Shuggie sat in his dingy, damp and insanitary single end in Drumchapel holding a mug of peely-wally tea made from a tea bag on its fifth recycle. Grey / black mould covered the windows which had long given up any thermal advantage their double glazing may once have provided. This had once been a three bedroom flat but what with bedroom tax and the rest they had been turned into the single end his Great Granny had often talked about. Sink, cooker and a bed which doubled as the sofa during the day. The bathroom - when it worked - was shared between himself and two families of four packed in to other two single ends in the flat.
Maybe, tonight, he would have some power and he might get a few hours of the 'They bleed you till you drop' charity marathon that is on tonight. Through the single plasterboard partition he could hear the usual bout of sexual violence going on as Ms McGlashan came home drunk and took it out on her 'bidie-in'. First there was the punchin' and then there was the gruntin' and then there was her triumphant, orgasmic cry of 'Ya basta'.
It was now 2050 and the National Unity Government, forced on the country in 2015 by the British Establishment as a result of the hung parliament of that year, had yet to hold any elections. "What was the point?" the establishment said, "It was a 'unity' government after all, supported by 60% of the voters". Yet it was never that and always had been a fudge to keep the UK drifting to an ever greater fascist state for the benefit for the few and not the many.
Shuggie could not bear going down to Glasgow Green anymore.
The smell coming off the Clyde from all the upstream fracking turned his stomach plus what pleasure was there looking at a thick, grey, orange sludge struggling to get over the weir to the sound of plopping jobbies as it fell, a weir which once gurgled in delight and salmon jumped over. It was not just Jesus who could walk on the water of the Clyde at Glasgow Green, anyone with chemical resistant boots could as well. Where the fours and eights of the University used to row was now just another septic tank.
To add to all this glaur and pathos was the statue put up on the Green by the East End Gang's big boss, Louis Rodden, in tribute to Saint Jim of Inverclyde for his beneficence towards them in grants, subsidies and back handers, as they made billions out of St Jim's housing reforms in the East End. Homelessness, said Saint Jim, nae problemo, just make all the flats into single ends. Rodden's gang enforcers, I mean - arms length, Glasgow council bailiffs, will make sure folk pay on time and if they don't they will be out on their arse.
There was a chap at his door, his grandson came in, a lad destined to follow his dad 'Shuggie' and Grandad 'Shuggie' into full time unemployment. They had a blether and then his grandson asked Shuggie, "Tell me again Grandda why did you vote Labour in May 2015? I mean did you want Scotland ruined by fracking, nuclear weapons on your doorstep, a life expectancy lower than the slums of Lagos, abject poverty and humiliation, living in over crowded accommodation, crap schools, nae work for a' body and nane o' us able to afford to see the doctors when we're seek?"
"See young 'Shuggy' it's like this, us Shuggies hae always voted Labour for o'er eighty years, They stand for us little people."
"Don't you mean stand all over us little people, Grandda?
Maybe, tonight, he would have some power and he might get a few hours of the 'They bleed you till you drop' charity marathon that is on tonight. Through the single plasterboard partition he could hear the usual bout of sexual violence going on as Ms McGlashan came home drunk and took it out on her 'bidie-in'. First there was the punchin' and then there was the gruntin' and then there was her triumphant, orgasmic cry of 'Ya basta'.
It was now 2050 and the National Unity Government, forced on the country in 2015 by the British Establishment as a result of the hung parliament of that year, had yet to hold any elections. "What was the point?" the establishment said, "It was a 'unity' government after all, supported by 60% of the voters". Yet it was never that and always had been a fudge to keep the UK drifting to an ever greater fascist state for the benefit for the few and not the many.
Shuggie could not bear going down to Glasgow Green anymore.
The smell coming off the Clyde from all the upstream fracking turned his stomach plus what pleasure was there looking at a thick, grey, orange sludge struggling to get over the weir to the sound of plopping jobbies as it fell, a weir which once gurgled in delight and salmon jumped over. It was not just Jesus who could walk on the water of the Clyde at Glasgow Green, anyone with chemical resistant boots could as well. Where the fours and eights of the University used to row was now just another septic tank.
To add to all this glaur and pathos was the statue put up on the Green by the East End Gang's big boss, Louis Rodden, in tribute to Saint Jim of Inverclyde for his beneficence towards them in grants, subsidies and back handers, as they made billions out of St Jim's housing reforms in the East End. Homelessness, said Saint Jim, nae problemo, just make all the flats into single ends. Rodden's gang enforcers, I mean - arms length, Glasgow council bailiffs, will make sure folk pay on time and if they don't they will be out on their arse.
There was a chap at his door, his grandson came in, a lad destined to follow his dad 'Shuggie' and Grandad 'Shuggie' into full time unemployment. They had a blether and then his grandson asked Shuggie, "Tell me again Grandda why did you vote Labour in May 2015? I mean did you want Scotland ruined by fracking, nuclear weapons on your doorstep, a life expectancy lower than the slums of Lagos, abject poverty and humiliation, living in over crowded accommodation, crap schools, nae work for a' body and nane o' us able to afford to see the doctors when we're seek?"
"See young 'Shuggy' it's like this, us Shuggies hae always voted Labour for o'er eighty years, They stand for us little people."
"Don't you mean stand all over us little people, Grandda?
A frightening portent, of a future, which I hope never comes to pass.
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