politics

Sunday Surprises…

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 34 Comments

I have not been tested yet, but I am having to come to terms with the fact that I may be neurotypical. I had not even heard the term before a speaker at a writers’ festival apologised for being one hundred percent neurotypical. Hopefully I’m not at the top of the range. Nobody in my family is neurotypical so I do not understand why this has happened to me. Perhaps it explains why the world around me seems to be descending into madness. At least I could now have a career as a stand up comedian, their routines always come round to revealing they have been diagnosed with some kind of syndrome.

So now with your help I must try and make sense of what is happening in other people’s lives.

If you were the First Minister of Scotland and leader of the Scottish National Party and your husband was arrested for embezzlement from the party you both served, would you have been totally shocked with no idea anything was wrong? Huge amounts of money that came from loyal supporters who wanted an independent Scotland. Not billions, but well over £400, 000 is a lot to disappear without  ANYBODY noticing.

What Peter Murrell bought is what has been most entertaining for the public and a welcome break from darker news. Everything from up market coffee machines to a camper van.

Now I can understand Nicola Sturgeon’s claims that two adults with good salaries would have separate bank accounts and be independent and as a busy career woman she could expect her husband to run the house and the domestic budget. Those of us who had one joint account and a very tight budget can still imagine the scenario.  But the camper van? What wife would not expect that to be a joint purchase with fun discussions about future holidays? What mother would not be surprised to wake up and find a camper van in her driveway? Did Murrell mention it to his mother? Picture the scene with the neighbours…

‘Och how lovely dearie, is your wee Petie goin to take you on a trip up to the highlands?’

Or perhaps other neighbours would not be so happy for her.

‘Hey Hen, whit the **** is that monster vehicle doing blocking the sunlight from oor hoose?’

Perhaps the whole nation should be grateful he was arrested before he made more bizarre purchases.

South American drug lord Pablo Escobar made the original unwise purchase of four hippos for his private estate in the 1980s, making Columbia the only country outside the African continent with a wild hippo population.

Now the two hundred splendid beasts face a cull, but Indian magnate Anant Ambani has offered to rescue eighty of the two hundred and rehome them in his rescue centre. Imagine if Murrell had offered to rescue the remainder?

Have you ever made a mad purchase you regretted? I won’t ask if you have ever been tempted to embezzle…

If I Ruled the World

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Alas just a fantasy, like many of us I cannot imagine anything worse than being a politician, let alone a leader of a nation. After many jobs and career attempts I realised I don’t actually like responsibility, so it is hypocritical of me to tell royalty and politicians of any nation how they should be running things.

We have had many dark days this century for people and the planet and today’s news compounds that. There are places in the world we hear little about and others which are never out of the news, they all matter. In a world of peace we could be helping all people to grow food and be healthy and healing the planet. We have the knowhow, but ordinary folk and clever scientists alike are crushed every day.

What would you tell your leaders this evening?

Do NOT phone him to congratulate him.

Do block incoming suspicious calls.

Certainly do not invite him to visit your country, even privately let alone a state visit; best in fact to alert all ports to look out and detain any world leaders with criminal convictions.

Do assemble the best team of scientists and doctors you have and urge other nations to do the same. Offer sanctuary to the best brains trapped in countries where they can’t use their talents. Get together and plan an alternative unified bloc to run the world.

So, what are you waiting for…let’s go!

Election Exclusive

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Live coverage from my house, all you need to know about the general election.

Who were the other candidates? How boring would elections be if we didn’t have those from minority parties willing to stand… Nick the Incredible Flying Brick, The Official Monster Raving Loony Party, 162 votes and the other strong contender Bobby “Elmo” Smith, Independent, 19 votes.

Other candidates had fun along the campaign trail…

But a more traditionally dressed chap is going to be the new Prime Minister.

Elections are strange things. The only certainty being that new governments rarely keep all their election promises. Hopefully a good outcome, but there were people who got in that we certainly don’t want and some MPS who did not deserve to lose their seats, let down by others in their party. If results were analysed how would you measure success if you were elected?. How many people actually turned up to vote and how many voted for you in desperation to keep someone else out?

Election Night Special

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 26 Comments

Our polling stations have just closed and a long night lies ahead for some. At my polling station the chap checking our photo ID greeted me theatrically with ‘Welcome to the brightest spot in BCP ( the very unoriginal name of our combined councils ). A dull church hall! Then he said ‘Do you like quizzes.‘ Yes I do. ‘Just one question, what is your name?‘ Luckily I passed.

Out and about all day, passing polling stations that weren’t mine, I did see a steady trickle of people heading to vote. On the news they are not allowed to mention politics so instead they kept showing pictures of dogs tied up outside polling stations. Someone on Facebook complained that dogs were not allowed in. One of my earliest memories is of standing outside a polling station in the dark with a tall policeman, the traditional Bobby with a helmet, while my parents went inside. My daughter took her boys with her to vote at 7am and they were allowed in, though probably not allowed to draw pictures on the ballot paper.

Coverage of the count has started on television, how to fill in the long hours waiting for the first count to come in? Lots of intense discussion about what happened last time and what may or may not happen this time. Excitement builds as we start seeing candidates on the stage setting their faces for the right expression when the numbers of votes are read out… Count Binface, Sensible Party 6023 votes, Janet Gogerty, Tidalscribe party 23 votes…

Will you be staying up to follow the results?

If you don’t live in the United Kingdom are you interested?

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Canvassing

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I was pottering in the front garden on Sunday, or rather digging, tugging, planting, weeding, sweating… but it was nice to be out in the sunshine chatting, with all the neighbours also out. I should say the neighbours were going out, coming back, going out again while I went nowhere. But there was still time to chat on matters of importance; which bin is going out this evening, shall I paint your side of the fence? There was a bit of drama when next door sent a text to ask me to go round and check on her daughter who wasn’t answering her phone.

The day was further enlivened when strangers started appearing and some of them were strange. A weird chap had leaflets in his hands.

‘A vote for us is a vote for change. Jerry is a local man born and bred. He will make sure enough social housing is built, while at the same time protecting all our green spaces.’

 Among the bees and blooms I had forgotten we were having a general election, that we were all doomed whoever was in power.

A couple turned up.

‘We’re sure you are aware how much Terrence has done for this town in his sixteen years as your representative.’

‘But he hasn’t done anything to save the planet…’

‘Well nice to speak to you, can we count on your vote on the fourth of July?’

‘Good afternoon, are you fed up with the other parties not keeping their promises and lying?’

‘Have you got any positive policies on the environment…’

‘Yes, in this leaflet you can see us digging a pond at the primary school.’

Along the road there next appeared a strange sight, a flowing green and rainbow cloak, a tall person being led by a guide dog. I couldn’t tell whether he needed the dog because he was blind, or because he had a bucket on his head. It was a bit difficult to hear what he was saying, but the dog seemed to understand.

‘Are you from the Monster Raving Looney Party?’

‘No, that’s the other chap. I’m an independent, Count Bucket Head. Have you decided who to vote for?’

‘No, I just don’t know who to believe.’

‘Well you can count on me, I know what people want because I am a person. My manifesto is in the pamphlet, made entirely from recycled paper, recycled by me with no chemicals used.’

’Yes I can see you have steered clear of the whole glossy leaflet concept.’

I started reading with growing interest.

‘Voting rights for assistance dogs?’

‘Are they not more intelligent than the average voter?’

‘Yes…’

Our pot holed pavements to be made safe with cushionfall laid on all footpaths.

Homes left vacant for more than two weeks to be requisitioned by the local council.

All bonuses to be rescinded and put in a new contingency fund.

‘Whose bonuses?’

‘The bonuses of anyone who gets a bonus.’

I browsed further, there was a lot to read.

‘All sounds good to me, you can count on my vote.’

Silly Saturday – Odd October

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When you are glad you walk everywhere.

Never mind your umbrella, don’t forget to take your phone in case it rains.

Do you ever wish Count Binface had won the election?

When you are invited to join the Green Party

When your neighbour gets new security lights.

How has your week been?

Doors

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Exchanges with strangers used to be mostly about the weather; now as you pass someone walking by the river they are likely to look up from their phone and say ‘Chancellor’s gone’ or ‘She’s resigned then.’ In the queue at the supermarket you will not hear ‘Why can’t they open another till’ but ‘…talk about revolving doors’ or ‘Well, we’ve got another Prime Minister.’

Revolving doors or the usual wooden black door, Number 10 Downing Street must be the most watched door in the country, perhaps in the whole world. If you see a long shot down the short street, or a news camera pans round, you will see banks of cameras and reporters on the other side. One thing you don’t need to remember if you are Prime Minister is your door keys, but you do need to remember other things; slippers off, high heels on, speech notes, the lectern ( each Prime Minister apparently has their own ) and an overnight bag just in case you aren’t allowed back in.

There are many other doors under surveillance by the press. Any MP or minister likely to be resigning, sacked, promoted or reinstated will have the press outside their home. We can watch on breakfast television as they go out jogging or set off for parliament or Downing Street on their bikes or in their cars. One of the many reasons I have never gone into politics is that I would trip as I jogged away, wobble off my bike, or the car wouldn’t start in front of all those cameras. I also have enough trouble getting out of the front door under no pressure, having gone back upstairs at least three times and unlocked the door at least twice for something I’ve forgotten. Our great leaders may not be any good at running the country, but they do know how to get out of their front doors. They do not fiddle around with the door wide open tying up their trainers or pat their pockets ( in the case of the ladies, rummage around in their handbags in panic ) checking they have door keys, car keys, phone, wallet, loose change for the Big Issue man. Nor do they slide out backwards, crouching, trying to make sure the new puppy does not escape. They do not have to drag reluctant children with them who have to be dropped off at school on the way.

It would keep the press on their toes if, just as they asked a pertinent question such as ‘Will you still have a job at the end of today Minister?’ he or she pressed their palm to their forehead and fumbled with their keys to dash back indoors because they had forgotten their briefcase, to feed the cat, go to the loo, lock the back door… Or perhaps they would start to give a newsworthy answer just as their loved one came to the door with hugs and smoochy kisses to wish them luck and say they will still love them, even when they are no longer a Minister.

Forty Four Days – Digital Dialogue – 315

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Well… what did she say?

Darling, you know that is confidential.

Yes, but you can tell your wife.

You know I can’t tell anyone, how many times have we had this conversation?

But these are strange times and you need someone to talk to, like Me. I bet Mama used to tell Papa a few snippets of her weekly audience.

No of course she did not, you know my Darling Mama took her holy vows and traditions seriously.

But you wouldn’t know would you, if she had told him he would never have let her down by giving the game away. So couldn’t you just tell me what you said to her? Just a little bit…

I said ‘Dear Oh Dear.’

That’s what they overheard you saying the other day.

It’s pretty much what I have said every time I have met the wretched woman. I did say more, but I’m sorry my Darling Cam Cams, you are never going to know. However, you can help me with my speech, I think it’s time I addressed the country again.

Yes, yes, you must… such a pity you can’t …well you would make a better job than the lot of them running the country.

I agree and perhaps… no no, I don’t want to be beheaded.

But that was only the first Charles, the second one they were jolly glad to have back again and so they will support you.

But he was only thirty, much younger even than Wills; I’m getting too old for all this business and I certainly didn’t think I would have to break in another Prime Minister so soon… unless I don’t have to because I abolish the office, just temporarily… oh damn it, why not go the whole hog and dismiss Parliament. Come on, let’s get that speech written; have you got your mobile handy? Call the BBC.

Friday Flash Fiction – Digital Dialogue – Gone

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Gone, what do you mean, Gone?

As in lost.

As in Can’t Be Found?

As in Not Found Yet.

Considering you were not to let him out of your sight, let us clarify how long you think he has been missing.

I’m not exactly sure.

And are you sure he is definitely missing, hasn’t just wandered into the garden or gone after the cat?

I… we’ve checked everywhere, not in the flat or the offices.

Not popped next door?

No they have not seen him, we have double checked everywhere.

What about the dog?

He’s not missing, he’s gone with her and the baby to her mother’s.

I’m not worried about that mongrel; so we know he hasn’t gone out with the dog… Bicycle still there?

Where?

Where he keeps it locked up of course, I know it’s your first day on the job, but you did do the induction and familiarisation, Sergeant?

Of course Sir and now you come to mention it, his bike has gone …and his rucksack and the keys to the cabinet…

WHAT! We now have only thirty minutes till the press briefing and we don’t want to call a major security alert.

I don’t think the press conference is our main worry Sir, they can delay it, won’t be the first time, or get that expert chap or one of the ministers? Not really our problem is it Sir, we’re just pro..

Precisely… remind me why you wanted to be a protection officer?

I wanted to do Royal protection duties, but they wouldn’t have me.

This is a most important press briefing, have you seen how many are outside? All we can do now is make sure this doesn’t get out, so before I suspend you from your duties as second in command of the Prime Minister’s protection team, could you contrive to leak some kind of cover up story to Laura Kuenssberg and the BBC.

Covid?

No, we’ve already done that story, think of something else credible that she wont see through…

Friday Flash Fiction 575 – Bonfire

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I walked down the hill to Tuckton Village and passed boarded up shops; as I rounded the bend I saw the guards at the bridge over the River Stour turning people away; it was true, we still had twelve hours before we left the European Union, but Remainer movement was restricted more each day. There was still a chance; I slipped past the ruins of Tuckton Tea Gardens and joined a straggle of people wandering aimlessly, their eyes darting to the river. One man suddenly dashed to an empty boat, struggling to untie the mooring, a shot rang out and the rest of us dived for cover. Round the bend we kept to the trees, it was quiet, we all had the same goal.
‘Fifteen pounds each, this is my last trip!’ whispered the Wick ferryman.
I was the last to squeeze on board, we lay low in the water. I proffered two notes, my last cash now the dispensers were gone. I doubted I would need them; no annual literary dinner now all the Christchurch hotels were commandeered; our writers’ group was unlikely to last another four weeks. As we landed across the river I scrambled to get off, whilst others struggled to get on. They looked desperate, carrying as many belongings as possible, waving wads of money; the only words on their lips ‘Isle of Wight’. I watched as the little boat set off down river, things were worse than I thought. My fears were confirmed when I heard the bell of the Priory tolling. Many people were still around, madness in the air; we surged towards the high street and saw a spiral of smoke rising up.

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Brexit Extreme had grown in power, disconcerting the respectable conservative Brexiteers, confounding the confused abstainers and putting terror in the hearts of Remainers. Hiding amongst the crowds, I made my way towards a bonfire in the centre of the road. The rabble were rushing out of the Regent Centre tossing paintings on the fire. Outside the tourist office a guard urged people to destroy the seditious pamphlets inside. As I edged along the pavement towards the library, guards and civilians came out carrying piles of books, throwing them gleefully on to the blaze. Anything that smacked of elitism or liberalism was being destroyed. I looked up, from an open window fluttered white sheets of paper, the precious work of our writers’ group. I tried to catch them.
A guard spoke gruffly to me ‘You don’t belong to the writers’ group do you?’
‘No, No of course not’ I stuttered, moving on.
Someone fleeing from the library, shielding their eyes from the glare, shouted to me.
‘Aren’t you from the writers’ group?’
‘No, you must be thinking of someone else.’
I tucked my blue scarf with its gold stars deeper under my collar and fled into Saxon Square away from the heat; coming towards me were two members of my writing group; I put my collar up, turned and slipped back into the crowds. I heard a cheer go up, someone was coming out of the Regent Centre carrying aloft the Wooden Quill Poetry Award; he tossed it into the flames. I patted my pocket, inside was the memory stick with all my writing on; was I too late to get to the Isle of Wight?

 

A second anthology from the author of Dark and Milk; some tales are light, others very dark and you will not know which are which until it is too late! Visit places you may or may not find on a map, discover the Hambourne Chronicles and meet people who may not be what they seem.