Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t taken on this job. Everybody is being mean to me while I’m just trying my best to fulfil the will of the people. If only I knew what that was. The numbers and facts are so confusing. I thought it would be easy. But it’s not. It’s so hard! Hard Brexit. That’s all I meant by that.

And now everyone is pushing me this way and that. I’m heading down a one-way alley and I think I might get a kicking at the bottom of it.  Tackety boots are looming and my kidneys are turning to mush. I can feel it in my water.

Everything I said before is coming back to haunt me. Quotes that made sense then being used against me now. As if a lady can’t change her mind. I mean, that’s a foregone thingy. We get to do that. Look at Ruthie. She does it all the time. And nobody picks her up on it. Except those pesky Nats. Always wanting to clarify what was said then with what’s being said now. Things change. Don’t they, Diary?

I mean, if I flip back through your pages, I know that there will be a few things that are difficult to explain. But that’s the nature of politics. We fabricate. Embroider a bit. Lie occasionally. Sometimes a lot. Everybody knows that. I don’t know why some people are making such a fuss about it. Even people on my own side. Infamy! They all have it in for me. Such a carry on!

I think the EU have their knives ready too and I’m going to be carved up as soon as I say Article 50. It’s not looking good, Diary. I feel like I’ve been prepped for a feast and I’m the main meal. It’s not meant to be like this. It was meant to be glorious. Like back in the day. You know, empire and all pulling together under difficult circumstances. Vera Lynn and a singsong. Everybody was meant to rally!

Maybe I should resign. Leave it to those cads that buggered off after the vote. Let them wipe up their own jizz.

What to do, Diary? Tell me. Please. I’m not kidding. I don’t know who to trust any more. Gideon’s gone and got another job and I think he might have it in for me too! Little shit that he is. Probably penning hate mail as I write. What will I do? I don’t know if I can cope with any more facts from my own people. Bad enough the Others getting at me across the floor – bastards, I owe Angus Robertson one for that screeching comment – but having to fend off your own people is too much. Maggie didn’t have this in the beginning. Everybody sucked up her jacksie. I’m being hung out to dry!

I wasn’t all that brill as a home secretary but I thought I could get away with this role. Everybody would support me. Lots of people to back me up and make me look good. But they don’t. Even when I tell them the colour of Brexit some people insist on being obtuse. I need to keep saying the same things over and over and over and over and over again to get them to understand. And still they make out that I’m not being clear. I mean, how clear do I have to be? I’ve practically drawn a picture and coloured it in. And they just don’t understand that the colour is so important. It has to be red, white and blue.

And now that awful woman, with the fishy name, is threatening to take the blue out of my picture. It’s beyond the pale. Just who does she think she is? Anyone would think that she was the leader of a country or something. Instead of the leader of that shower of separatists who want to split my precious. How dare she! I am the ring keeper. The guardian of the one that binds us all. It’s my job. My privilege. I have been chosen. Well not chosen, exactly. I volunteered and the rest were woeful. Chosen by default. Anyway, I’m it. And I know I can do this. I just need to keep repeating positive mantras, try not to say say ah and um too often and I might get away with it.

Diary, I think I need to go call on some friends and get the word out  here and there that the Scots are splitters. Poor splitters at that. Poor I tell you. Incapable. Such a drain on us. Unappreciative of the gracious bounty we bestow on them. Willing to jeopardise my our glorious Brexit. Unwilling to be used as collateral. I don’t even know why we keep them around. Well, obviously, I do, but that shall be our little secret, Diary. Yes, I know that our credit rating looks dodgy if they leave but they don’t know that, do they? Do they? They do. Oh, shit! Back soon, Diary. Wonder if Gordon can remember his lines.

 

Dear Tess,

Don’t take this personally but I can’t cope any more with your mental meanderings. Word to the wise. Stop. Don't write anything else down. Don't speak. Just stop. 

Don't look for me. To save you from further embarrassment, I've thrown myself onto a bonfire.

Good luck. You're gonna need it. 

Diary
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Colder Now

Another wee bit of a song happening here, with a bit of stabby finger-pointing going on in a certain direction. Think, ‘Up yours!’

I don’t care what you say

I don’t care how you say it

Don’t give a damn ’bout what you’re sayin’

Have no reason to believe it

 

All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact

 

I don’t care how you feel

I don’t care how you play it

Don’t give a fuck what you’re feelin’

Have no reason to conceal it

 

All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact

 

I don’t mind if you die

I don’t mind how you do it

I won’t give a damn while you’re dyin’

Have no reason to cry or mourn it

 

All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact

 

Too late to care or to pretend it

Too late to say that we can mend it

All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, dead to me now

Don’t want your words, don’t need your act

Dissembled slogans, broken pacts

Pretence of unrequited hearts

I don’t care, we’re through, suck on that fact

 

The lunatics have taken over the asylum. I’m finding myself agreeing – most oddly – with old-school Tories on how mental everything is surrounding Brexit. I’m looking at yer wummin down below and thinking, ‘No fuckin’ way is that representing me here or anywhere.’

Then I see our Mhairi, 22 years young, sticking up for folk who need defending and doing it in that house of wankers and I know, 100%, that they can all take a running jump off a steep cliff and I won’t lift a hand to stop them now.

Uptight arses, the whole lot of them. Maybe Mhairi was saying, ‘You’re talking shite, hen.’ Maybe she wasn’t. Listening to the shite that was being talked, I tend to think that she was, for it was exactly what I was thinking myself and it is exactly what is being said here every time another arse drops a load. Clean up in Westminster. Drowning in their own shite, so much more to follow and I’m past caring. So much colder now.