Telly ho

Hello sweeties

I was supposed to be at the opening of something last night. Dashed if I can remember what — a film, an art gallery, a bottle, an envelope. Who can keep up? (Not my Aristotle that’s for sure. If it weren’t for Viagra, I don’t think he could even raise a smile.)

Anyway as I was saying before I interrupted myself, I was due to attend some event or other that held promise of paparazzi, oodles of shampoo and enough dashing young men to light a lady’s candle at both ends. It should have been a memorable evening that I would happily have forgotten by the morning. But sadly it was not to be as some selfish beggar upped and died and the bally thing was cancelled.

Instead, I had to — darlings I can barely bring myself to say it — I had to stay in and watch television. How can poor people cope with having to do that every evening? It really is beyond me.

I watched EastEnders, which I believe is very popular, and it was nearly finished before I could make out what any of them were saying. Gosh isn’t it absolutely dreary? Horribly drab little people leading horribly drab little lives. So unrealistic. How can these people spend so much time in that scruffy little public house and still get work done? Truly, drink is the work of the cursing classes as dear old Oscar Wilde said.

To help me through the rigours of “telly watching” —as Marge, the lady who does for me, calls it — I naturally had to turn to the soothing qualities offered by Great Uncle Bollinger’s healing waters. If the poor people drank lashings of shampoo while they watched this tosh then it might almost be bearable for them. I really don’t know why more of them don’t try it.

Before long I was quite palintoshed, swearing at the goggle box like a trooper. Not terribly ladylike I must admit but have you seen the hogwash that is on there? There was salvation of a sort with a deliciously terrible programme called What Not To Wear where a couple of well-bred types called Skinny and Fat Anna make ugly people dress better. It’s a proper hoot.

Darlings I was laughing like a drain, I tell you. They dragged on these tasteless little trolls who looked like they had been dressed in the dark by blind idiots or held hostage by beggars. Then Skinny and Fat Anna made fun of them, poked them with sticks and called them lesbanians before dressing them up in the most ghastly creations and convincing them that they look lovely. Laugh? I nearly soiled the upholstery.

At the end they bring the trolls back on, newly decked out in Marks and Spencer’s finest tat and stand back in amazement at the transformation from council house trash to council house chic. All the while Skinny and Fat Anna are standing behind them sniggering and winking at the camera. Gosh you’ve got to love these gals. Well maybe not the fat one.

Talking of fashion faux pas, did you see that frightful Fergie stripped off for charity? The porky one wore nothing but a pair of darling Jimmy Choos that were most certainly not designed to adorn pig’s trotters. Uggh, pass the LSD and call me forgetful. Charity, my Aunt Belinda! That ginger trollop is keener to get her clothes off than your average rapist. Old velcro knickers, as the dear Queen Mum used to call her. Meiow.

Just time for a bit of skinny before I take my leave. Henny Throckmorton told me not to tell a soul but I know you won’t let it go any further. A certain socialite of our acquaint — no names, no pack drill but her initials are TPT — was seen congratulating the British athletics team at that bash in town on Monday. Henny says that TPT and the golden boys of the relay team were doing a spot of unauthorised baton changing that left the strumpette quite breathless. Word is that still wasn’t enough and la Tara was miffed that they only went round the once. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Lady P

Edwin Morgan’s tea is oot

Whit is it wi Edwin Morgan?

Is he looking for a fight?

Is he cruising for a bruising?

Is it cos he cannae write?

Ah’m the poet in this toon

Ah’m a poet in ma prime

Ah’m Jack Topaz McConnell

Morgan cannae even rhyme

His poems are pure rubbish

They couldnae be much dimmer

Ah’m no staunin for that shite

Fae an old bloke wi a zimmer

I ken fine whit he was up tae

He wis trying to get me going

Am gonnae put my fit up his arse

Till only ma heel is showing

He wis trying to wind me up

Wi that “wisnae me” sly dig

Me sittin wi the Queen an aw

The auld bugger’s sure a pig

Ah gave free care for the elderly

An whit thanks dae ah get, eh?

The auld sod jist takes the piss

In front of Nicola Benedetti

But ah’ll hae the last laugh

When he pops his vital organ

Ah’ll be the poet laureate

The New Labour Edwin Morgan

Local Government Councillors

The Accused

Scottish Local Government Councillors

The Charge

That they did wilfully and systematically bring into disrepute the name of local democracy through the pursuance of vainglorious self-gratification; further that they did allow the pompous, egotistical and disrespectful amongst their number to dominate to the detriment of the constituents whom they are elected to serve and the officers who are charged to implement their half-witted, lamebrained policies; thirdly that they did, and continue to, routinely abuse the position of their office by making brutish and unreasonable demands backed by imperious and bullying behaviour, clodhopping ignorance on a scale that could scarcely be imagined by Professor Stephen Hawking on mind-expanding drugs and provincial, roughneck philistinism that would not be out of place in the more unpolished parts of the Southern states of America.

The Case for the Prosecution

Many great men have lived, fought and died for democracy. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Che Guevara, Leon Trotsky and Aneurin Bevan all shared a common dream and a common aim: government of the people, for the people by the people. Each man believed that it was a privilege to be elected into office by the people to represent their views, share their aims and aspirations and fight for what they believed was right and true. Each man embodied and exemplified moral and ethical fortitude along with a fierce pride in his position and duties. And each man was prepared to die for the principles he held so true.

How sad it is then that I have to stand here today pursuing a group of these privileged few: a group which has taken the very name of democracy and besmirched and befouled it; a group which is not fit to lace the boots of the people who never passed the interview for the job of making toilet paper for democracy’s founding fathers; a group which should hold its collective head in shame, boil it and make daft soup. I am talking, of course, about Scottish local government councillors. Such a band of asinine, quarrelsome, ineffectual, inadequate, mean, nasty, petty, obtuse, domineering, witless, trivial, uneducated, vulgar, ostentatious, conceited, inarticulate, inflated, narcissistic, crass and bombastic imbeciles as has rarely been witnessed on these or any other shores.

Fuelled by a misplaced sense of power and greed, puffed up with a misplaced sense of their own importance and blessed with no sense whatsoever, these blundering, belligerent, bellicose boneheads march and trample their way over the very people who are trying to deliver what the Councillors themselves clearly can not – services to the electorate. Pushing their way into issues they could never understand even if they were wearing Joe90 glasses, these boorish, bird-brained, bloated buffoons think they know better, think they can always get what they want when they want it regardless of whether what they want is available, reasonable or even physically possible and think they can do all of this because of who and what they are.

That, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, is their first mistake.

Thinking.

Perhaps that is an activity best left to those of us with a properly functioning brain.

Whether looking for the latest technology toy (all at the taxpayer’s expense), massaging Council tax debt figures, interfering in housing allocations, railroading through planning permission for their friends or for companies in which they have a vested interest, there is no new low to which they will not stoop and no vice or crime of which they are not capable. All while claiming expenses of course.

Let us stop, for a moment, and ponder these Scottish local government councillors. Let us prod the soft underbelly of corruption, pomposity and half-wittedness that is their very hallmark. Let us look underneath the hood of their stupidity and see what makes them tick.

They are essentially a simple people but come from once noble stock. Unfortunately, this once noble stock has moved on to pastures new in Edinburgh, leaving their less-talented brethren, sometimes called “numpties” behind. Lacking in any formal education they communicate using a primitive language consisting almost entirely of grunts and Anglo-Saxon obscenities. They are very small in stature with the tallest measuring no more than 4 feet 11 inches. Yet their hands and fingers are monstrously enlarged making any delicate movement such as the use of a mobile telephone virtually impossible. Their complexion is uncannily ruddy due to an unending diet of free Chamber of Commerce lunches and visits to whisky distilleries.

Do not be fooled by this apparently bucolic exterior, though. Behind it lurks a massive, and justified, inferiority complex. In normal circumstances, these brutes are content to manifest this inferiority complex by bludgeoning their own kind in a regular Friday night rough-and-tumble. When they are elected to office however, it takes a more sinister turn. Constrained by their proximity to decent people, local government Councillors find that society has little time for explicit violence. The physical has to give way to mental abuse with bullying, sexism, disrespect, obscenity and bad manners at the core.

And abuse is the appropriate and condign word here. Abuse of power. Abuse of position. Abuse of those who actually do the work.

Edmund Burke once said that all it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to stand and do nothing. And it is precisely through other people (I am loth to brand them good men) doing nothing that these self-centered, lubberly louts have been allowed to gain ascendancy. When the spanking, brand-new Scottish Parliament building opened last week the occasion was correctly marked by quiet Scottish dignity. Edwin Morgan wrote a poem to celebrate the occasion. In what is admittedly not one of his finer works, he warns the new incumbents about the Scottish people’s desires for the new parliament:

A nest of fearties is what they do not want

A symposium of procrastinators is what they do not want

A phalanx of forelock-tuggers is what they do not want

And perhaps above all the droopy mantra of ‘it wizny me’ is

what they do not want

Well, I’m afraid the phalanx of forelock-tuggers and nest of fearties are alive and well in Scottish local government, pandering to the very whim of these knuckleheaded nitwits for fear that the doors of their own careers are swiftly and permanently shut. A blind eye is turned. Mrs McGlumphy gets her house. The Scottish Rural Housing Association gets its planning permission despite local objections. And honourable Council officers are forced to fall upon their sword to maintain the face, and career, of their own managers. It goes on every day up and down the land.

So let’s take our cue from the Scottish poet laureate. Let’s rid our country once and for all of the small-time, small-minded small-fry who do such a disservice to the very name of local democracy.

The Case for the Defence

Dimished stature and lack of education should be no barriers to the proper exercise of the democratic process and it is probable that only a small number of bad apples are present in the barrel that is local democracy.

Verdict

Guilty!

Sentence

The prosecution has articulately and persuasively laid out the full enormity of this case and the sentence I intend to levy upon the perpetrators is not a light one. Had the normal course of action been allowed to prevail then the electoral process would have consigned these overbearing, truculent and cantankerous numskulls forever to the dustbin of local history. Their subsequent undoubted replacement by an equally fatheaded, presumptuous and puffed up bunch of knuckleheads, dimwits and simpletons is not within the ambit of this case or pronouncement.

Sad to say, a combination of bullying and threatening behaviour by the accused and a failure to act by those feckless lackeys who could and should have reported this behaviour when the opportunity presented itself merely engendered an environment where this tin-pot sexist, ill-mannered, monomaniacal malfeasance was allowed to flourish.

It is my grave duty, therefore, to impose a sentence that will serve both as a timely warning to all those who decide to follow the political path and a stark reminder to those who stray from it in the pursuit of greed and personal gratification. Let it also stand as a warning to those who stand by and do nothing. It was not a reasonable defence at Nuremberg and it is not a reasonable defence in my courtroom.

I hereby sentence all local government councillors to be suspended by their feet, their heads resting in a bucket of corpulent Welsh Darts legend Leighton Rees’ diahorrea until it pleases me to release them. I would further say that those representatives in the West of Scotland who are affected by this judgement should hold no hope of an early reprieve.

The Nissan Micra

The Accused

The Nissan Motor Company Limited

The charge

That the accused did wilfully and with malice aforethought manufacture very small low-powered cars and flagrantly market the same to immensely fat people with poor spatial awareness thereby preventing commuters from going about their rightful daily business.

The case for the prosecution

Ladies and Gentlemen, when Nissan USA president Yutaka Katayama introduced the compact pickup to America in 1959, he espoused a philosophy that was part Zen and part car aficionado: “Love cars, love people, love life.” When I was driving to this very court today I saw, and not for the first time, a hugely obese woman “driving” a Nissan Micra in the middle lane of the motorway at 40mph and I espoused a somewhat different philosophy. As there are likely to be children and people of finer sensibilities listening to this case, I will not repeat that particular philosophy here.

Suffice to say that the ghastly sight of some vast and lardy middle-aged female squeezed unceremoniously into a small tin and plastic wheeled box is not one that the eye welcomes so early in the day. Apart from the obvious visual enormity of the event, there is an altogether more sinister and indeed dangerous aspect to be considered. The viewer’s brain. Bereft of mental stimulation, the daily commuter will fall on the slightest curious incident like a pack of ravenous hyena on a wounded wildebeest. And this one is no exception. How did she get into that car in the first place? Given her relative bulk and the comparative tininess of the target space, the exercise was evidently not conducted by self alone.

So what fiendish accomplice, oiled and gloved, was responsible for squeezing and coaxing the behemoth into the Micra? How long did it take? Were wheels and pullies employed? Or large sticks and shoe-horns? Did a crowd of jeering small boys assemble to encourage the ingress? Which parts of respective anatomies came into contact to effect an entry? Hand on posterior? Like some appalling pastiche of Sartre, did it disappear right up to the elbow? What forces must have been at play!

And how would she be able to handle basic driving skills like steering when she clearly could not get her hands anywhere near the steering wheel, jammed against her voluminous folds of gut like it so clearly was. Had she perfected by way of necessity some kind of Tantric lower-abdominal muscle-control? And what of braking? The momentum of such a hideously disproportionate human frame encased in such a flimsy automobile careering along the Queen’s highway would surely not be halted by the mere application of rubber on metal. Presumably this goes a long way towards explaining precisely why a slow driving pace is required.

I think you will agree, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, that such thoughts are not the correct thoughts to be thinking when public road safety is of such obvious paramount importance.

In all the years that I have been kneeling at the feet of Genesius, I can safely say that I have never encountered such a depraved example of corporate barbarism as that displayed by the accused. The purveying of cancerous tobacco products, improperly-tested genetically-modified foodstuffs and even clackers pale into insignificance beside the considerable shadow of the Nissan Micra and its archetypal driver.

The case for the defence

Customer satisfaction levels are high.

Verdict

Guilty!

Sentence

Rarely have I had to listen to a case that so chills the marrow. Having considered punitive financial, custodial and indeed even mortal sentences, I am drawn inexorably to the most severe punishment that the law allows. I hereby sentence every senior executive within Nissan to drive a Nissan Micra until that day that he dies.