Scottish Man Wakes from Coma to a Dystopian Placard Nightmare

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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.

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Fear and Loathing in Loch Lomond.

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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.

 

Good news blog! With Diane Plebbasher.

Have you heard? Of course you have! How could you have missed national good news month?!

It makes such a nice change to switch on the news and be greeted with relentless statistical optimism. Unemployment is falling, crime is falling, we are all better off, the economy is growing faster than expected…, it’s just, it’s just… so damn good I can hardly contain myself! And neither can thousands of people who have unexpectedly taken to the streets of London in spontaneous celebration of this unprecedented golden age we are all living in (as of this month).

To find out more I sent roving reporter Diane Plebbasher into the fray. Here’s what happened to her.

I can feel that feel good feeling

By Diane Plebbasher

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Picture the scene: London, the world’s gravy train. But recently, some people have been complaining that they aren’t getting enough gravy, and that they’ve had to wash down their meat and two veg with hot steaming bowls of bitter austerity juice.

It seems that everywhere you look nowadays, someone is complaining: “I can’t have that” or “I can’t have this” or “I can’t do that job because I’ve got no legs” and “Why are you taking money off me because I was once housed in a house with more rooms than people” and “I haven’t had a pay rise in three years while the cost of living has risen dramatically” and “Why should the banks have all the money and I have none?”… and other such negativity.

Studies (what I’ve done) have found that the sum mass of all this negativity has actually caused all the bad weather recently – data which I’ve passed onto the insurance companies because I think it’s only fair (it’s like setting fire to your own failing business really isn’t it? Why should we suffer higher premiums for others ability to control the weather via mass group emotional manipulation?)

So imagine my surprise when I looked out of the window from my penthouse suite in Mayfair, only to see lines of people happily marching towards parliament, singing and dancing and waving signs of joy and happiness in a union of positivity, not seen since all those sports people came over here that time and did some running and stuff (I have to admit, I didn’t go to that – I was given a few hundred complimentary tickets in the executive stands, but I couldn’t be arsed frankly. Once you’ve witnessed the death of the noble Rhino, you’ve seen it all).

When I got down to street level, I could feel the excitement in the air. It made my hair stand on end and I got so caught up in the moment I hissed like a cat and chased rats for a while. But when that was over, I went to talk to some of the jolly crowds to gauge the mood. The first such human-thing I met was of the man-folk, and was called Brian or Robert or something – I wasn’t really listening. I started by asking him what his placard said.

Diane:

What does your placard say?

Man:

Can’t you read love?

Diane:

Not the scrawls of the proletariat, no.

Man:

It says, “who put the N in cuts?”

Diane:

How charming!

Note: (I was loathed not to point out his simple spelling mistake, but I felt it best not to aggravate the great beast on his special day).                            

Man:

If you say so. Are you from the news or something?

Diane:

Some people say that I am the news!

Man:

What does that mean?

Note: (I decided it would be a fruitless affair trying to explain my metaphorical ‘tag’, or the fact that I literally manufacture news at the bequest of the highest bidder. I opted for an alternative approach.)

Diane:

Yes it does. Tell me, are you happy?

Man:

Happy? I’m furious!

Diane:

How wonderful! Go forth and celebrate! You deserve it!

After I checked my pockets for missing items I reflected on this brief encounter. How good must our government be to make a man (a real man no less) so happy that he is furious? It is a glowing exoneration of the polices of our leaders that they are able to make you, the people, so overwhelmed with joy that it actually completes the circle and comes back out the other end as pure hatred and loathing. You are so happy, you don’t even know it!

And nowadays, the streets of London, indeed the world, are alive with this warped expression of gratitude. Everywhere you look, just under the headlines about the latest ONS survey that PROVES you are happy, there are pictures of people celebrating around the world. Gaily throwing fireworks and flaming bottles at buildings, having fun with massive hosepipes in the streets, playing a good old round of ‘beat and wrestle’ and ‘lie down still and don’t ever get up again’. It’s truly wonderful!

So next time you are looking at your meat and two veg and worrying where the gravy is, just remember: it’s out there, waiting for you to find it. It’s in every headline, it’s in every feature, it’s in every speech from some warehouse just off the M25, it’s inside of us all. You don’t need actual money or jobs, or benefits, or rights or food – the happiness is right there in the numbers. To read those numbers, all you need is eyes. To hear those numbers, all you need is ears – and guess what? You have eyes and ears (well most of you). So be grateful and happy! I am, and I’m basically better than you, so I think that tells us a lot, don’t you?

Diane Plebbeater is also a regular guest on Channel 6’s ‘Get up and go to work’ morning show where she hosts features on mandatory spontaneous combustion for those out of work or less fortunate than herself. If you want to reach Diane, keep dreaming Cowboy, keep dreaming.

 

 Final word. But seriously…

Back to me (Garry). I originally wanted to write a rant this week, as I am genuinely fed up off having headlines based on statistics telling us that ‘everything’s alright again’ pushed on us almost daily. It seems we are in the season for good news from the government, but I don’t buy it.

The reason I don’t buy it is because, I’m guessing, 99% of us aren’t statisticians, and simply being told that x% is now y%, according to a survey (often contested), should not guarantee politicians headline status. Often these figures are wrong, we don’t have the expertise to scrutinise them, and any retractions or corrections are either printed weeks later (in the case of newspapers) or covered with far less prominence (on the TV and radio). And either way, even if challenges are covered in the article or feature itself, the headline strap or sound-bite is usually sufficient to seed the message into many people’s minds – far more I suspect than those who will take time to research the claims or digest the full feature.

But as I said, I didn’t feel like ranting this week at any length, I felt like writing a sarcastic parody article about cocooned reporting of issues from people in a position who are in no way affected by the difficulties facing so many vulnerable people. So that’s what I just gone done.

Thanks for reading!