I have been leading a pretty normal and quiet life, for me, since my last blog post; having taken an oath to myself to ignore the rest of the party conference season and especially this weekend's "Ein Riech, Ein Volk, Ein Fuhrer" fest from Manchester, especially as both my 'Screeching hypocrisy' and 'Throwing a wobbly' meters have been stuck in the red in the aftermath of the Yellow and Red Tory Glee Club meetings.
Anyhow; my sister and I were having problems with mother, a default state for both of us, and this required a fair bit of energy and patience with me, from me, to prevent me going to Fife with a GPMG and 10,000 rounds in a vain attempt to get Fife NHS and Fife Social Services to listen and act in a way that was actually in my mother's best interests rather than their own self interest. In the end I wrote to my Mum's MSP - how successful this will be is anyone's guess as my Mum's MSP is Labour, Fife Council is Labour run and it is not with out possibility most of Fife Council Social Service senior management will be Labour appointees. For those who know nothing of Labour politics in Scotland, nepotism is not a dirty word, it is just how things work in Scottish Nu Blu Labour circles - that or a brown envelope with ready cash in it.
It all went horribly wrong for me this lunch time.
I had just arrived in the club house after a nice, jolly and, more importantly, non precipitant round of golf. I was looking forward to a reviving Irn-Bru and an egg and sausage roll, musing cheerily on brown sauce or not to brown sauce, when I disastrously caught sight of the television, even worse BBC Scotland News television, who were in the midst of telling us just how super the real Tory's Conference had been in Manchester. I found this confusing as when I last looked Manchester is not in Scotland, we have more pandas than Tories in Scotland, so why was this headline news in Scotland?
This I could have survived, just. Sadly I made the mistake of looking at the screen, was trapped like a rabbit in the headlights, as there was the Fuhrer of the Real Tory Party, the proper blue one, resplendent in his bouffant hair, polished baw face, little piggy eyes, mouth which reminds me of my cat's dirty arse hole and most terrifying of all heard the word 'Scotland'. As my traitorous ears picked up every mincing, patronising and completely insincere word the Macaroon was uttering, telling me how much everyone else in the UK did not want us Scots to go, we are all such fine chums, think of all the people from across these isles my predecessors as Tory Prime Minister have sent all over the globe to die alongside you Jocks, so we few, we tiny few could get monstrously rich on the backs of all their dead bodies (and those of the natives, who do not really count because they are not one of us and are actually immigrants), please do not go Scotland, we love you, honest, even though you are a bunch of whining, subsidy junkies. I briefly teeter tottered on the fine balance between manic hysteria (and putting a chair through the plasma screen) or despair and went for despair (it was by far the simpler and cheaper option) then headed off to flush my head down the toilet.
The questions dear reader, for you to ponder and help me find answers to are;
The cistern has just finished filling, must go .....Anyhow; my sister and I were having problems with mother, a default state for both of us, and this required a fair bit of energy and patience with me, from me, to prevent me going to Fife with a GPMG and 10,000 rounds in a vain attempt to get Fife NHS and Fife Social Services to listen and act in a way that was actually in my mother's best interests rather than their own self interest. In the end I wrote to my Mum's MSP - how successful this will be is anyone's guess as my Mum's MSP is Labour, Fife Council is Labour run and it is not with out possibility most of Fife Council Social Service senior management will be Labour appointees. For those who know nothing of Labour politics in Scotland, nepotism is not a dirty word, it is just how things work in Scottish Nu Blu Labour circles - that or a brown envelope with ready cash in it.
It all went horribly wrong for me this lunch time.
I had just arrived in the club house after a nice, jolly and, more importantly, non precipitant round of golf. I was looking forward to a reviving Irn-Bru and an egg and sausage roll, musing cheerily on brown sauce or not to brown sauce, when I disastrously caught sight of the television, even worse BBC Scotland News television, who were in the midst of telling us just how super the real Tory's Conference had been in Manchester. I found this confusing as when I last looked Manchester is not in Scotland, we have more pandas than Tories in Scotland, so why was this headline news in Scotland?
This I could have survived, just. Sadly I made the mistake of looking at the screen, was trapped like a rabbit in the headlights, as there was the Fuhrer of the Real Tory Party, the proper blue one, resplendent in his bouffant hair, polished baw face, little piggy eyes, mouth which reminds me of my cat's dirty arse hole and most terrifying of all heard the word 'Scotland'. As my traitorous ears picked up every mincing, patronising and completely insincere word the Macaroon was uttering, telling me how much everyone else in the UK did not want us Scots to go, we are all such fine chums, think of all the people from across these isles my predecessors as Tory Prime Minister have sent all over the globe to die alongside you Jocks, so we few, we tiny few could get monstrously rich on the backs of all their dead bodies (and those of the natives, who do not really count because they are not one of us and are actually immigrants), please do not go Scotland, we love you, honest, even though you are a bunch of whining, subsidy junkies. I briefly teeter tottered on the fine balance between manic hysteria (and putting a chair through the plasma screen) or despair and went for despair (it was by far the simpler and cheaper option) then headed off to flush my head down the toilet.
The questions dear reader, for you to ponder and help me find answers to are;
- Was mine a normal response to this olenaeceous, insipid, mono-synaptic and primordial slime of a man or am Independence Virus positive?
- If I am Independence Virus positive is their any hope for me or am I destined to be 'Doomed! Doomed I tell ye!' just like Alisdair the goat faced eyebrows keeps bleating on about?
- Should I continue to flush my head down the loo or go and lie down in a darkened room?
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