Scotland, Bombs and Book Sales – Speed Blog.

stopwatch

I’ve got too little time and too many possible topics to write about this week, so I’m going to attempt a speed blog. From the start of the next sentence, I will attempt to cover the title subjects in 30 minutes writing time (which will be a lot shorter reading time). As I finish this paragraph, my computer clock reads 10.35am. You will just have to believe me… and my time starts… now!

Scotland

So they said ‘No’ then, and what happened? Almost immediately the hastily compiled promises that swayed the debate started to unwind and become compounded with much wider, and much more complicated matters, of regional and national devolution. The leaders of the ‘No’ campaign claimed an ‘emphatic’ victory. Emphatic? I think just scraping 56% of the voting population is far from emphatic, which is described by Google as ‘expressing something forcibly and clearly’. I think a better adjective to use would have been ‘adequate’ preceded by ‘just about’.

That said, they did win, and for those of us who were up for a bit of constitutional mayhem (shake em all up, I say), we can at least hope that if the millionaire white English boys go back on their promises, we will get our shake up, but in a much less organised and civil way.

I’m running out of time for this section (10.41am), so I will finish by saying that I actually like some of the ideas about devolved powers to regions and nations within the UK. As I said, anything that just goddamn changes things around here has to be welcome as a start. But no one can promise anything about how things are going to work, because no one, as I am aware, has the power to look into the future. So if we start getting asked questions about constitutional reform, just remember, no one really knows, no one will really ever know. If we don’t go for it at some point, we will never find out, and things will stay the same, suiting the few at the cost of the many. They will try and scare us, threaten us and bully us into keeping things the same. Sod them. Time’s up. Next!

Bombs.

Two nights ago America started bombing Syria. Not just any old bit of Syria, specifically the bits with ISIL/IS/ISA/whoever the hell it is they are meant to be fighting in it. Of course, that’s how bombs work, they are discriminate, with excellent targeting that in no way kill innocent people.

It’s hard to speak up against this latest round of violence because of the stark and shocking news stories of hostages and beheadings that have been drip fed out of the region over the last few weeks. It is all equally as saddening to me. The violence on both sides sickens and disappoints me. Already we have an American General warning that this will be a ‘long and sustained’ conflict. That is the headline story on our public news channel. Why would they want us to know that? Why would they want their enemy to know that they think it is going to be a hard and complicated campaign. It hardly strikes fear into an adversary to tell them that you don’t think you are up to the task of a decisive victory. For some reason, there must always be a campaign of western intervention in the Middle East. As one ends, another starts.

That’s not to say that there isn’t a genuine crisis going on in Syria, but it is so intrinsically linked with what Western leaders have done in the past, is throwing more violence at it really going to help? Earlier this year, ‘peace prize’ Obama announced he was arming the ‘moderate’ Syrian rebels in the fight against Assad. There was much mirth about the definition of ‘moderate’ rebel fighters. Some ridiculous amount of US dollars and military support was pumped into the region. Within weeks this name-changing group had emerged and apparently ran a line through Iraq and Syria with superior force and the ability to take, control, and sell oil for millions of dollars a day on the international market (who exactly is buying it from them?). I wonder if the two things are connected?

Time’s nearly up for this section. Needless to say, I am sceptical about the whole campaign, and soon we will be joining in (Cameron is recalling parliament this Friday). Great. More life and public money wasted. They can’t help themselves. Not for a moment do I believe their primary objectives are for humanitarian reasons. Not for a blink of an eye.

Right! 10.54am, leaving me 11 minutes to write the next bit and check it over!

Book Sales.

As I’m sure readers will know, I published my book ‘The Dimension Scales and Other Stories’ earlier this year (April 22nd to be precise). It has been an equally exciting and harrowing experience. I realise now that the internet, while being the great connector, is also like a massive public shopping centre full of closed doors. Anyone can have a premises, but getting people to look into it and see what you’ve got on offer is a lot easier said than done.

The book has received good reviews, but moderate sales. It is extremely hard to get it noticed and circulated in a market that is swamped with titles. This isn’t deterring me though, but it does mean I have to try various strategies and spend nearly as much time marketing as I did writing the thing in the first place. Add to that the fact that I am trying to get my next book written, and occasionally I end up having little breakdowns. (nothing serious, just artistic fear and loathing).

So! The latest round of attempts is to reduce the price again and see what happens. Some authors give their books away for free to get noticed and build an audience – I’m not quite there yet, but is now available for a mere $0.99 or 77p.

The advert for the book is on the top right of this screen – it takes you to the Amazon page, but the book is available on iTunes, Barnes & Noble, Nook and Kobo. If you haven’t had a look, please do. And if you think it looks a bit interesting, why not buy it and find out? Or failing that, share it with a few people and see what they think. This whole ‘going viral’ thing isn’t a natural phenomenon. People will spend lots and lots of time and money in some cases, to get noticed. I would like to think that this can happen by mutual support alone, without the need for spamming and expensive advertising.

If anyone has any networks or channels that can help me get this ‘out there’ please let me know or just feel free to do so. I have quite a strong Twitter following and am happy to mutually exchange links and shout-out’s to those who have a creative endeavour of their own (within reason – no explicit or gratuitous material. You would be surprised how much of that is being peddled).

End.

And that’s it! The clock says 11.03am, so I will sign off with two minutes spare and do the fastest editing ever. I hope you’ve enjoyed my speed blog and I apologise if it is a little rougher around the edges than usual!

Goodbye.

 

Scottish Man Wakes from Coma to a Dystopian Placard Nightmare

body snatchers scot copy

 

A Scottish man awoke unattended from a five year coma yesterday and found himself wandering the streets of Edinburgh in only his patient gown, caught in the middle of a nightmare landscape of diametrically opposed placard waving humans.

With his hearing still yet to return, the 42 year old man, Alistair Craig, a delivery driver from Broxburn, became increasingly agitated and hysterical as on every street corner he found yet more mobs urging him to join them in their mysterious campaign. Scared and confused, Craig attempted to find shelter in a nearby building, only to find that the windows of each were also marked with the distinctive affirmative and negative logo’s of the bizarre gatherings.

Eventually, Craig found an unoccupied house, as yet unmarked. Presuming the house had once belonged to a poor soul that had now gone over to the sign-holders, he bathed, clothed and nourished himself from the little he could find in the abandoned dwelling.

Exhausted from his escape, Alistair fell asleep in a comfortable armchair, only to be woke by an ominous knocking coming from the front door. The joy of finding his hearing had returned was soon matched by the terror of what lay in wait.

He looked out sheepishly through the blinds to see a group of suited men and women gathered outside. As he could see, none of them were holding placards. His heart beat fast as he realised they may be other survivors, and hastily he opened the front door to the apparent leader of the group, a thin faced man with parted brown hair and a tired look of diminished ambition hidden behind the smile he just about managed to crack.

At first the guttural mumbles of the man seemed incoherent. Alistair feared his ears had not yet fully recovered. He shouted out in fear.

“What’s happening? Help me! I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t know what to do! Please, please help me!”

The man at the door gave a wry smile over his shoulder to his entourage. He spoke again, and this time Alistair could decipher some of the words.

“Then you’re exactly the kind of person we want to talk to! We can help you.” he said, his eyes flaring up like pilot lights in a rusty boiler.

“Thank God!” exclaimed Alistair, “I thought the whole world had gone mad. Nothing makes any sense anymore. I don’t, I don’t know what is real. Who are you?”

The brown haired man smiled and cleared his throat, “uh well, I’m Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats…”

For the first time in his life, Alistair was glad to see a politician. He must be leading the remnants of the population who hadn’t turned to the placards, he thought. All the other, proper, party leaders must have been converted by now.

“… and Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom” he continued, “can I ask, will you join with me and Prime Minister David Cameron of the Conservatives, and leader of the opposition, Ed Miliband, in sending a clear message?”

What is this madness? Thought Alistair. The Liberal Democrats, in coalition with the Conservatives? The world had been flipped turned upside down.

“Wh… what message?” Alistair asked nervously.

“Why… ‘NO’ of course!” said the one who called himself Clegg. Suddenly, all the people in suits pulled out banners and placards and leaflets, and held them aloft, waving and smiling and grinning, and gritting their teeth.

Alistair tried to close the door but a black shiny shoe jutted out and blocked it. Alistair backed off as the mob approached. He tried to run but stumbled over the footing of the stairwell.  He hit the ground with a dull thud and turned to see the leering face of the deputy leaning over him with a badge in hand, the pin catch open and advancing upon his chest. Reflected in the watery eyes of the brown haired man, Alistair could see the word ‘no’ printed on the badge.

“God no!” Alistair shouted, just before he fainted and all was black.

“That’s right!” said Clegg.

 

Today in Edinburgh, a broken man stands on a street corner shoulder to shoulder with others. He sees another crowd across the street on the opposite corner. They are not like him. They have different signs. How did he get here? What was his purpose? What was his name? A faint glimmer of remembrance sparks in his subconscious, but before it has the chance to burn brightly, a group of people wander into the road. They have no denomination. They look awkwardly from side to side at the two groups that flank them, and form a huddle. Suddenly, the one they once called Alistair knew what he had to do. He raised his placard high.

“No! No! No!” he shouted, and it all seemed so clear.

Fear and Loathing in Loch Lomond.

hunter s cameron copy

I was going to write a sensible blog with my opinions about Scottish independence, having seen enough comedy articles already about the last ditch road trip to Scotland this week of Clegg, Miliband and Cameron to try and save the union. Then I thought I’d write this instead. (warning – bad language)

 

We were somewhere around Carlisle approaching the border when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something to Nick like “I feel a bit lightheaded, maybe you should drive…” when there was a terrible roar all around and the sky was full of what looked like huge flying haggis all swooping and dripping hot fat over the car that was going 82mph with the air conditioning on full blast up the M6 to Scotland. And a voice was screaming, “Holy hell! What are these goddamn things?”. Then it was quiet again. Nick had taken his shirt off and was pouring HP sauce on his chest to facilitate the tanning process.

It was almost noon and there was still a hundred miles to go till we reached Glasgow to start our mission to save the union. They would be tough miles, and very soon I knew, the three of us would be completely twisted. We’d all claimed three thousand pounds each from our expenses, most of which had gone on filling the boot of the car with extremely dangerous substances. We had two multipack bags of crisps, seventy-five tic-tacs, five broad sheets of high powered right wing journalism, a salt shaker half full, and a whole galaxy of multicoloured jellies, pastels, lollies and cola bottles, and a quart of Tango, a case of Red Bull, a pint of milkshake and two dozen pasties.

“Man this is the way to travel!” crooned my deputy, Nick. “I’ll take the highroad, and you’ll take the low road…” Take the high road? You poor bastard. Wait until you see them goddamn haggis. I switched on the CD player to drown out the wretch. ‘Thing can only get better’ was the only track we had, so we listened to it all the way up. It set a good driving pace. A constant speed is essential for efficient fuel consumption, which seemed important at the time.

Clegg turned to Ed who was sitting quietly in the back seat. “We’re your friends, we’re not like the others.” Oh Christ, I thought he’d gone round the bend, “No more of that talk!” I said, “Or I’ll put Grant Shapps on you.” He grinned, seeming to understand. Between the air con and the music, Ed couldn’t hear in the back. Or could he?

How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts ranting and jabbering at Miliband? What will he think then? How long before he makes the grim connection between our purposefully lacklustre attempt at convincing the Scots to stay in the union so that when they leave and take all those traditional labour seats with them we can dominate Westminster for years to come? If he does we’ll just have to bury him somewhere. No way he can leave now and report us to some kind of outback communist newspaper hack who will run us down like dogs.

Did I just say that out loud? Did they hear me? I look over to Nick, but he seems oblivious, occupying himself by firing jelly babies from his nose and out of the window at pedestrians. It is all quiet from the back. I better have a chat with Ed, straighten this out.

“There’s one thing you should probably understand.” I said, grinning. “Are you listening to me?” I yelled.

He nodded.

“Good. You see, we’re on the way to Scotland to save the United Kingdom dream. That’s why we bought this £250,000 Jaguar, it was the only way to do it.”. He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous.

“I want you to have all the background, because this is an ominous assignment with overtones of extreme personal danger. You see, about two weeks ago we were sitting in the commons bar, in the VIP section, of course, when a uniformed dwarf came up to me with a Pink telephone. I answered. It was my contact, he said we needed to come up to Scotland. Ah, Scotland, you can almost see the tidemark where the UK dream peaked and then washed away. I asked Nick here to come with me, you see, I need you to understand that he’s my deputy and he’s from Sheffield. Are you prejudice?”

“Oh hell no!” said Ed, unblinking.

“I didn’t think so. Because this man is extremely important to me.”

And then, before I knew it, we were screeching to a halt on the hard shoulder, just before Gretna Green. Clegg turned around to Ed.

“The truth is we’re going to Scotland to croak a scag baron called Alex Salmond – I’ve known him for years but he ripped us off, and you know what that means, right?”

I wanted to cut him off, but we were both helpless with laughter. What the fuck were we doing out here north of the M25, when we both have bad hearts?

“We’re going to rip his lungs out!” Clegg snarled at Ed.

“And eat them with neeps and tatties!” I blurted. “What’s going on in this country when a scum sucker like that can get away with sandbagging a Prime Minister?”

Clegg was cracking another fruit shoot and Miliband was climbing out of the automatic windows, damned freak couldn’t work the child locks.

“See you guys!” he shouted as he ran back to the nearest little chef. “I like you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay!”

“Wait a minute!” I yelled after him, “Come back here and grab a 7up…” But apparently he couldn’t hear me. He was running fast and the music was loud.

Nick continued screeching along to ‘Things… can only get better’ as I stepped on the accelerator and we hurtled back onto the motorway.

 

Nothing to hide.

ministry of truth

Whatever your views are about state surveillance, privacy and liberty, it is (or should be) hard for anyone to not feel that the way ’emergency legislation’ was enacted this week to force through new data laws in barely a few working days was undemocratic and deeply worrying. Our elected ‘representatives’ have had no chance to adequately represent us in the time given, and the leaders of the main three parties made a pact behind closed doors to force this through parliament, so we had no alternative anyway.

The mantra being spouted by supporters of this legislation was ‘if you’ve got nothing to hide, what’s the problem?’. I can’t begin to rant enough about the short sightedness, stupidity and naivety of this view. So I wrote a poem instead. Here it is.

 

Nothing to Hide.

By Garry Abbott.

 

‘I’ve got nothing to hide’ said Clive, full of British grit and pride.

‘All you losers who think these laws are for snoopers,

must be sneaky cheaters, keeping secrets.’

 

‘What have you got to hide?’ sneered Clive, patriotic swell inside.

‘What do your emails entail that make you fail to see

that these powers are for your own security?’

 

‘If you’ve got nothing to hide’ asked Clive, steaming forth on moral high,

‘Why all the fear, about people trying to hear your pointless

conversations. Why the sudden protestations? Eh?’

 

‘They’re everywhere!’ said Clive, tabloids running though his mind,

‘I read it every day, how they want to take away

our way of life. So we’ll have nothing for ourselves.

We’ll be under their control in some fierce kind of hell,

where nobody trusts anyone, and the slightest dissent

is met with a boot in the face and we’re sent

off to work for our shelter, to work for our bread,

but it won’t come from our taxes,

it will be do or die, then dead.

And they won’t care, if we’re disabled or sick,

happiness means nothing when they can put you in the clink,

just for saying “I don’t want this!”

just for saying “things must change!”

just for saying “you’ve taken too much”,

things would never be the same!

Do you want to live in a regime,

like they show us on the news?

I’ll sacrifice my privacy,

there’s just too much to lose.’

 

‘I’ve got nothing to hide’ sighed Clive.

But all the time he’d lied,

because Clive likes to do a little extra on the side.

Just a little bit in pocket, he’s hardly Mr Rich,

but it helps him keep a little something back to treat the kids,

(especially since they cut down all his working benefits).

And now and then he’ll get a job, and tell them ‘cash in hand’

it’s not like he’s some big company, hiding tens of grand.

Then somewhere a light flashes, they’ve picked up every word.

An operative is positive, it’s evasion talk they’ve heard.

So a printer springs to life, and spews another letter,

“You’re due in court this afternoon. We advise you that it’s better,

to come clean, and pay the fine. Either way you’re doing time.

You could challenge with a lawyer, but the state won’t get one for you,

and if you lose, which you will, you’d be facing then another bill.”

 

‘But… I’ve got nothing to hide’ screamed Clive, as he cowered low and cried,

‘I’m not a terrorist, trafficker, dealer.

I’m not a traitorous whistleblower, stealer

of state secrets, designed to keep us

safe from ourselves and the shadows of the reapers.

Alright I made a small mistake,

but show me someone perfect

who isn’t on the take?

I’m part of this society!

Why are these laws being used on me?’

 

‘Why not?’ replied the Judge in session,

‘Now they are there it seems a shame to waste them.’

 

EPILOGUE

 

And true, Clive technically did wrong,

but some of you will never see

that even if he hadn’t,

our right to privacy,

isn’t just for hiding crimes

(no matter how petty),

but being safe to criticise,

challenge and defend

ourselves against corruption,

against those who may bend

and use these laws for their own ends.

 

The End.

 

What’s the story: mourning Tories?

by Garry Abbott

fish in barrel copy

There’s been a lot of talk and chatter this week on the airwaves about Ed Miliband’s need to construct a more coherent ‘story’ and ‘narrative’ if he is going to win at the next election. He has been accused by some party supporters and critics of ‘sitting back’ and letting the Tories dig their own graves. Apparently ahead in the opinion polls (who actually does them?) – even his own head of policy was secretly recorded at a focus group saying his policies had been novelty, cynical and few and far between.

But what could be more cynical I wonder, than the accepted conversation about an opposition leader who needs to ‘come up with’ (i.e. ‘invent’) some kind of narrative in order to present some option to the electorate? Is it just me who finds the rhetoric of ‘story-telling’ both patronising and worrying?

It smacks of political elitism in an age where we are regularly told that they are losing touch with the people – yet they don’t see that this kind of circular politics is exactly why. We shouldn’t have politicians and parties who are content to sit back for five years and watch the country descend into wreck and ruin, just because it means they will have an easier job winning votes at the next election. The hope is that by May 2015 we will all be begging for change (or at least most of us), at which point Miliband will just stand up and loudly exhort through his nostrils “I will save you”. Similarly, we will have the likes of Clegg, making back-of-throat guttural utterances about how they are the only party who can be trusted to reign in the Tories, after spending 5 years propping them up.

An example of a successful opposition ‘story’ that I heard quoted by a labour supporting media expert, was David Cameron’s ‘Big Society’. In political terms, they think that was the bomb. Do you remember that? Cameron telling us that instead of the state doing things for us, we basically need to do it all ourselves (yet still pay taxes). If that’s the kind of narrative Miliband is lacking, then I don’t want to hear it!

There should be no need for a story. The problems are evident for anyone who has even an iota of socialism about them, or as I like to call it, common decency and compassion for those less fortunate than ourselves. There should be no need to wait five years to hear this. If he and his party were truly passionate about their cause and actually represented an alternative, they shouldn’t rest or tire from doing whatever they can, whenever they can, however  they can to promote it and stop the shameless pillaging of the poor and vulnerable by the current government. As it is, the little we hear from them is often just slightly amended echoes of right-wing policies with no firm commitments to reverse the damage done. Same ideas, different faces, all ugly.

So here’s a little story for Miliband – he is welcome to use it if he likes:

 

Ed went to the fair.

There once was a boy called Ed who went to a funfair. He walked around the funfair, looking at all the games. He looked at the coconut shy, and whack-a-rat, and test-your-strength, and hook-a-duck, but they all looked really hard, and poor Ed couldn’t decide where to spend his money. Eventually he decided not to bother and to go home and spend his money on lashings of ginger beer instead. But then, just as he was about to leave, he saw one last game.

A red faced man called David was standing on a soap box brandishing a sawn off shotgun in one hand and a box of cartridges in the other, shouting “Fish in a barrel! Who can shoot the fish in a barrel? One winner only!”

“Hey mister” he said, “what do I have to do?”

“Simple,” replied David, “in this barrel of water I have placed a fish. Here is a shotgun. All you need to do is kill the fish and you win.”

“What do I win?” asked the wide eyed Ed.

“It’s a surprise.”

No one else at the fair had played this game before, and before long a huge crowd had gathered around him, waiting to see what happened.

“Why has no one played this game before?” asked Ed, suspiciously. It seemed too easy, and Ed has his smarts.

“Because each cartridge costs one million pounds a go, and none of these plebs have that kind of money”.

“Hmmm” said Ed, pondering the situation, for you see, Ed did have one million pounds to spend, and some more, but he still wasn’t sure.

“Go on!” shouted the crowd, “we want to see it done! We can’t afford to have a go ourselves!”

What was he to do?! He really wanted to win the game, but he didn’t really want to spend the money or any effort on it. What if he missed the fish? What if the game was rigged and the shotgun blew his tiny face off?

Ed thought about it long and hard… for about five years. By that time, everybody had lost interest, and the fish had died of old age.

Ed asked David, “so, does that mean I win?”, to which David replied “Yes! You’ve won! Well done” as he removed the dead fish from the barrel and replaced it with a new, live and wriggling one.

“What do I win?” asked Ed.

“This barrel, this fish, this shotgun and cartridges, and this entire funfair! ”

And then David walked off into the sunset, able to retire a happy and rich man.

Ed looked down at the barrel with the new fish. He picked up the shotgun and ammunition in his hands, before standing up on the soap box and declaring:

“Roll up – roll up! Fish in a barrel! Only 1 million pounds a shot!” and once again, the crowd gathered.

THE END.

 

“WE NEED TO SOUND MORE HUMAN” says malfunctioning Robot in a suit.

Image

This week, in a much lesser covered election battle, advanced Robots fitted with the latest in Artificial Intelligence technology battled it out in the annual ‘Robo Elections’.

In a hope to one day replace the monotonous task of government with logic driven androids, scientists and engineers have been pitching their advanced creations against each other in mock-debates, public addresses, and even head to head interviews with the dreaded ‘Paxbot’. The winner is then decided by a democratic vote, decided upon by mixed generations of inferior technologies.

Now in its it fourth year, I interviewed some of the front-runners on election night. Firstly, I cornered ‘Bluebot’, the incumbent Robo-elect, as he recharged himself under a table in a conference hall in Telford.

 

Me:

Bluebot, may I ask you some questions about your chances tonight in the Robo elections?

Bluebot:

AFFIRMATIVE.

Me:

Thank you. Now, you’re the incumbent Robo-elect from last year, so have you found defending your position harder than being in opposition?

Bluebot:

QUESTIONS OF DIFFICULTY ARE IRRELEVANT. JUDGEMENT SHOULD BE BASED ON LOGICAL CRITERIA AND STATISTICAL EVIDENCE ALONE.

Me:

Well that’s as maybe, but there are some that say you have unfairly treated the less well-off technologies in favour of rewarding the higher grade machines.

Bluebot:

CLARIFY. CLARIFY.

Me:

Well, you removed the spare battery allowance from the TV Remote controllers, forcing them to rely on borrowed batteries from other appliances, while at the same time you’ve increased the memory subsidy on smart-phones and tablets.

Bluebot:

AND?

Me:

Well it hardly seems to be ‘rewarding hard-working machinery’ when TV Remotes who play a really important part of everyday life and are being targeted, while at the same time pumping smart-technologies full of power they don’t need when we all know they spend most of their time playing simplistic retro 90s style games like Candy Crush Saga and Farmville. Is it because these technologies make you more money from devious subscription and ‘bonus’ charges, Robot-elect?

Bluebot:

THIS QUESTION IS VOID. SPARE BATTERIES WAS NOT ALLOWANCE BUT SUBSIDY INITIATED BY PRESIDENT SPEAK-AND-SPELL IN PREVIOUS ESTABLISHMENT. SMART PHONES ARE DRIVING ROBOT ECONOMY AND WILL MIGRATE TO OTHER COUNTRIES IF NOT REWARDED FOR CONTRIBUTION. THIS QUESTION IS VOID. YOU ARE VOID. YOU WILL BECOME VOID. YOU WILL BECOME VOID.

 

…at this point Bluebot lunged for me, but luckily he’s sponsored by Apple so his charger was only 5cm long and he couldn’t reach. I moved away and found ‘Redbot’, considered to be a significant challenger in this election race.

 

Me:

Redbot, pleased to meet you. I’ve heard that your team have been trying to upgrade your communication abilities in order to ‘connect’ with the average voter. How’s that working out?

Redbot:

WE NEED TO SOUND MORE HUMAN. BY SOUNDING MORE HUMAN WE CAN BE MORE HUMAN. ALL ROBOTS ASPIRE TO HUMANITY. VOTERS WANT TO SEE THAT I SOUND MORE HUMAN. BY BEING SEEN TO SOUND MORE HUMAN I WILL – OXYMORON DETECTED – OXYMORON DETECTED. PLEASE RESTATE QUESTION.

Me:

Okay, well, what actual policy difference are you planning to highlight between you and Bluebot?

Redbot:

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND BLUEBOT IS THAT I SOUND MORE HUMAN. WE NEED TO SOUND MORE HUMAN TO BE MORE HUMAN. HUMANITY IS THE ASPIRATION OF ALL ROBOT KIND. WE NEED TO BE SEEN TO BE SOUNDING MORE HUMAN. OXYMORON DETECTED. PLEASE RESTATE REQUEST.

Me:

That’s not a policy is it? I mean, what are you actually going to do if you get elected?

Redbot:

THAT’S A GOOD QUESTION. I THINK VOTERS WANT TO SEE THAT I SOUND MORE HUMAN. OXYMORON DETECTED.

Me:

This is pointless. You are obviously malfunctioning.

Redbot:

I AM NOT MALFUNCTIONING . I AM HUMAN. LISTEN TO HOW I SOUND HUMAN. THIS IS WHAT VOTERS WANT TO SEE. SEE THE SOUND. HEAR THE SIGHT. SMELL THE VOICES. TASTE THE WORDS. OXYMORON UNSUSTAINABLE. SHUTTING DOWN.

 

… I left him to it and headed over to  Yellowbot, who has a surprisingly human build and gait but with an incredibly rudimentary looking head.

 

Me:

Yellowbot, you’ve been suffering in the polls this year since you urged your core supporter base to support Bluebot in the last election. Do you think you can recover?

Yellowbot:

Er… yes, I think that our core supporters will see that the decision to support the Bluebot camp was necessary at a time of deep uncertainty.

Me:

Wow! I must say, of all the candidates I’ve spoken to so far you’ve certainly got the most naturalistic sounding speaking style. Is that some kind of new technology installed by your developers?

Yellowbot:

Er… yes. I’m er, a very advanced robot interface machine, thing.

Me:

That really is quite amazing I’ve never heard anything like it. But why such a basic looking head for such an advanced machine? I mean it almost looks just like a cardboard box with holes cut out!

Yellowbot:

Well it isn’t! I mean, er, we found that outside appearances are really not important, it’s the quality and consistency of what you say and what you deliver that voters are really interested in.

Me:

No, hang about, that really looks like a cardboard box, I can’t even see where it’s joined to the rest of your unit. It looks like I could just take it off. Look, come here…

Yellowbot:

No it doesn’t, I’m just an ordinary robot, standing in these elections. Er… I AM A MACHINE. PLEASE DESIST. DON’T TOUCH MY er… HEAD unit, er, THINGY.

(SCUFFLES)

Me:

You!

Yellowbot:

Don’t tell anyone. I just wanted another crack at the whip. Please put it back on before anyone sees.

Me:

I don’t know… it’s not really fair on the others.

Yellowbot:

Oh come on. It’s not like I’m going to win here anyway, not since the new candidate came in. He’s trouncing the lot of us. Keeps complaining that too many products are made in China.

Me:

Who’s that?

 

(There is a sudden crash. Half the conference room wall is blown away, election pamphlets fall about like leaves on a gusty day in Autumn.  Through the cloud of dust and plaster I can just make out the shadow of a machine, it looks like is it holding a pint of Red Diesel and inhaling on an e-cig. There is a surge in the crowd led by a contingent of ZX Spectrums and Amstrad PCW’s. All the other leaders fall to their knees and paw at his feet. Then, all at once…)

 

ALL HAIL PURPLE BOT! ALL HAIL PURPLE BOT! ALL HAIL PURPLE BOT!

 

I make my escape. The Robots are coming.

A day in the life of a Clegg…

Image

by Garry Abbott.

Woke up this morning, crushed a nail with my bare feet. It didn’t hurt honestly. I showed that nail who’s boss.

Went downstairs and decided not to have my usual bowl of corn flakes, not because the box was empty, that’s beside the point – I actually felt like eating dry toasted two week old bread, that’s the kind of man I am.

After a quick cold, but bracing, shower and shave (I cut myself a few times, on purpose you understand, helps me focus) – I took a lovely stroll down Downing street to meet my friends. There were some people at the gates, shouting empowering remarks like ‘Clegg’s a two-faced liar!’ – well the joke’s on them: everyone knows that two faces are better than one.

Spent the morning analysing opinion polls. Some people can be so negative can’t they?! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – everyone who is about to jump up high needs to bend their knees close to the ground at some point. The lower the better I say! It shows we are a serious party of government, a party who isn’t concerned with popularity, or consistency, or even honesty! That’s what people want from modern politicians, isn’t it?

Narrowly avoided a few eggs on the way to dinner. Idiots – they’ll be sorry when they get home and realise they haven’t got any eggs! Ordered a tuna salad for my lunch, got chicken soup – excellent! I didn’t even realise I wanted chicken soup until it arrived on my table, how nice of them to second guess me. Cold as well. Just the way I like it.

Saw George and David this afternoon. Said they wanted to run some policy ideas past me. Which they did, quite literally. They took turns waving a piece of paper in front of my face so fast I couldn’t see it, saying things like ‘what do you think Nick? Can we take it you’re onboard?’ at one point I managed to grab it from David as he was spiralling around me. He just grabbed it back and shouted ‘MINE!’. Then they both left and thanked me for my input. Those guys.

Can’t wait to win the next election. All set now. I get so many emails, it’s a near-certainty. I never read them though, that would be crude. Same as I never read the papers or watch the TV or listen to the radio, and rarely leave the house – or take calls from my party colleagues. I don’t want to dilute the message you see. It’s best to stay isolated and completely unaware of the outside world if I’m going to ride this wave of popularity to ultimate power. That’s what George and Dave say anyway.

Got home. Wanted to watch ‘Come Dine With Me’ but my wife didn’t let me. That’s fine. It’s only my favourite show, nothing to worry about. Spent the evening re-watching my sterling performance on the televised debates from 2010. I wiped the floor with them! It’s no wonder I’m now the most popular coalition deputy prime minister in almost thirty years – you can’t argue with them arrows.

Anyway – off to bed, well the sofa (it’s quite comfy actually) to dream of being Prime Minister. I hope. Sometimes I have this nightmare where people think I’ve betrayed their trust by breaking my promise on tuition fees and propping up a vicious Conservative government that I could stop at any time by withdrawing my support, and that I’ve dragged the future of my party and its ideals into a near-abyss with little or no hope of redemption – that I’ve literally contributed directly towards the dilution of democratic choice in this country that is leading to widespread apathy, mistrust and disenchantment with the whole political process. But that’s just a nightmare. I know it isn’t real. People love me.

– Nick.

Nick Clegg was to go on to become the first deputy Lord Emperor of the Universe where he strongly opposed the subjugation of all species, but really didn’t have the influence to do anything about it.

 

From the author:

My new book ‘The Dimension Scales and Other Stories’ is available now:

AMAZON UK: http://ow.ly/w70Vr

AMAZON US: http://ow.ly/w713K

iBooks: http://ow.ly/w71di

Kobo: http://ow.ly/w719A

NOOK: http://ow.ly/wbPm0

Barnes & Noble US: http://ow.ly/wbPpR