LETTER TO AMERICA……..with apologies to The Proclaimers





The film ‘Conspiracy Theory’ in which a poor hapless taxi driver was abused by a sinister government while everyone mocked and jeered was made in 1997


The James Bond film ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, the story of a crazy, psychopathic media mogul and his attempts to control the world and engineer events to feed his own warped ideology was also made in 1997


Tony Blair became Prime Minister in 1997.



This year is the 250th Anniversary of the introduction in USA of the Stamp Act and the Sugar Act.

Isn’t life full of strange coincidences?



‘Psychopathic indicators include self esteem being derived from personal gain, power and pleasure, lack of concern for feelings, needs and suffering of others and a tendency to exploit, deceive and coerce.’


Preface to Psychopathic Cultures and Toxic Empires, a brilliant but chilling book by Will Black. (1)




Dear Uncle Sam,


It’s really hard for me to write this. No honestly it is.


As you are very well aware, although I’m small, I like to consider myself as very proud and, don’t laugh, independent. As you’ve pinpointed in the past, I can be very stubborn and pig- headed as well.


Anyway, I guess I’d better ‘cut to the chase’ as they say in your country


Before I start though uncle, please believe me when I say that this time I’m not looking for financial assistance, nor am I seeking any of your ‘muscle backup’ this time. HONEST


No, this time it’s a relatively small favour I’m asking. I’ll come back to that later though if that’s OK with you?

It’s actually my partner Westminster again uncle.


Yeah you’re right, he still hasn’t changed the name, I tried to get him to change it to Wes but without success. I guess he thinks Westminster sounds posh.


Mind you, I’ve no room to talk. I’ve never forgiven my folks for naming me Holyrood, even though I’ve now shortened it myself.


Sorry, I’m waffling again.



Yes I know uncle, so many people tried to warn me about Wes. They tried to tell me he was a cruel, selfish bully. I’m only sorry it took so long for me to see it.


As you’re aware though, I did try and divorce him last year.


God, what a time that was.


Even though I wrote a letter to my children



the whole thing tore my family apart.


At the start of the proceedings, uncle, very few people could see the picture I wanted to portray. They refused to believe Wes could and would do anything bad. So many of my family simply buried their collective heads in the sand and figuratively planted their fingers in their ears and chorused “I’m not listening. I’m not listening”.


Then, gradually, more and more of the extended family grew to realise what was happening. Ever so slowly, the truth began to dawn.


Then my beloved Westminster took matters to a whole new level.


Yes Uncle Sam, he enlisted the help of all his hangers-on. The bankers, the neoliberal business tycoons, even some media celebrities believe it or not. The ones he had been supplying with oodles and oodles of cash that could have been spent, not only on my family’s health, welfare and education but also on improving the quality of life of his own extended family.


Yep, he got them to lie and besmirch me and many of my kin. One minute he’d get his cronies in the Daily Fear, the Daily Sneer and the Daily Smear to insist that we were evil and trying to tear the family apart for my own selfish interest, then he would tell all and sundry that I was too wee, too poor and too stupid to survive on my own.


Yes uncle, I know now it was typical ‘domestic abuser’ modus operandi.


Then you can guess what came next. Yep, you’ve got it in one. The good old bribery.


It wasn’t the usual flowers, chocolates or holidays in the sun though. Oh dear me no


This time it was, if you stay, I’ll give you some more money for your health etc. etc. I promise I’ll even give you some of the independence you say you need.


You know what I’m on about don’t you uncle?


You must remember all those years ago he tried the same old con trick on you.

Remember the Stamp and the Sugar Acts? Then when you rebelled and threatened to leave him, how quickly he changed his mind and repealed them.


I guess it’s just what he does. He can’t help himself. Just like the scorpion and the frog.


And then to beg and plead with all the journalists, TV folk and politicians to join forces to belittle me. Well what can I say? It was desperate and degrading beyond belief.

Yes uncle, I can virtually hear your argument. I can imagine you saying you’ve got almost identical issues over there.


It’s not quite the same though.


Try and imagine if you can, Fox and News Corp controlling every single media outlet in your country and producing exactly the same propaganda to your people.


Imagine the New York Times printing two separate editions, one for Republican Texas and a completely separate contradictory one for Democrat Hawaii. That’s exactly what’s going on over here.


Yep every single media journalist and broadcaster amalgamated and joined in the denigration.


Now journalists I can understand. Real journalists after all, interview people and present a balanced analysis. Instead, there is as there has always been, a school of journalism which expresses the opinions and desired outcomes of media owners and their own masters.


I mean you have to adapt to survive haven’t you.


But, and it’s a big but, even Auntie Beeb joined in the lies and smears.


Yes uncle, I can virtually hear your cries of disbelief and outrage from here. “Not Auntie Beeb. She’s been a beacon of light and a vessel of truth for countless people for years and years”.


Well I’m sorry to have to burst your bubble dear uncle but your beloved Auntie Beeb joined in the lies and smears with gusto.



The members of my family who knew the truth did what we always do in times of adversity.


We laughed.


We laughed at Wes’s increasingly desperate and pathetic attempts at convincing all and sundry of the need to stay ‘united’.


We laughed as sundry prophets of doom provided the bitter part of the pudding.


We laughed as a certain reddish haired individual provided the ginger ingredient.


And we virtually wet ourselves with laughter when certain politicians provided the cream of the Eton Mess – you know, the thick stuff that sits at the top.


To deliberately misquote one of your own favourite sayings uncle:-


“When the people fear the government we have tyranny

When the government fear the people we have comedy”


Alas, to my shame, I let enough people convince me.


I listened to the false prophets and decided, reluctantly, to give good old Wes one more chance.




The very next day, a mob of his supporters rampaged amongst my kin, a kicking and a punching and a spitting and abusing my young folk.


I knew immediately I’d made another big, BIG mistake but by then it was too late.


And how did your favourite Auntie Beeb describe this outrage to the wider world.





Yep I repeat ‘Rival Factions Clash’’ in the same way that rival factions clashed in Tiananmen Square, where the protesters attempted to damage the tanks with their bodies.


And that brings me at last to the reason for this letter, to my plea for help


No money. No soldiers.


Just a loan of a few decent journalists please.


Yeah it would be great if they were of the calibre of Woodward and Bernstein but just your honest ‘common or garden’ journalists will do.


Journalists who do what journalists are supposed to do and throw light into the darkness while providing honest answers to a general public accustomed to being treated like rhubarb – kept in the dark and fed nothing but bullshit.


I don’t know the main profession of the author of Psychopathic Cultures and Toxic Empires. I just wished he was a journalist.



Wait. What?


In the words of one of Westminster’s luvvies who was dutifully paraded to convince me to remain a psychopath’s plaything.





Yours truly,



Holly Scotland


‘Experiments devised by social psychologists Stanley Milgram and Philip Zimbardo demonstrated that mentally normal people can be encouraged to become oppressive, needlessly cruel and even torturous if instructed to by ‘authority’ figures. These studies, beginning in the 1960s and 1970s have huge implications for societies everywhere. They show how easily perfectly normal, intelligent people can be manipulated into doing deeply unpleasant things to others’


Conclusion to Psychopathic Cultures and Toxic Empires, a brilliant but chilling book by Will Black 



Cadet Witch Nicola And The Scourge Of The Propy Gander Death Ray

This post is meant to be satirical.

Those of a sensitive disposition or have undergone a sense of humourotomy in the last 25 years, please do not read on.

All characters in the tale are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Please trust me on this in exactly the same way you would trust these other pillars of the establishment – BBC, Scottish Labour and the Westminster Tories

‘Hungry’ was just a little concerned as he marched down the echoing hallways of Pigswill College for Witches.

Despite rumours to the contrary, Pigswill was in fact an acronym of ‘Private Institute Giving Special Witches Instruction in Learning and Leadership’.

So why was Hungry so perturbed? Why was his typically jolly demeanour so untypically unjolly this particular morning.

Cadet Witch Nicola was the source of his anxiety. Hungry knew he shouldn’t have any favourites among the legions of cadets, hand picked  to attend this special place but if he was forced to admit to having a preference then Cadet Witch Nicola would be his pick.

Just as he was approaching the bedroom belonging to the source of his untypical concern, Hungry stopped dead in his tracks. Was that a scream of rage he heard? Surely not. Cadet Witch Nicola, in all the time she had been at the college had never ever been anything but happy and friendly to everyone, witches, teachers, professors, you name it..

The worry lines on Hungry’s giant forehead  magnified. Three giant strides took him to her bedroom door. He stifled the urge to barge in instead settling for giving the door a gentle chap.

“GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE,” the voice bellowed. “Haven’t you people done enough?”

“And what is it that you think we have done? Whoever ‘we’ is my dear?” he asked softly in a Moggieworld West Country  accent.

“Oh Hungry it’s not you”, came the tearful response. “It’s everyone else in this stinking, dark, rotting, museum of a place and especially that horrible Professor Bawling. I really thought she liked me as well”.

“Oh dear,” exclaimed Hungry “and here was I thinking you loved this place to bits. To be sure it is a bit like that Moggieworld Palace of Westminster right enough”, he continued switching to a Hibernia accent, “but at least this place has been standing for over thirty thousand Moggie years so it has. Now would you be doing yourself a favour and stepping outside to tell Uncle Hungry what on earth it is that has taken the smile from your face and the sunshine from your eyes.”

“As if I didn’t already know,” he muttered under his breath

The sobbing gradually came to an end followed shortly afterwards by the bedroom door opening and a newly composed Cadet Witch Nicola appearing, a small smile trying hard to reach her lips.

“I’m so sorry Hungry really I am,” murmoured Nicola apologetically.

“Hush now my young witch,” countered the giant. “I take it today’s lecture from Professor Bawling on ‘History of Brittania in the Twenty First Moggie Century’ didn’t go very well.”

“Oh Hungry, all I said was what I thought most of the class were thinking and she shouted and screamed at me then got a whole lot of the other witches to turn against me and…..”

“Let’s just leave that for now,” interrupted Hungry gently. “We’ll come back to the fragrant Professor Bawling in due course. Lets just recap for the final time on what you’ve discovered and learned about Brittania for your final exam tomorrow. Start at the very beginning and work through to today. OK?”

Young Nicola composed herself then began:-

“Well let me have a think. Hmm, well first of all more than 2000 Moggie years ago, you had the Romans invading parts of Brittania. They tried hard to take on the whole country but couldn’t quite overcome the people from Caledonia.”

“Go on”, prompted Hungry. “What else can you tell me about the Romans then and the Brittanians now”?

“Oh yes I remember now. In Roman times, when the rich and powerful got more  corrupt, they used to feed the poor to a lion for the entertainment of the brainwashed masses. Two thousand of their years later when the rich and powerful got more corrupt, they fed the poor to something called a Jeremykyle instead”

“Hmmm not bad. Then what”?

“Well, moving on, for some reason the silly Anglians got involved with a lot of people called Norman and that didn’t seem to go down too well but again the people of Caledonia weren’t involved”.

“Eh not quite”, responded the giant shaking is head, unconsciously allowing a small smile to cross his lips nevertheless. “Go back a bit though, if you don’t mind”.

Once again Nicola paused for a few minutes before responding.

“Oh yes, I remember now. Camelot and Lancelot and Arthur and the Round Table.”.

“Good. That’s better. Carry on”.

“Well then there were a lot of battles and fighting and such like. Anglia versus Caledonia. Anglia versus Cambria. Anglia versus quite a few other Moggies as I recall. Then it was powerful Moggies against poor Moggies and corrupt Moggies against decent Moggies.

“Hmm, interesting. Anything strike you as different during this period”.

The little witch ruminated this for a spell before a flash of lightning seemed to burst in her eyes

“Yes”, she cried exultantly. There was this famous Moggie named Robin Hood. He seemed to ‘break the mould’ . Standing up for the poor while robbing the rich to feed the starving made him kind of famous.”, she paused. He is somebody I’d like to emulate one day”.

“Eh let’s not get ahead of ourselves shall we”, cautioned Hungry. Nevertheless he couldn’t quite hide the look of pride from showing on his face. “Carry on”, he coaxed, looking at the miniature sundial he wore strapped to his wrist.

“Well then there was a hell of a lot more wars and battles….Oops sorry for swearing”, she mumbled.

Hungry just waved his hand as if urging her to finish.

“Then more wars and battles and Great Fires and Great Diseases and yet more cases of Anglia trying to bully everybody. God there must have been some nasty people in Anglia at the time. Must have been the influence of all these guys called Norman”.

“Geez I thought we’d sorted that out kid” exclaimed Hungry, his voice taking on the accent of someone from the north portion of the Americas.

“Sorreeeeee”‘ retorted Nicola, oblivious to the grin that flashed briefly on the giant’s face. “Then”, she continued,  more wars and fighting and the rich getting richer while the poor starved. And then the whole of Moggieworld seemed to unite against a really nasty bunch of other Moggies and then there were two really mega fights and then…….” she stopped, suddenly unsure of herself.

“And then”, prompted Hungry.

The young witch hesitated for a few moments before steeling herself

“And then there was a very brief spell when everyone was happy for a time. Then all the good Moggies suddenly seemed to transform into the evil Moggies they’d defeated and then the wars and fights and battles and arguments started all over and now, right at this minute the good Moggies who had defeated the bad Moggies have now joined forces with the bad Moggies to bully and starve one of the good Moggies who had helped the good Moggies to defeat the bad Moggies and ..oh Hungry I’m so confused”, she moaned, throwing her arms in the air.

“Hush girl”, comforted Hungry. “You’re not alone in feeling confused. No one up here in Pigswill understands the Moggies”.

He paused briefly before looking Nicola directly in the eyes. “So young witchy poo”, he asked gently. “Tell me more about your um disagreement, shall we say, with the bold Professor Bawling.”

Nicola’s eyes moistened as she replied”. “Oh Hungry it was soooo horrible. All I said was that with all that history, surely the people of Catalonia and Hibernia and Cambria would be better off breaking away from the people of Anglia and she went berserk. She yelled at me, told me I didn’t know what I was talking about and then asked the whole blinking institute if they should listen to me, an uneducated cadet witch or listen to her, an esteemed Professor and of course they all laughed and jeered at me and, oh Hungry, it was just horrible”. with that she burst out sobbing again and buried her face in her hands.

Hungry couldn’t help himself. Despite all the protocols put in place, he found himself reaching down to hug the young witch. After a minute he broke away from the embrace but held on to her arms, waiting until the sobbing ceased.

“Listen to me young Nicola”, he commanded. “and listen very carefully. Every now and again, Pigswill picks the brightest and most promising young witches. They are then made ready to go on a mission to spread  some of our magic to the silly people of Moggieworld. Professor Bawling is a very, very, nice and talented teacher and person”. he ignored Nicola’s stubborn shake of the head.

“Yes”,  he persisted “Professor Bawling is indeed a very, very, very nice person. Not only that, Professor Bawling was once just like you. She was once a special Cadet Witch”.

Nicola’s eyes widened in disbelief. She started to say something but Hungry gently placed one of his huge, sausage like fingers against her lips.

“She was indeed just such a Cadet Witch”, he repeated. “And she was indeed ‘wheeched’ away to Moggieworld. And she did indeed spread a great deal of magic to the Moggies and she did become very famous but…” This time it was his turn to hesitate.

“Cadet Witch Nicola, have you ever heard the saying power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely”?

“Yes of course Hungry but….”

“But me no buts lassie”, the giant pressed on in a voice that had suddenly become Caledonian. “Professor Bawling got herself involved, silly woman, with a couple of powerful and corrupt Moggies and before we had a chance to ‘wheech’ her back to Pigswill she let herself fall under the spell of the Propy Gander Death Ray. Once zombified, she then exceeded her remit and spread the wrong type of magic. She and her Moggie colleagues used this forbidden ‘Propy Gander Death Ray’ again, this time accompanied by the ‘Subliminal Messaging’ poison and  fooled a large part of Caledonia. Eventually we did ‘wheech’ her back for some intense reprogramming, leaving a substitute in her place. That work is still in progress so to speak but ‘Her Professorship’ is still a tad sore, hence her tantrum. She, and I’m afraid to say, Caledonia and indeed the rest of Brittania  will find out their mistake in the fullness of time, trust me on that. Now..”, once again he paused before lifting his massive hands to the young witch’s shoulders.

“Tell me what you have learned about the People of Moggieworld and in particular the people of Brittania. Take your time but not too long”, he instructed, glancing again at his sundial.

A good few minutes elapsed in silence before Nicola mentally steeled herself and said.

“The people of Moggieworld and in particular Brittania are on the whole a jolly decent bunch. They are, however, very easily brainwashed by the powerful and corrupt’s use of the Propy Gander Ray Gun that turns good people into brainwashed zombies. The thing that really confuses me though is why the Moggies continue to repeat the bad things in their history, while ignoring the good things like Robin Hood and especially the Knights of the Round Table. Surely getting everyone round the Round Table would take away the need for all the wars and battles and fights”.

“You’ll do for me lassie”, Hungry retorted before turning his back on Nicola.  After a brief moment he suddenly whirled round to reveal, not Hungry but  Professor Ahlek, College Governor of Pigswill.

“Surprise, Surprise” he grinned.

“Professor Ahlek”, she blurted out. “I don’t understand.”

“Sorry Nicola. Your job is not to understand. Your job is to go and spread some magic…Goodbye”.

“NOOOOOOOOH..” Nicola screamed as the carpeted floor under her feet suddenly disappeared and she found herself falling and falling and falling until….

WHUMP!! …….Fifteen year old Nicola found herself lying in her bed. “Wow. What a dream”, she groaned, as reality slowly hit.

Meanwhile back in Pigswill, Professor Ahlek shook his head “Another one away to spread some magic”, he muttered smiling to himself.

Now who would be next to take her place?

Truth be told he would need to try somehow to get the rest of the Board of Directors, or the Magic Circle as Professor Ahlik referred to them, to reconsider turning down his recommendation regarding another outstanding young witch. A frown creased his giant brow as he recalled the conversation.

“Are you out of your mind, Ahlek”? they’d chorused. “We’re in enough trouble as it is with WWW.COM (Witches, Wizards Watchdog. Censor of Magic) and you want us to send down a witch with the surname Black.

‘Black Witch’. yeah they’ll really have a lot of fun with that”.

World Economics Explained

This Post is Reblogged from Quintin Jardine’s Blog with Kind Permission.

Those of a sensitive disposition or have undergone a sense of humourotomy in the last 25 years, please do not read on


The World Economy Explained With The Aid Of Two Cows


SOCIALISM You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbour

COMMUNISM You have 2 cows The State takes both and gives you some milk.

FASCISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.
BUREAUCRATISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other and then throws the milk away.
TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
VENTURE CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more
AN AMERICAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has died.
A FRENCH CORPORATION You have two cows. You go on strike, organize a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.
AN ITALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows, but you do not know where they are. You decide to have lunch.
A SWISS CORPORATION You have 5,000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them
A CHINESE CORPORATION You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.
AN INDIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You worship them.
A BRITISH CORPORATION You have two cows. Both are mad.
AN IRAQI CORPORATION Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. Nobody believes you, so they bomb the crap out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows but at least you are now a Democracy.
AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.
A GREEK CORPORATION You have two cows borrowed from French and German banks. Your people need to eat eat both of them. The banks call to collect their milk, but you cannot deliver so you call the IMF. The IMF loans you two cows. Your people eat both of them. The banks and the IMF
call to collect their cows/milk. You are out getting a haircut.
AN IRISH CORPORATION You have two cows One of them’s a horse!
And Last But Not Least
A SCOTTISH CORPORATION You have two cows that you think are valuable and worth a lot of money but your neighbour tells you they are past their best and definitely won’t last for very much longer.He even utilises experts to confirm all this.. This makes you sad, dejected and unable to perform to your full potential. Then unable to take the misery any more, you decide, as a last resort, to move somewhere else.and try something new. Lo and behold your new neighbour tells you your cows are very valuable and will provide milk for years and years.and years You are now a happy bunny once more

The Which Blair Project (Part Two)

This post is meant to be satirical.

Those of a sensitive disposition or have undergone a sense of humourotomy in the last 25 years, please do not read on.



Gordon Tan was having a really bad day. He really shouldn’t be having a bad day. Not today of all days. Not after the wonderful day he had enjoyed yesterday.
A smile crept to his lips as he recalled last night’s celebrations.
Everyone jumping about to the refrain of ‘Things Can Only Get Better’
Bumping stomachs with his ‘mucker’ John Pressbed as the latter sang, or rather shouted ‘On Ilkley Moor By Tat’
Then back to everyone chanting ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ over and over and over again as the drinks flowed non stop

Now suddenly things hadn’t got better, they’d got a whole lot worser.

Here he was, not only suffering from a hangover but drugged, kidnapped and transported by who he did not know, to end up somewhere in the body of a giant aircraft, being lectured to by a man-mountain of a man. A man that made his ‘mucker’ John Pressbed look positively dainty.

Then his bizarre day just got even more bizarre as, on the screen in front of him, an image of the President of the USA was staring in disbelief at a member of the Royal Family, dressed in a dripping wet uniform of the Royal Air Force and wearing a pair of soaking wet green wellies as some sort of fashion accessory.
Bizarre somehow didn’t even come close to describing it.

“SHUT UP YOU IMBECILE”. The voice of the man-mountain jolted Gordon out of his musings.

It also seemed to jolt the President of the United States of America as well.

“What’s an imbecile?” he voiced to someone off camera.

Off camera, a faint groan could be heard, followed by an unseen voice responding with “Sweet Jesus”, followed quickly by  “I mean a moron, Mr President Sir”

“A moron huh.” the screen image of the President murmoured. “Not only can we get him for telling his President to shut up but we can also get him for betraying state secrets. Ha Ha, only joking guys” he chortled.

Off camera, the same voice could just about be heard again. “Good God, the guy thinks he’s Ronald Reagan.” followed by a louder “Quite right sir. Nice joke sir.”

On screen, the image of the President of the Free World seemed to give himself a shake.

“Right guys,” he said. “Bet you’re wondering why we’ve kidnapped you out of your slumbers huh. Guess you think we’re making you the fall guys in some April Fool Joke huh.”….

“Good Lord”, Private Jockstrap McBaldrick muttered to himself. “For a President, this guy’s no awfy bright is he? Man even ah know that it’s May no April and..”. He was silenced by a blow to the back of the head from Sergeant Ewan Whosarmie who had noticed  Master Sergeant Scheidt the Third reaching for his service revolver.

“Right then,” continued the image on screen. “Master Sergeant Scheidt, kindly give the Commies, I mean the new British Government in waiting details of the mission if you would be so kind.”

Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt surreptitiously wiped the tear of pride from his eyes and drawing himself ramrod like to attention barked

“OK you guys, listen up. As the President of the Free World has alluded to, this is a joint mission between the United States of America and Great Britain.” He tried hard but just failed to keep the sneer from his voice as he uttered the words ‘Great Britain’. “As such, myself, namely Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Third representing the US of A and”, he gave a small contemptuous wave of the hand accompanied by another sneer “the man in the green rubbers, namely Flight Lieutenant Chookie York, representing your small insignificant country. Flight Lieutenant York and my good self will be jointly responsible for flying you guys to a top secret location somewhere not too far from here . At this top secret location you will meet with two highly distinguished gentlemen who , I am led to believe will show you the future…….”

He paused momentarily as he caught sight of a still sodden Chookie York weakly flapping his hand to gain attention.

“This better be good Flight Lieutenant,” he growled.

The Flight Lieutenant in question simpered sheepishly. “Sorry to interrupt Master Sergeant,” he simpered, “But there really appears to be some sort of breakdown in communication what. I’m afraid that, much as I’d really really love to help you pilot this,” he gestured with another weak and floppy wave of his hand “this wonderful aircraft, I really have to advise you that I’m only trained in flying helicopters and…..”

“WHAT” roared the Master Sergeant. “I don’t believe this..”

“Excuse me,” piped up Sergeant Ewan Whosarmie. “but I think you’ll find that’s my punchline. I’m sure I’ve got copyright and….Owwwwww ,” he screamed, clutching the right side of his head as the bullet from Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt’s service revolver tore off a slice from his right ear. Slowly he slumped to the floor of the aircraft.

“I’m getting close to breaking point here,” Dwight growled ominously.

This was a bit of an understatement to the shocked and open-mouthed politicians who collectively thought that both the Master Sergeant and possibly even the President himself were some way past that stage.

At that point the voice of said President intruded into the uncomfortable silence that had developed.

“Godammit Master Sergeant, you gotta learn to control that temper of yours, cant have you damaging British Government property now can we. Right,” he continued, “here’s what we’re gonna do. Instead of flying you distinguished politicians out to a secret location in the Cayman Islands…”  a collective groan from the hidden audience could be heard, “with the power of good ole USA technology we are going to bring these distinguished gentlemen to you.”

There was another pause as if the man was waiting for applause then the screen went blank.

Another uncomfortable silence ensued until suddenly the screen flashed back to life. The image of a colossal top of the range yacht came into view. The camera then spanned in to reveal two white suited individuals, identically dressed right down to the matching stetsons on top of their heads. Both of the gentlemen were sipping massive and colourful cocktails, surrounded by a bevy of scantily clad women.

This sight seemed to rouse the assembled politicians from a state of stunned shock into a degree of interest.

“Golly Gosh and Heavens to Mugatroyd,” Chookie York gushed “would you look at the pair of……,” the glare from Dwight Scheidt was enough to shut him up.

“Gentlemen let me introduce usssssss to you,” one of the white suited individuals hissed in a voice so reptilian sounding that it reminded the New Labour contingent of Peter Mandelson. “My name issss Mr Halley-Foxsssssss and this is my colleague Mr Burton-Foxssssssss and we are the representativesssss of a whole horde of like minded individualsssss. Isn’t that right Mr Burton Foxssssss?”.

“Oh indeed it issssss Mr Halley-Foxsssss”, responded his companion. “And we are here to explain to you ssssome sssimple home truthsssss. Isssssn’t that correct Mr Burton-Foxsssss?”

“Oh asssuredly it issss, Mr Halley-Foxsss. Now you gentlemen may believe that you have been elected to change the order of thingssss. What was your sssignature sssong again? Oh yesss, ‘Thingssss Are Going To Get Better’ or sssomething sssimilar correct?”

The man’s eyes seemed to bore right into the assembled mass.

“WRONG!!,” it yelled. Causing the captive audience to shrink back into their seats in sudden fear

“Mr Halley-Foxsss here will first of all detail the carrot and then I will detail the ssstick. We will make thingsss sso cryssstal clear that even sssimple politissssianss like you lot will underssstand. OK?. Good. Over to you Mr Halley-Foxsss.”

“Thank you Mr Burton-Foxsss. Firrst of all full detailsss of our plansss will be made available to you all oncess you are all on board, ssso to ssspeak. Sssuficesss for me to sssay that if you follow the insssstructionsss, you will have wealth and power beyond your wildessst dreamsss. You sssee we have the future sssewn up. We have the power to ssseduce the massssessss with our global media empire. We have the power to manipulate the newsss providerssss into providing blanket coverage of the information that we decide the people need. There are so many other thingsss that we control. Do asss we sssay and you will be part of our empire but you will have to control your ssslaves…oopsss sssorry, I mean underlingsss. Convincessss them to follow our lead. Do thisss and you will have glory and prestige and earn your rightful placess in hissstory. Over to you Mr Burton-Foxsss”.

“Thank you Mr Halley-Foxsss. Very sssuccsssintly ssstated if I may sssay. And now sssorry to sssay, the ssstick. If you do not comply. If you do not follow our instructionssss  then you will inherit the whirlwind. Everything you do or sssay will be ridiculed. We will ensssure that you will be denied the oxygen of publicity. We will change the media into the propaganda machine from hell. Your sssupporters will turn againssst you. Your people will ridicule you. We will turn you into evil monstersss in the eyesss of the public…”

Perhaps realising that his voice was getting louder and more strident and that he was beginning to sound like a combination of snake and Dalek, he composed himself.

“As Mr Halley-Foxssss ssstated. Full detailsss will follow. You gentlemen however mussst decide now. What isss it to be? Power and glory and sssuccesss, or ridicule, condemnation and failure. Thank You”

The politicians sat statue like for a good few seconds before the stocky Fifer growled.

“You’ve got a bloody nerve, know that. Do you honestly think you can come in here and bribe and threaten the democratically elected Labour Government. If you think we will betray our principles and our people the people who elected us, you’ve got another……”

He stopped suddenly in mid sentence as the democratically elected Prime Minister grabbed his arm.

“Now Gordon. Oops sorry, Blair Two”, he corrected himself after catching the baleful look of the Master Sergeant. “Let’s not be too hasty here. I mean you know that Sherry, oops I mean Mrs Blair Two has got very expensive tastes, I think we need to, at least, consider things”

“Yeah Blair Two,” Blair Four concurred, while the others nodded approvingly. “At least let’s consider this. Only fools rush out eh? ” he giggled.

“You can forget all this Blair Shit,” snarled Blair Two before turning to Blair One. ” As for you Blair. You shit. I always knew you were a weak, lily livered tosser. A clone, manufactured to appeal  to the Home County posh folk. A….”

Blair Two stopped in mid sentence as two sets of hands gripped his arms.

“Theresssss alwaysssss one”  Burton-Fox said, shaking his head. “You know what to do guyssss,” he hissed. “Time for our Sssscottissssh friend to check out hissss fitnessss levelsssss methinkssss.”

The two Special Forces Guys dragged a struggling and shouting Gordon Tan through to the dreaded gymnasium.

“Oh goody gosh, ” enthused Chooky York.  “Can I come too…ah perhaps not,” he murmoured, catching the look from Whosarmie.

Twenty minutes later the saturated and broken shell of Gordon Tan returned.

He was dumped unceremoniously into his chair by the two Americans.

“What wasssss that about democratically elected nonsssenssse then Blair Two,” Burton-Fox hissed.

“Nothing,” the Scotsman muttered weakly. “I was wrong I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want.”

“And that includesss keeping theeesssssse pesssky Naturissssstssss under control doessss it” he pressed. “Can’t have hordesss of naked Sssscotch people rampaging around can we  Mr Halley-Foxssssssss?”

“Assssssssuredly not Mr Burton-Foxssssss”

“As I said, anything” sobbed Gordon Tan












The Which Blair Project

This post is meant to be satirical.

Those of a sensitive disposition or have undergone a sense of humourotomy in the last 25 years, please do not read on



So good old Gordon Brown has decided to say farewell and adieu.

What on earth has happened to Alistair Darling.(Who?..Oh you must  remember him. Funny eyebrows, sneer just hidden and no more behind the mask. The ‘Laurel’ to Brown’s ‘Hardy’.)

Oh yeah him. I wondered what happened to him too.

What on earth did happen to them? What happened to change them  from left wing zealots and champions of the working class to power hungry, greedy, money grabbing champions of the establishment?

There must have been something. But what……………..?    


                                                                                   THE WHICH BLAIR PROJECT


With profound and sincere apologies to David Icke – you were right all along


                                                                                      Cast in order of appearance:-

(Please note the real identities of the cast members have been cunningly and cryptically concealed to protect the innocent or the guilty)

Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd (sorry the Third)………Arnold Funiname

Private Dwight Scheidt theFourth……………………..Sylvester Mustangone

Flight Lieutenant Chookie Dimbutnice Yorke………Harold Chickenfield

Private Jockstrap MacBaldrick………………………….Tony Squash

Sergeant  Ewan Whosarmie…………………………….Richard Bilson

Blair One……………………………………………………. Anthony Loud-Noise

Blair Two……………………………………………………..Gordon Tan

Blair Three………………………………………………..   Alistair Sweetheart

Blair Four…………………………………………………… Jimmy Twocrates

Blair Five…………………………………………………… Robert ‘Lordy’ Georgeson

Blair Six………………………………………………………Duggie Jackntom

President Of United  States of America……………..President George W Shrub

Unidentified Voice Out of View……………………….. .Himself

Fat Man in Grey Suit…………………………………….Mister Halley

Thin Man in Grey Suit…………………………………. Mister Burton

Act One Scene One – 1997 4 a.m. ………A secluded deserted runway at the rear of RAF Brize Lyneham

Far from prying eyes A lone US Air Force Charlie 130 sat in eerie darkness and eerier silence.

Suddenly the deep silence was shattered by the strains of ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’  splitting the air, causing a dozen or so crows to fly off screeching from the treetops of a nearby wood sounding, strangely enough like the House of Commons at Prime Minister’s Questions. At the same time, a sleek, highly polished, black BMW Sports Limousine burst into view and came screeching to a halt, tyres screeching in tune with the disappearing birds, within inches of the tail of the parked cargo aircraft.

The sports sedan had hardly come to a halt, radio silenced, when the rear doors of the plane opened wide. It was hard to tell if there were any lights on in the interior of the craft as two vast and dark shapes filled the space, effectively blocking off any illumination. Both shapes were dressed in the uniform of the US Military but had no other regalia showing. A sure sign that they were Special Forces. The elite of the military might of ‘The Land Of The Free’.

The slightly bulkier of the shapes stepped forward slightly and held out his hand, making a beckoning gesture with his fingers, indicating to the occupants of the Beamer to exit the car.

“Halt who Goes There?”..came the cry from the second of the shapes, causing the first shape to jump, then to turn round and thump the second shape.

“We goddamn know who goes there Dwight Junior, you numskull. We’ve been expecting them for the last hour. How many times do I have to tell you, if you keep your goddamn mouth shut, people wont realise you’re a complete and utter moron?”

“Sorry Dad, I mean sorry Master Sergeant Sir”, wailed shape number two.

Further debate was curtailed as the doors to the BMW were flung open and in unison, three figures emerged. The taller of the three, dressed in the uniform of an RAF officer apart from the rather strange addition of a pair of green wellies stepped forward hand outstretched.

“Morning chaps”, he gushed enthusiastically, “Flight Lieutenant Dimbutnice Yorke, helicopter pilot extraordinaire at your service but, as we’re all on the same side, you can call me Chookie”.

Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd (sorry,,the Third) stared at the hapless looking individual before him with vainly concealed contempt. He then turned his contemptuous stare to the other two occupants of the BMW who had emerged behind their leader

“And you must be, let me see now, Sergeant Ewan Whosarmie and Private Jockstrap MacBaldrick, I presume”.

His stare grew even more contemptuous at the sight of the two ragged individuals, trying vainly to straighten themselves into some form of smartness. He muttered what sounded like “Goddamn loony Brits”, under his breath, before growling “You better come on board then” and gestured for the ‘Three Amigos’ to follow him into the plane’s interior.

At the entrance he stopped suddenly, causing the four behind to crash into one another. “Before we go any further”, he snarled, “I must warn you all that this aircraft has been customised. Half of the plane has been converted into luxury living quarters for VIP guests, while the other half”, he grinned knowingly at Private First Class Dwight Scheidt The Fourth, who grinned unknowingly back, “well let’s say it has been converted into a private gym for, shall we say Waterboarding Enthusiasts and as such is very much off limits. Is that clear?”

The three goddamn Brits exchanged confused looks before shrugging their shoulders and nodding.

Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd(sorry..the Third) glowered at all three before growling “Let me make one thing clear. When I say Is that clear? You respond with Sir Yes Sir. Now is that clear?”

Two out of the three immediately parroted “Sir Yes Sir” back but Sergeant Ewan Whosarmie sheepishly held up his hand. “Permission to speak Master Sergeant?”

Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd(sorry..the Third) glared at his hapless counterpart for a moment before slowly nodding.

“Eh excuse me for saying this Master Sergeant but eh I think you’ll find that Flight Lieutenant Dimbutnice Yorke actually outranks you so if you’ll pardon me for saying this, you should be saying Sir Yes Sir to him.”

“Oh you think so,” Master Sergeant Etc Etc responded, face reddening dangerously.

“Permission to waterboard the prisoner?” Private Dwight Scheidt the Fourth begged imploringly.

“Shut up moron!” the elder of the Scheidt family responded before adding

“Right let’s get this show on the road men. In about twenty minutes or so, six very important persons, no let me rephrase that, six very important persons in their eyes are going to arrive here. As this is a joint mission, between United States Homeland Security and the British Information Gathering And Security Service….

.” He stopped in his tracks, interrupted by the snigger emanating from Private Jockstrap MacBaldrick. “Something I said amusing you Private”, the Master Sergeant growled menacingly.

“Aye there is, sir yes sir”, the grinning MacBaldrick replied. “I was chust thinking about what ma boss Flight Lufftenant Yorke said. He said that the initials for yon security thing spelt oot Big Ass and he said that was perfect as it described the American President to a ‘T’ so he did”.

“Ooh yes, well remembered MacBaldrick my little Scottie Dog”, added Dimbutnice. “Ooh what a lark that was in the Officers Mess. Ooh how we guffawed”.

The face of Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd (sorry… the Third) slowly changed from red to crimson and finally puce as it dawned on him exactly what was said.

“Godammit”, he finally exploded. “You telling me you godamm Brit pussies have been calling the President of the most powerful country in the world a Big Ass? Right, Private Scheidt, kindly introduce Mister Flight Lootenant Yorke to the delights of our gymnasium. We’ve got about twenty minutes till our esteemed guests arrive. Let’s see how our Mister Yorke enjoys our Waterboarding experience shall we”.

“Right on dad. I mean sir yes sir”, a grinning Private Scheidt responded before leading a still beaming Dimbutnice away.

“Ooh jolly good japes what”, the Flight Lieutenant declared. “Need to get into shape for the fun ahead what”, he added, giving a departing wave to his fellow Brits.

Master Sergeant Etc Etc shook his head in disbelief before announcing “Right you lot, talk among yourselves, while your boss enjoys his ‘gym workout’. I’ve got things to do before our VIP’S arrive”.

Twenty minutes later, two things happened almost simultaneously. First of all, a rather sodden but still beaming Flight Lieutenant Dimbutnice Yorke emerged from the ‘gymnasium suite’, followed by a shocked Private Dwight Scheidt the Fourth, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Wow. Right On”, exclaimed Dimbutnice. “That was brill chaps. You really ought to try it. You know I can really see this catching on. At some time in the future”, he chortled, “everyone will want to get in on the act. They’ll probably call it ‘The Ice Bucket Challenge’ or something”.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IT”, bellowed Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt The Turd (Sorry…The Third).

“Eh excuse me”, countered Sergeant Ewan Whosarmie. “I think you’ll find that’s my punchline. In fact I’m sure I’ve got copyright on it”.

“What are you on about you Brit buffoon”, the furious Master Sergeant responded.

Before any further debate could take place however, the silence of the early morning was shattered by the sounds of  many high powered engines and at the same time, six gleaming, black, top of the range Range Rovers came bursting out of the gloom before coming to a halt, in perfect formation, beside the aircraft.

With perfect synchronisation, the doors of all six opened to reveal ermine lined interiors, created presumably to introduce a subliminal effect, to the sleeping occupant in each car, of the riches, luxury and power lying ahead.

In addition to one dozy occupant, each car also consisted of a driver and two aides, who between them managed to manhandle their snoozing passenger onto a stretcher before transporting him into the interior of the waiting aircraft.

“Right men”, ordered Master Sergeant Etc Etc, “time to get this show on the road”. He pointed his finger at Dimbutnice. “You, get your servants or whatever you call them to help get our VIP guests securely seated before they wake up”.

Eventually after a lot of puffing and panting, the six snoozing ‘guests’ were securely seated.

The Master Sergeant turned to his protege and said. “Right Dwight Junior, the water buckets if you would be so kind”.

In an obviously well rehearsed routine, Dwight Scheidt the Fourth handed a bucket of freezing cold water to each of six men. Master Sergeant Scheidt then nodded and the six then flung the contents squarely into the faces of the six sleeping VIPS, causing Dimbutnice to squeal with delight and rub his hands with glee.

Suddenly, the aircraft interior was transformed into a tumult of noise as six New Labour MPs came to life simultaneously, coughing and spluttering in unison.

“SILENCE!!”, bellowed Scheidt Senior and, surprisingly enough for a gaggle of politicians, everyone quietened immediately. “Listen up people”, the Master Sergeant continued in a more subdued tone. “I know you’re all wondering why you’ve been drugged, dragged out of your beds, and transported here in utmost secrecy.

..” “Damn right we’re wondering”, exploded a stocky, burly figure in a Fife accent.”Do you know who you’re dealing with?”, he added, prompting a chorus of angry voices to join in.

“SHUT UP”, the Master Sergeant roared.

“Permission to Waterboard the prisoner?” added Scheidt Junior, causing a look of pure venom to appear on the face of the Master Sergeant.

With an effort he composed himself. “Before I explain the situation gentlemen, I want to remind everyone of the strictest security covering what happens from now on.  Under no circumstances will you be allowed to refer to one another by your correct names. You will each be given a one-off identity just for today. Gentlemen,” he continued, “I don’t know if you remember the film ‘Reservoir Dogs’ from five years or so ago. A film where everyone was forbidden to use their real names and had to identify themselves by colours, like Mr Pink and Mr Orange.

Everyone nodded apart from Private McBaldrick who looked confused for a moment, then gave a small grin. “I remember it well”,  he simpered. ” it was on the telly.” Now everyone looked confused and shook their heads slowly. “Course you do,” he continued. “Five o’clock at night, programme with a dog and colours and sometimes a reser.wotsit in it”. He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Blue Peter, that’s what it was called. I remember it…..

“SHUTTUP”, everyone yelled in unison.

“Permission to Waterboard the prisoner”, added Scheidt Junior

“Jeez”, exclaimed the Master Sergeant before giving himself a mental shake.

“Right, same scenario here”.

He pointed to the stocky, burly individual. “Take it you’re the Prime Minister?”

“Eh no actually”, uttered a rather sickly looking individual peeping from behind the stocky one’s back. “I think you’ll find that’s me,” he added sheepishly.

“Jeez”, Scheidt senior added shaking his head. “You Brits”. He composed himself quickly though.

“Right Mr Prime Minister”, he sneered sarcastically. “From now on you’re Blair One”. He turned to the stocky one. “Blair Two.” Continuing down the line of confused politicians, he rattled off their code-names successively until all six were coded, then added ominously. “Anybody referring to themselves with anything other than their code names will be allowed to take advantage of our next door gymnasium. Do I make myself clear”?

“Sir yes sir” yelled five of the six but the stocky one remained silent, until Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd produced a revolver from a concealed holster and waved it menacingly.

“Aye all right”, the stocky one eventually conceded grudgingly.

“Good. Now gentlemen, prepare for the honour of your lives”.

He waved his hand and suddenly a curtain was drawn back to reveal a giant projector screen.

“Due to recent advances in technology”, he continued, “you are now about to take part in a video conference with the most powerful man in the world.”

He paused, snapped his fingers and suddenly the screen came to life.

“Gentlemen prepare to meet the President of the United States of America”. Suddenly the screen cleared and there, before a disbelieving audience of gob-smacked politicians, appeared the US President, obviously seated behind his desk in the Oval Office. The great man blinked his eyes, taking in the scene confronting him before taking in the sodden, dishevelled appearance of Chookie York and his green wellies.

“I don’t beleeeeeve it”! uttered the great man.

“Excuse me I think you’ll find……” interrupted  Sergeant Whosarmie

“SHUDDUP”, screamed Master Sergeant Dwight Scheidt the Turd….sorry the Third.


Palefaces Speak With Forked Tongues

One month it’s been. One whole month. One month of grief, of hurt, of anger. One month it’s taken for the mourning and the pain to abate. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun.

Thinking back on that referendum result though, I still have that stunned hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. The acid in my gut that still burns.

How could we compete with the new drug dealers. Just how powerful is the effect of the state-run narcotic misinformation machine on the minds of those who are not prepared to fight their addiction, or even recognise their addiction.

“Don’t bother me with your nonsense about social justice. Him from Strictly says we couldnae survive. And as for that Alec Sammin. Ma mate says that Gordon Brown sez that all Sammin want’s to do is make the rich richer. That’s why he wanted to bring down yon Corporation Tax Thingy. Whit d’ye mean Gordon Brown brought down Corporation Tax twice? That canny be right or the Daily Record would have said so.”

Thus the dealers in this narcotic trade who shamelessly poured their everything into adulterating their narcotic with as much lies, misinformation, bullying, arrogance, phony love and ugly malice as they could possibly get into their sneaky little parcels of social evil that they sold at every street corner – well that’s what hurts me most – that in a so-called democratic country there seems to be no law that can touch the drug barons who control this particular social narcotic. In fact the ‘Mr Bigs’ behind the scenes control even the law-making machine which should hold the whole system to account.

That’s what is so hollow-belly shocking to come out of the whole referendum thing. Carmichael and other low-level pushers such as Darling, Brown, Wilson, Murphy, Galloway, etc – all knew exactly the full nastiness of what they were peddling (even if they did not know just how soon they would be shafted by the real ‘Imperial Masters’. They chose to corrupt the aspiration, hope, imagination, compassion, belief in a better future … of the body politic of their own country. Just how malevolently shocking is that and what a stain on your soul..

And so it was written in the stars. Learned helplessness in the National Psyche strikes again. Scotland’s curse carries on unabated. The empty net beckoned, the try line was within inches. Oh shit here comes Brown aided and abetted by the Daily Record. Surely the people of Scotland won’t fall for this. Surely they can’t be that stupid. Surely. Surely.  Oh shit…Nooooooooooh.

What has Scotland done to deserve this. We’ve been good Santa honest – well most of us anyway. We were the Good Guys and the Good Guys should always win in the end shouldn’t they. Nope, not in Scotland they don’t.

So life in ‘Bonnie Scotland’ continues as normal.  With an unbelievable display of breathtaking hypocrisy, the Scottish Labour hierarchy are driven in their limousines to display solidarity with the battered, beaten and broken poor people.

Talk about he depraved supporting the deprived.

Can’t they see that by protesting against the measures their own party support they’re treating the working class people in Scotland as stupid, unthinking idiots. Oh yeah of course sorry, they’ve got their cronies the drug dealing gutter press to carry on peddling the propaganda.

Even so, the arrogance shown by Lamont and her ilk in ‘marching’ alongside the genuine protesters is ‘stomach curdling’ in the extreme – and it now takes a lot to curdle my stomach.

It’s at times like this that I am reminded of the words of that song by yon French guy. Peter Somebodyorother  or whatever his name was

“Where do you go to my lovely, when your alone in your bed? Won’t you tell me the thoughts that surround you, I want to get inside your head etc etc”

What on earth goes on in the head of Lamont, Curran et al when they face up to the mess they and their media cronies have created. How on earth can they have decided it was a good idea to publicly show face in a march against austerity when their bosses, Milliband and Balls – not to mention Reeves have publicly stated that they are going to match, if not outdo the Tories as regards ‘cuts’.

It is ‘mind boggling’. Oh no wait. Their media lap-dogs will spin and gyrate and lie. ‘Course they will.

There must be some degree of inner turmoil surely. I mean even Lamont and Curran can’t be so brazenly contemptuous of the Scottish people to think they can get away with that. It must be taking a toll as, even by their own ‘peely-wally’ standards both are looking even paler and more acidic than usual.

It’s definitely true though.

‘Palefaces Do Speak With Forked Tongues’,





No More Mr ‘Perkin’ Nice Guy or the straw that broke the Camelot’s back


You know, I always thought of myself as a nice, even tempered, over thinking kind of guy. If someone was to punch me in the face, I’d probably spend two days trying to analyze why they’d done it before finally getting angry.

Not any more though. Oh No. No sirree. No more Mr Perkin Nice Guy.

You see folks I now have to admit it. I’m a ..(Gulp)… Cybernat.

Before I explain as to when and why I came to that conclusion. Does anyone else out there remember the good old Perkin? That amazing ginger and oatmeal biscuit your granny used to bake.

Yeah it’s true what they say. Nostalgia ain’t wot it used to be.

Whatever happened to them? Try as I might, I can’t seem to find them anywhere.

Guess they’ve gone the same way as these other quaint, old fashioned things. Fondly remembered but no longer used in these ‘more enlightened’ times under Westminster rule.

Things like threepenny, tanner, florin, common sense, decency and morality.

All is not lost however. I’ve found a new use for the word Perkin. Yep you can use it just like me as a means of emphasis. A way of swearing but not swearing, if you catch my drift.

And it feels good too.

So no more Mr Perkin Nice Guy. I’m Perkin Mr Angry and yes I’m a Perkin Cybernat and Perkin proud of it too.

Just as they say you’ll always remember where you were and the exact time you heard about the assassination of JFK, then I’ll always remember the exact time and place I went from mild mannered to Perkin raging.

I for one, was a bit fed up of finding myself all fired up with hope and enthusiasm by the works of Wings, Bella, Tommy Sheridan, Robin McAlpine, Alan Bissett and especially the Wee Ginger Dug to name but nine. Yeah I know I’ve only put up six names but you really need to see Alan Bissets’s alter-egos. Phenomental so they are. Yeah I know phenomental’s no a word but it Perkin well should be. Then to have that air of hope and optimism driven out by some of the lacklustre performances by our elected politicians is just, well it’s just not Perkin fait

C’mon guys, I know you think you’re doing the correct thing by being diplomatic and all that but sometimes you need to know the difference between doing the correct thing and doing the Perkin right thing.

Like a volcano reaching ‘erupting point’, everything built up.

“What’s your Plan B?

Imagine please, in the days when Sir Alex Ferguson was in charge of Manchester United and a  football match against Liverpool was looming. What would have been his response if the manager of Liverpool had asked him what his tactics for the match were? Or if one of the representatives of the fair and unbiased media had come away with. “C’mon Alex tell the people of Manchester what your tactics are going to be. They have a right to know. What”s your Plan B if Liverpool score first? C’mon Alex tell us. The people of Manchester have a right to know. C’mon Alex tell the good people of Manchester, or do you not have a Plan B

Any suggestions as to what his response would be? Don’t think he’d have used the word Perkin somehow although it would have been quite similar.


Financial Matters

Who gives a flying Perk what currency we use. We’ve got more important things to concern us

There was the woman who had to miss her regular interrogation by Job Centre staff about her struggles to find a job because her child had been badly bitten by a neighbour’s dog and she had to take her to hospital. She found time to phone the office with this news. But when she reported there a few days later, her interrogator denied having received this message and told her that her benefits had been cut off. Appealing this decision, she eventually got them reinstated, but only after waiting many months for a hearing.

But if you insist on talking about finance.

So all the banks are going to shut up shop and Perk Off south of the border faster than Osborne fleeing from Bernard Ponsonby are they?

Wait up what’s this in the Financial Times of all places? US banks already readying themselves to quit UK for Ireland ahead of the planned ‘EU In/Out Referendum”….

Yes Ireland. You remember Ireland don’t you. That’s the Perkin basket case of a country that poor wee stupid Scotland could end up like if we’re stupid enough to think that we can run oor ain wee place better than the Eton Mess.

What’s your Perkin Plan B for that then?


They used to say you could divide this Perkin country into the ‘Haves’ and ‘Have Nots’.  Not any more it’s not. It’s now ‘Those that Rip Off’ and ‘Those that get Ripped Off’ and in some cases, as in some Call Centres, you get the Rip-Offers forcing the Rip-Offees to Rip Off other Rip-Offees or end up as one of the Really Really Rip-Offees , on the dole queue suffering the sanctions as outlined above.

Building faster. Reaching critical point

Independence Will Mean the loss of British National Treasures like ‘Dr Who’ and ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ and most important of all THE NATIONAL LOTTERY.

C’mon get serious will you. Dr Who and Strictly Come Dancing are of more concern than Trident, Food Banks, Benefit Sanctions etc etc.

Hey hang on there. You might have hit on something. Is subliminal advertising not an urban myth after all? Are there brainwashing waves crashing across the airwaves in time to ‘Twinkle-Toes’ Brucie’s dance moves. Maybe we could carry out a really important survey for once and determine the percentage of Better Together supporters versus Yes supporters that actually watch these programmes and their kindred spirits such as the Jeremy Kyle show or the Great British Bake Off. Put your left leg in for Yes and your right leg out for No. You could even start up a brand new reality show and call it the Great British Rip Off.

Talking about reality shows. I hear there’s yet another one in the pipeline. They’re gonny be getting Z list celebrities to carry out their own plastic surgery and call it ‘Scars in Your Eyes’…Awright Sorry.

Thinking about that old favourite – Stars in Your Eyes. Isn’t it amazing  how once an idea takes hold, no matter how Perkin far fetched your conscious mind tells you it is. it just won’t go away. With me it’s the notion that somehow there’s some sort of brain altering contraption deep in the portals of 10 Downing Street, just like the contraption used in ‘Stars in Your Eyes’.

You know what I mean:-

Yesterday Matthew I was Margaret, simple grocer’s daughter from Grantham. Today Matthew I’m Thatcher, scourge of the working class…or

Yesterday Matthew I was Gordon, intelligent but slightly dull politician. Today Matthew I’m Brown, simpering fool on You Tube and betrayer of the Scottish People…or

Yesterday Matthew I was Tone, simpering fool. Today Matthew I’m Blair, obscenely wealthy war criminal…or

Yesterday Matthew I was David, just an ordinary, everyday Eton schoolboy. Today Matthew I’m Call Me Dave, sycophant to the right wing media..or

Yeterday Matthew I was Boris….Aaaaaaaaaargh!!

And that just leaves good old Lotto. The treasure chest that keeps on giving, if you believe the propaganda. Keeps on giving to Westminster coffers if you don’t

But wait.

What about the fiasco the other week. Three numbers correct and you win a bumper £25. Four numbers, harder to predict, paid £15. No that canny be right or fair, I hear you say. Yeah that was my reaction when I heard. My wee elderly mammy was so so chuffed when she phoned to tell me she’d scooped four numbers. You can imagine how she felt when she went to pick up her ‘winnings’ and how Perkin pissed off I was when she told me.

Building. Past critical point and further into the red than my bank account.

So I waited for the justifiable outrage from the media, expecting the front page headlines – ‘Lottery giant fraudulently fleeces loyal customers’ or ‘No Lotto money for winners’ from the Sun. And I waited, and I waited and…then it dawned on me. Not the done thing to investigate a giant conglomerate for fraud. Oh no. Not when you’ve previously praised it to the rafters as a National Treasure that your own Scottish people would sorely miss if they had the temerity to want to decide things for themselves right

Then…Screech….That folks was the sound of my mental brakes being applied. You see I’d just sailed past a link to an old article from the Daily Wail, as you do if you’re a reasonably sane well balanced type, when something caught my eye. ‘ Lottery Giant Accused of Tax Evasion’ cried the headline’. And then I checked further on Google and more Perkin accusations appeared before my eyes.’Lottery giant blames human error on £1,500.000 jackpot shortfall’ and more and more.

The thing is, if Camelot had done the decent thing and used even a fraction of the loyal customers’ money,that they avoided paying tax on, to do the morally and ethically correct thing and raise the prize for four numbers to even £30 it would have saved them money in a relatively short time, as now they will face a horde of angry people resolved never to play the Perkin thing again.

That was it I’m afraid. Arrogance I can just about stomach. Incompetence Ditto. Put them together and you light the blue touchpaper. It’s like the story of the scorpion and the frog. “Why did you insist on ripping these poor but loyal customers off Camelot, even though you must know it’s going to cost you money in lost future revenue.” Because that’s just what we do”.

Kaboom. The volcano exploded and Mr Angry appeared as if out of nowhere.

And that about sums it up. I’m now like the Incredible Hulk. The next Better Together supporter who stares straight ahead, hacket face set in stone after I kindly pull over to let her go swanning by in the opposite direction is going to be the subject of Perkin Road Rage. The next time some shrieking interviewer persists on going on about Perkin Plan B is going to result in a brick threw the TV screen (save the cost of a levy to an organisation I detest with all of my being, I suppose).

One final point as I realise I’ve waffled on for too long. I am loath to say this but I strongly feel that if Ian Gray had done the right thing and talked to that protester instead of doing what his advisers advised was the correct thing and running a mile then chances are we might not have the Government we have. Nothing pisses off the Scottish people like signs of weakness.

So on Monday Alex, while I appreciate the desire to do the correct thing and be statesmanlike with the eyes of the world on you, please think about doing the right thing and tell the people how it really is. And do it with Perkin Strength and Perkin Passion.



Related links:-

1. http://www.scottishreview.net/DavidDonnison169.shtml?utm_source=Sign-Up.to&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=8427-324697-Down+in+Cadogan+Street%2C+a


3. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2471454/Lottery-firm-Camelot-accused-avoiding-10million-tax.html

4. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/10649986/Independent-Scottish-charities-face-missing-out-on-National-Lottery-millions.html

5. http://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/politics/tories-claim-national-lottery-funding-1872526

6. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2477173/A-lot-lotto-win-Work-syndicate-sees-1-5m-taken-jackpot-blunder-Camelot.html









The Ghost Of Christmas Future

Ebenezer Votnow was feeling smug. In his mind, he had every reason to be smug. It was the 19TH September 2014 and Ebenezer was a lifelong supporter of the Labour movement. Despite building a successful company that he had created from nothing since his arrival from Eastern Europe all those years ago. Ebenezer had always been loyal to the party of the masses. He was very proud of that fact. Ebenezer was also very, very proud of his children. His oldest son worked for one of the leading High Street Banks, His daughter was a Senior Charge Nurse in the NHS – the NHS, founded by his beloved Labour Party all those years ago. While he was very proud of both, it was the achievement of his youngest that brought a particularly warm glow to Ebenezer, Yes his youngest was just about to complete his Masters Degree  at Oxford. Not bad for the son of an impoverished refugee from Eastern Europe was it. Less than six hours earlier he had returned from the Referendum Count and he was still giddy, still drunk from the celebrating that had followed the victory for his Better Together followers. The Union was safe. ‘God Bless The Queen’ he murmoured to himself. Now surely with the blight of separation vanquished his country would return to normal. 2015 would see Labour, his beloved Labour, returned to power at last and the promises made by his leader Ed would come to pass. Great Britain would become not only Great once more but Socially Just as well……..Good God he must have had too much too drink. He was feeling so tired now. Tired but still deliriously happy. But oh so tired

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. The moaning and groaning that emanated from the wraith chiiled poor Ebenezer to the bone. He tried to run but found that his feet remained fastened to the ground as if stuck by glue. It wasn’t the sight of a wizened, shrivelled, death like figure  pouring out words of gloom and despair that scared Ebenezer. God No. He was used to such sights having witnessed Jim Murphy and Alistair Darling close up. It wasn’t the shrieking and moaning emanating from the apparition either that filled him with fear. Not after being up close and personal to Johann Lamont and Margaret Curran in full saliva dribbling flow. He just couldn’t explain why the words “Oh Ebenezer what have you done”? should fill him with such icy dread.

The apparition was getting closer and Ebenezer could now just about discern some features.It was shrouded in a dirty grey garment, the type once worn by the criminals of Dickensian times A garment that concealed its face and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. A hand, seeking help from someone, anyone.

“Wow,” Ebenezer muttered to himself. Then with great difficulty uttered the words. “Explain yourself sir. What do you mean by what have I done?”

The Phantom suddenly stopped, still a good few yards from the stricken, paralyzed Ebenezer, Suddenly, with a flick of his fingers, he magically allowed a mammoth TV screen to appear as if from nowhere. With another flick, the screen came to life. An image of a newsreader appeared. “Good evening and welcome to BBC News” the figure intoned. “Tonight’s Headlines. Today our glorious Prime Minister Boris Johnson announced he was scrapping further development on the new Internal Security Agency he had initiated only six months earlier. The system based on the US Homeland Security model was widely perceived to develop as a rival to MI5 and MI6. No reason was given as to the reason for the cancellation but sources close to our beloved demagogue dismissed the persistent ill-founded rumours that the scrapping of the ‘ British Information Gathering And Security Service’ was due to the acronym being used to describe our glorious saviour”

“Wait a minute that can’t be right” cried a disbelieving Ebenezer.

“Yeah you’re spot on ” responded the figure. “Wrong time, wrong place. I can’t work out these newfangled gadgets at all.”

“No”, protested Ebenezer. “I mean Boris Johnson as Prime Minister. That wasn’t supposed to happen. We were assured, promised even, that Ed Miliband would be the Prime Minister if Scotland voted NO.”

“Oh he should have been” countered the figure. “Trouble was, the right wing press and TV channels just carried right on doing to the Labour Party what they’d been doing to the YES Scotland movement. Denied them the oxygen of publicity, ridiculed their leader at every opportunity, fed you repeated images of  Labour failures and Tory successes. Pressed the fear button at every opportunity. Very effective it was too. Six months later the Conservative Government that the media were clamouring for won the day. Good God  that shocked us up here in the Twilight Zone I can tell you –  and you got Boris. Richly deserved if you ask me.

“But that’s just not fair”, bleated Ebenezer.

With a speed not seen since Gideon Osborne’s attempt to flee from Bernard Ponsonby, the wraith-like figure flew towards the hapless Ebenezer, pulling up short only feet from the cowering man. “Not fair, Not fair”, it bellowed. “So it was perfectly legitimate for your beloved Better Together to carry out these tactics but when the shoe was put on the other foot, you squealed like banshees. Gave us real banshees the pip so it did”.

With an effort, the Phantom forced itself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, it continued. “My God you mortals in B8 are so dumb and easily duped”, it sighed.

“B8?” Ebenezer questioned meekly

The apparition took a deep breath. “Yes B8″, it repeated. B is the country’s initial, so B for Britain, 8 is the position said nation holds in the Astral League Democracy Table for countries beginning with that initial. At the moment your country is tied for eighth place with Bahrain just behind Burkina Faso. Now if you’d kindly desist from interrupting me, we’d get through this lesson a lot quicker.”

With another snap of his fingers, the screen flickered briefly then came to life again. This time showing images of a mass demonstration in London’s Trafalgar Square. The voice of the earlier newsreader could be heard over the images. “Left wing activist and probable terrorist Christina Votnow became the first casualty of the crazed militant attempts to derail our esteemed Governments’ efforts to transform a crumbling, decaying NHS into a modern, state of the art, efficient, privately run organisation fit for purpose in the 21st century. The fanatic was accidentally struck in the head by a rubber bullet fired by one of our heroic foot soldiers in a legitimate attempt to hold back the bloodthirsty mob.”

“Noooooh”, Ebenezer cried out in despair. “That can’t be right. My lovely Christina is one of the sweetest, gentlest people you could meet. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s a nurse for God’s sake”.

For a brief moment, the Phantom’s body language seemed to soften in pity. “Oh Ebenezer, you poor deluded fool”, it sighed. “Don’t you realize yet that the kindest, loveliest people can be transformed by the sight of the willful destruction of something they hold dear. Your Christina saw what was happening to her beloved NHS. She put up with it and put up with it until she couldn’t put up with it any more. Then she, like so many others, decided to do the ‘right’ thing. What you see is the result”.

By this time Ebenezer was weeping silently, head in his hands.

Remorselessly though the Phantom carried on. This time, with a wave of his hand, the image on the screen faded to blackness, only to spring to life almost instantaneously. Ebenezer cringed inside as he heard the sombre voice of the same newsreader. He found himself, as if compelled by some sinister force to raise his eyes to the screen. This time the image was of a Union Jack bedecked coffin being reverently removed from the innards of a military transport aircraft to the accompanying air of ‘The Last Post’. This time it was a disembodied voice that intoned over the broadcast. “Today our beloved nation is united in sadness as another of our heroic servicemen embarks on his final journey. Today the body of Michael Votnow returns from the conflict in Syraq. Yet another brave soul who made the greatest sacrifice to save our peace loving country from the evils of tyranny….”

“Hah”, explained Ebenezer, relief flooding through him. “Now I know this is all nonsense. Michael is my youngest son. He’s just about to finish his degree at Oxford. He’s going to be a Research Scientist for God’s Sake. There’s no way on earth he’d join the Army. My God you almost had me fooled”.

The spirit said nothing, just looked at him sadly for a brief moment before nodding his head. Yet again the screen flickered, died then came to life. Once again the damned oily voice of that bloody newsreader could be heard. “Today, our beloved Prime Minister and Saviour, Boris Johnson provided the news so many people were praying for. From today forward, all able bodied men and women will be required by conscription, to carry out one years National Service. Mr Johnson also informed the nation that all conscripts will be paid the new adjusted minimum wage of £5 per hour for……”

“STOP PLEASE”, implored Ebenezer. “For the sake of my sanity, no more I beseech you”.

“Very Well”, the Phantom agreed and, with a snap of his fingers the dreaded TV vanished, much to Ebenezer’s profound relief.”I have just one more tale to tell.”

Ebenezer groaned aloud as the iciness that surrounded him grew even icier.

“It concerns your eldest, Stefan. I’m afraid”, the Ghost of Christmas Future continued in a voice filled with unbearable sadness. “For years Stefan did very well in his career at the bank. Very well indeed I have to say. That was until ‘Crash Two’ in 2017. At first your Stefan was one of the lucky ones. The bank relocated him to a Call Centre where he had to field call after call from furious customers, worried sick yet again about their savings and investments. Unfortunately though he was also targeted by his superiors to sell them Home and Life Insurance on each call. A case of trying to rip-off the ripped-off I’m afraid. Poor Stefan’s heart wasn’t in it. He tried his best but continually failed to reach his quota so he was unceremoniously given the heave-ho.”

“Oh No. Poor Stefan”, moaned Ebenezer. “But at least he’s still alive. Thank Goodness.”

The Ghost favoured him with an icy stare that, for some strange reason, reminded Ebenezer of the glares Gordon Brown used to give folk when they questioned his record as Chancellor and Prime Minister. He said nothing for a full minute then carried on. “For a short time, Stefan managed to keep himself and his wife and kids afloat until his savings ran out. Then he was forced to sign on for the new ‘Poverty Allowance’. He found himself being dragged from pillar to post, made to jump through so many hoops he felt like a circus performer. His allowance took so long to be processed that he was forced to beg for food for his wife and children at the Neighbourhood Food Bank…”

“But he could have come to me for help”, interrupted Ebenezer.

“Guess he was too proud or stubborn or both”, the apparition responded. “Anyway, to cut this long story short..Next he knew he was sanctioned for being five minutes late for his appointment with the ‘Governors’. Oh how he begged and pleaded until, in despair, he pushed the official in the chest. Sadly though, the man fell backward and smashed his head. Died instantly poor chap. Next thing you know Stefan is in court charged with murder. His name – Stefan Votenow didn’t help either. Oh how the media lapped that one up.  ‘Illegal immigrant charged with the brutal murder of poor British man who was only doing his job. For the first time in nearly fifty years, the Scottish people witnessed the sight of the black cloth being placed on the judges head…”

“NO..”, Ebenezer cried “that can’t be right. The Scottish Government would never impose the death penalty. The Scottish People would never permit it. It would never get through the Scottish Parliament…It would…..”

“Hah”, scoffed the Ghost..”No they wouldn’t. Unfortunately though, they didn’t have a say. Under pressure from the media yet again, Westminster removed all agreed powers from Scotland. The restoration of the death penalty was the first law they passed following the reclamation. Then the fun really started. You had the Power Companies jostling with the Drug Companies all vying for Electric Chair or Lethal Injection. All rather unseemly I have to say. We even had one Drug Company offering a ‘Kill Ten Get One Free’ Package.


At this moment, the Ghost of Christmas Future took two steps toward the stricken Ebenezer. Then, with a flourish, he whipped away the dirty grey shroud, revealing a blackened face, engorged tongue protruding and the remnants of a fraying noose wrapped ever so tightly around the throat. “Yes Daddy, you’re right”, it sighed sadly. “As usual they chose the cheapest option”.





Related links.