This has been a week in which the unelected ran amok, stomping on citizen’s rights, defaming, harassing, and helping to stoke up wars to keep us preoccupied or dead, preferably the latter. You can’t protest dead, and it eases the pressure on welfare, the health service, housing, and prisons in a single act.
Their power is awesome, and I use the word in its correct context. Their tools are the wrack and the screw. You shake your head resigned to fate, try to get to work on time, offer sympathy to friends who complain about unregulated authority, while all the while consumed by a feeling of exasperation unable to alter anything for the better. In my case it’s barely suppressed anger.
The man who listens and the men who don’t
Meanwhile, the masses remain glued to the window on the wall deciding who cooked the best cake or pulled the best face on Bake Off, or shimmied across the floor without touching it in Strictly. We Brits know our priorities.
Who but Jeremy Corbyn failed to understand getting elected as Labour leader would not make an iota of difference to the right-wing policies of Labour. His election didn’t increase the intelligence quotient of Labour’s Scottish branch, or stop my computer underlining Kezia Dugdale’s name in red as poetically ugly.
“You head back to the 1980s”, chancellor and Bullingdon Club alumni, George Osborne, told Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour party. If the Tories hate Scotland they must hate England more. Osborne remains blind to irony. His administration is racking up massive debts, cutting public services and benefits, passing anti-union laws, selling off social housing, and overseeing vast privatisation scams. Brits should instigate a ‘Transgender Thatcher of the Year’ award. Osborne will win it without genital surgery.
To the ludicrous accusation he is a “threat to national security” Corbyn countered with the sort of hopeless retort we have become used to, the one about having your opponent ‘rattled’. The Tory party is on an unstoppable neo-liberal roll. They are going to change society for the worst. Hearing Corbyn’s remark conjured up a horde of Russians entering Berlin, Hitler in his bunker saying to his generals, “We have them rattled.”
Bereft of political guile, we are told in compensation Corbyn is a good listener. What sort of man of action is a good listener? No one cares. Not even his colleagues. Anyhow, the mass of us are more interested in second-rate celebrity, or serial killers.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain
Party conference bickering failed to address the abuse from our slimy Fourth Estate harassing a Scottish MP, Michelle Thomson, until she was driven underground for safety. She might as well be a badger with tuberculosis.
Not even the guardian of liberal values, the Guardian itself, was free from denouncing the innocent until proven guilty. Forever advising its readers to think left-wing while it thinks right-wing, it intends to remain all things to all readers. On one page it headlined, “Western diet will make 1 billion obese within a decade”, and on the same page gave us recipes for large “Perfect Pies”.
Michelle Thomson is a woman equipped with a knock-out smile. It could syphon a shoal of krill. Picture editors are tearing their hair out in an effort to find a portrait of her where she is not cracking a grin wider than the Forth Bridge.
Not investigated by the police, or failed to pay parking fines, editors are forced to undermine that damn smile with columns of self-righteous cant about ‘ethics’, and ‘vulnerable’ house owners ripped off.
Sniffed out by a television hack with the excuse the public like to see the ‘human element’, the only house owner who has any gripe at all made almost 150% profit on the sale of her hitherto unwanted council house to Thomson’s firm. “The market wis bad. I wis happy tae ge’ oot.” Seven years later she’s annoyed she only made a killing.
The ‘human element’ does not include Thomson’s distress.
I predicted Thomson was a marked women some weeks back. GCHQ had her in their sights, an easy target. A business partner, a lawyer, had swung close to the wind and gotten struck off the law register. That it all happened before Thomson stood as an SNP candidate is of no matter to spooks and special branch. Who takes note of chronological order?
What they hope lingers is the thought there’s no smoke without fire.
Broadcasters are scrupulously neutral
American dissident spy, Edward Snowden, told us how the unelected and the unaccountable work. Making right-wing howls redundant, the jeers about conspiracy theories being sole province of loony lefties, he provided slap-in-the-face evidence to the contrary.
In a government memorandum Snowden shows us US assistant secretary of state, Philip J. Crowley, informed his political masters that the CBS’s investigative television programme ’60 Minutes’ had used CIA planted questions in an interview with Wikileaks hacker, Julian Assange. “Sad to see”, adds Snowden. The memo states:
“60 minutes assures me that they raised a number of questions and concerns we planted with them during the course of the interview“.
The idea our chaps never plant people or questions in BBC’s Newsnight, or Scotland 2015, or the fast ailing Question Time, is a good joke that needs no punch line. George Orwell reconfigured their activities in his dystopian novel ‘1984‘. Predictably, the Greek chorus wailed to the gods, ‘All is a secret! Snowden is a traitor’.
Anybody who seems a threat to the state gets ‘worked over’.
Politicians elected with less than 30% of the vote, elected to make our lives better, chose the all-time Hello magazine low to denounce SNP MP John Nicolson for daring to rent out his London home, (a few hundred pounds gained a year) and then paint the exterior. As he said, the non-news story ranked higher than Russia’s bombing of Syrian terrorists.
Newspaper editors alighted on the gossip with glee. None bothered to check that he had bought his house decades ago, renovated it over the years with his own money, and repainted the exterior to protect his investment. Nor did they mention the billions of tax payer money that will be spent renovating the Houses of Parliament.
You put your left foot in
The unelected took on more power to create consensus. The former head of Marks and Spencer and Tory peer, Stuart Rose, took time off from checking if his tomatoes are of identical size before he eats them to remind us why we should stay in the European Union. One assumes his campaign will be English only. Scotland is an EU adherent.
Paradoxically, his campaign took advice from Scotland’s adversaries congenitally unable to be positive, the No campaign. Rose wants to know how to avoid scare-mongering and negativity – a tacit admission of Better Together’s entire process. Duly announcing his arrival negatively, he repeated the same line tossed at Scotland’s demand for sovereignty restored. “We are taking a leap into the dark”.
His Blair McDougall, Will Straw, a straw man ready to be satirised, lifted verbatim from Better Together with only Europe substituted for the United Kingdom.
“We are stronger, safer, and better off in Europe than we would be out on our own. Leaving Europe would risk our prosperity, threaten our safety and diminish our influence in the world. During this referendum we will make the case that staying in Europe makes us stronger, while leaving is a risk we simply can’t afford to take.”
Straw has yet to warn leaving the EU will have aliens abduct our daughters, and we shall never ever be able to watch Dr Who again. He is keeping those shocks for later.
English power elite are a strange. They expect unity from us but are forever emphasising how different they are from the rest of us. Of course, by unified they mean subservient.
We look forward for more laughable ironies from the No to EU campaign.
The clunking fist having written moves on
To dwindling media attention Hapless Gordon Brown strode onto another wobbly dais to clarify the non-delivery of more powers supposedly embodied in the ‘Vow’. He punched a clenched fist into an open palm as if playing a solo version of Stone, Paper, Scissors.
Cheating the people of Scotland could “blow the UK apart”. That warning doesn’t include him. On the previous occasions he guaranteed to deliver the Vow though he had no say in it or its delivery. This time he told us it had not been delivered at all.
Like Royal Mail policy, he was not in when the postman called, so we must collect it personally from Number 10 Downing Street, London, and bring along some verification of identity; a letter addressed to “Scotland, England”, or a passport photograph of Sir William Wallace, hung, drawn and quartered.
Hapless Gordon’s increasingly frantic utterances would drive any sane person to Mills and Boon for a dose of harsh reality. I used to audition actors just like him; they kept coming back with the same audition piece as badly presented as last time.
Of swine fever and chicken licken days
We learned from a new-published biography of David Cameron that as an initiation ceremony for membership of Eton’s Bullingdon Club he put his penis in the mouth of a dead pig, an English class ritual not distant from insane soldiers who urinate into the mouths of those they have just killed.
I was reminded of a passage from the autobiography of that great movie actor and pioneer Sydney Poiter where he recounts childhood attempts to have sex with a chicken that lived under his Bahamian farmhouse, Bahamas then a British colony. In line with cricket and cold showers, bestiality is another good English pursuit exported to the empire. In Poiter’s case the chicken was feisty, fought back, pecked his peccer, escaped, and no doubt lived to confess the sordid details under oath one day. Cameron played safe with a dead animal.
Presumably the pig was not elected for the role but volunteered, told he was meeting a future prime minister for dinner, little knowing he, the pig, was dinner.