Unionist foghorns can proclaim that you’re a saboteur to be crushed, or a frothing extremist just a couple of doors along from the Nazis, and everyone from the Queen on down will purr in contented approval.  But if you dare to re-tweet something with the word “wank” in it, the faux outrage police will be all over you like chicken pox, the pillars of civilisation will cave in and the jaws of Hell will clank shut on us all.

“Here we go again, more Nat grievances,” intone the usual suspects, surreptitiously feeding copies of The National into a giant shredder. Yeah, whatever.  Personally, I think my grievances have a justification so gargantuan it possesses its own gravitational field, but I’m just a brainwashed, poorly-educated cult member, so what do I know?

Anyway, resistance may be futile, or it may turn out to be the spark that ignites the conflagration that reduces the Empire 2.0 mentality to a heap of smouldering ash, but we may as well have some fun while we’re about it.  You’ll already have noted that the ol’ sense of humour is rustier than a cheese grater left out in the rain, but stick with it and we might have a few laughs along the way.  And, even if we don’t, it’ll be more therapeutic than radio silence.

So now is not the time to return to blogging.  But there isn’t going to be any better time, so let the good times roll.

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

The Queen of Maybe


Didn’t Theresa May’s inaugural speech last week warm the cockles of your heart?  Or perhaps that was acid reflux.  Either way, it was a timely warning that, no matter what back-stabbing chaos may temporarily afflict the Tory Establishment, you can never underestimate their ability to switch effortlessly back into people-shafting mode.

Not that you’d necessarily have picked that up from Theresa’s language, which was so touchy-feely it bordered on harassment.  Taking her words at face value, you’d almost have expected her to appoint John McDonnell as Chancellor, with Florence Nightingale in charge of Health and the Dalai Lama as Home Secretary.  Who wouldn’t follow that honeyed voice to the sunlit uplands of the brave new future, pausing only for a group hug before leaping over the Brexit precipice in the sure knowledge we’d sprout life-preserving angel wings?

Of course, it’s the oldest trick in the book for incoming Tory overlords.  You might call it the “reverse Ronseal”: the art of spouting screeds of high-falutin’ blurb from your policy tin before going gleefully on to do the exact opposite.  Maggie Thatcher was an early exponent, with her St Francis of Assisi tommy-rot, which conspicuously failed to mention “Where there is industry, may we bring a wasteland” and “Where there is community, may we bring isolated pockets of despair”.  Tony Blair, the party’s most celebrated undercover agent, glad-handed his way into Downing Street to the strain of Things Can Only Get Better, which was true only for his property portfolio.  And in 2010, in a historic moment for the vampire community, the key phrase was delivered by George Osborne, whose “We’re all in this together” was a bare-faced admission of guilt dressed up as solidarity.

Now, despite the tug of my genes and life experience, I don’t wish to be a cynical old scrote.  It’s juuuust conceivable that, despite having 21 years in the first-class carriage of the gravy train, a pension scheme devised by a fairy godmother and a City high-flier hubby wheeling a monthly king’s ransom home in a barrow, Theresa truly appreciates what it’s like to struggle to get by, knock your pan in around the clock and still be only a gnat’s ba’-hair away from rent arrears.

Perhaps her thoughts on the topic are scribbled on a Post-It Note, headed Ordinary Humans - Key Features, somewhere in the depths of her paperwork.  They sure haven’t shown up anywhere in her political choices, statements and actions.  Instead, as part of the Cameron coterie, she voted, with not a jot of queasiness, for policies that brought us the Bedroom Tax, Gradgrind economics and a million extra foodbank clients.  As Home Secretary she was about as authoritarian as you can get without actually donning jackboots, and if she ever helped struggling families it was by giving them a taxi ride and police escort to the airport.

I suppose you can’t really blame Theresa and her mates for the charade.  After all, how would it sound if they chose to be honest?  “Hi, we’re Tories.  If you’re drowning, we’ll throw you a rubber ring packed with bricks.  If you’re managing to stay afloat, we’ll empty a bucket of piranha fish into the pool.  In so far as we tolerate your existence at all, it’s because it amuses us to watch our sociopathic fat-cat chums rip you off at every turn.”

But I digress.  For indy-inclined Scots, sitting transfixed with horror as the wall-to-wall coverage juddered on, the key point in the speech actually arose earlier.  Bearing in mind the UK government’s discombobulation over Scotland’s reaction to Brexit, it came as no surprise when, only three paragraphs in, Theresa tipped a bowl of cereal over our heads with her eulogy to the precious, preciousss bond that is the Union.  

Between waves of nausea we pictured David Mundell’s wee tail wagging so energetically you could dip it in paint and undercoat the shed in thirty seconds flat.  And Ruthie Tank Commander, Theresa’s principal adviser on photo-ops for Thatcher-wannabes, proudly polishing her Privy Councillor prefect’s badge and dreaming of promotion to Westminster.  And, in a dank little editing suite at Pacific Quay, the Reporting Scotland team moaning ecstatically and having to go for a lie doon.

Theresa’s preoccupation with The Constitutional Question was signalled even more blatantly a couple of days later, when she body-swerved a COBRA meeting about events in Nice to materialise on Nicola Sturgeon’s doorstep at Bute House.  She couldn’t have got there faster if those red shoes had been Ferrari roller-skates.  (I know, I shouldn’t define a female politician by her fashion choices, but, hey, we all slagged off Cameron for wearing a pig’s head as a sporran, so I’m simply being even-handed.)

All leave was cancelled at the BBC’s mistranslation department, as staff swung into action to garble Nicola’s nuanced position, keeping all options firmly on the table, into “Ah’ve got a veto, so youse English basturts are stuffed!” Andrew Marr’s Twitter hit squad surpassed themselves by pumping out one lie, repeating it in a correction, then replacing both of them with a dollop of cloth-eared speculation.  Meanwhile, Gordon Brewer’s Sunday Politics Scotland conversation with Nicola continued his one-man project of failing to comprehend anything he’s told, however simple, and blaming it on the interviewee.

The more events develop, the more obvious it becomes that, on the squeaky-sphincter spectrum, the UK Establishment has moved well beyond “Occasional Embarrassing Toot”.  The level of anger in Scotland after last night’s Trident debate, when Theresa’s mask slipped and she went full Cruella De Vil on us, should keep their intestinal gases bubbling away nicely.  And when Nicola’s finished with them, it’s a fair bet that those Establishment sphincters will be playing “Flight of the Bumble Bee” all day and all night. 

If you’re thinking of entering the dry-cleaning business, go for it!  You couldn’t have picked a better time.


Tuesday, 12 July 2016

Did I Miss Much?


So here I am, back at the keyboard, nervous as hell.  Despite an absence of (ahem ahem) months the study doesn’t look too bad, as long as you’re a fan of the “Miss Havisham” style of interior decoration, and the cobwebs do help to keep the dust in place.  A couple of squirts of Oust, and the removal with tongs of a decaying cheese sandwich morsel, and I’m ready to hit the blogging trail once again.

Who’d have imagined, when I wrote my last piece, that even the Chilcot Report would be published before I cranked out the next one?  Normally I’d defend such a hiatus by explaining how I filled it with good deeds and humanitarian work, but Tony Blair’s boak-inducing press conference has cornered the market in whey-faced narcissism.  Best simply to admit the truth: sometimes a guy just needs a break in order to clear the gunk out of his head and stop shouting “Arsehole!” at the TV every time Glenn Campbell lumbers into view.

I probably just need a strong coffee, but at this early stage in my creative rehab the challenge of topical commentary seems more daunting than ever.  Previously, I could write a blog post over a couple of days and pimp it for a week on Twitter before it started to curl at the edges and smell of pee.  Now, even if I chunter it out as if commentating on the Grand National, within half an hour all the main characters will have resigned, been knifed in the back, decided to spend more time with their drinks cabinet or been knee-capped by the Murdoch press, and nobody will remember who the hell they were.

Nothing’s been the same since, with an embarrassing squelchy sound out of one of the ropier Carry On films, I had my EU citizenship ripped away against my will.  Ever since then, we’ve all been trapped aboard a speeding handcart, with half the occupants jubilantly belting out Highway To Hell at the tops of their voices, the rest of us bricking it and nobody at the damn controls.  Oh wait, suddenly our imperial masters have seen fit to advise us that there is a driver, but it’s Theresa May, who last time I looked was the answer to the question, “Which Prime Minister will dynamite our human rights and deport that nice Polish couple who run the village shop?”

As if a rigged economic system and cringingly compliant media weren’t enough for the Tories, they currently have another ace up their expensively-tailored sleeves.  No matter how catastrophically they bugger things up, you can bet your commemorative “Controls On Immigration” mug that the Labour Party will discover an ingenious way of out-buggering them. 

Boris’s craven whimperings, Mikey Gove’s self-impaling assassination attempt, Andrea What’s-‘er-Name’s uterus fixation and the general sense of disengaged drift represented a clear open goal for Her Majesty’s Opposition. In reaction, quelle surprise, they burst the ball with one of the corner flags, tried to beat the team captain to a pulp with the other three and bared their arses in front of their supporters before heading off to set fire to the dressing room.  As English Labour members’ jaws clanked to the floor, it was an act of superhuman self-control for Scots to resist saying, “We told you so.”

The spearhead of the Parliamentary Labour Party’s mass V-sign to party members, and useful idiot of expectantly lurking darker forces, has been Angela Eagle. As Springwatch aficionados will know, an eagle is clear-sighted, decisive and deadly, but perhaps Angela’s twin sister Maria was the happy recipient of those genes.  By contrast, Angela’s campaign, at least up till yesterday, seemed to be channelling a vacillating Merseyside version of Elmer Fudd: “I’m going to get that Jeremy if he doesn’t resign, so I am, as soon as I’ve finished that big shop at Asda, and creosoted that garden fence, and those bathroom tiles aren’t going to grout themselves.”  When she finally drew herself up to her full three feet eight inches and threw down the gauntlet with a resounding pffffft, it was too late:  BBC2 had already faded her out in favour of in-house adverts, and Peston, Crick and wide-mouthed frog Kuenssberg had legged it across town to watch Andrea Thingummyjig stand down for “the good of the nation”.

All this chaos has, of course, put the spotlight firmly back on the question of Scottish independence. Nicola’s been doing some impressive shuttle diplomacy, which the agonised squeaks of the Unionist gutter press confirm has been going down a storm with her European audience.  Alyn Smith has also lit a fire amongst his fellow MEPs, a clear sign that Scotland’s stance is a zillion miles from Farage’s smirky adolescent triumphalism.  But, even from those in Brussels who wish Scotland nothing but love, kisses and eternal chocolate treats (not to mention Rajoy, who wouldn’t piss on us if we were on fire) the message is that a halfway-house arrangement won’t work, and that if we’re to be welcomed into the EU fold we need to make a distinct break from the UK.

Assuming Theresa’s jolly-hockeysticks “let’s make Brexit work” approach entails the UK activating Article 50 before the last night of the Proms, we have a really short horizon - and a gargantuan challenge - to convince the doubters.  It’s lovely to hear all the anecdotal evidence of No voters gravitating to Yes, but sorry, folks, I don’t buy it for a nanosecond.  Wizard as it is to contemplate J K Rowling crossing the divide, with 666 libel lawyers doing a screechy handbrake turn and concentrating their venom on Brian Spanner, it all sounds like the Unionist commentariat softening us up for a kick in the goolies.

There are soft No votes to be won, possibly enough to take us over the line, but it would be daft to be complacent and, anyway, we need to go much further than that.  I want to see the case for self-governance established to the satisfaction of the most sceptical voter.  Even if my 90-year-old dad, who thinks Nicola’s a wee besom, doesn’t accompany me to George Square for the next rally, I’d like him at least to be heating a pizza and pouring a sherry for me when I get back.  Can we achieve that? Hell, yes – if we do the background work and get it right!

Interesting times, as I’m sure Confucius would agree, even if he wasn’t actually the source of the phrase. And a good time to be back on the blogging scene.

See you again soon.

Honest!