(S)praying For The Country

Dear God,

Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?
I haven’t had so much excitement since I was a but a child and that big, burly farmer bellowed at me to, ‘Get the fuck out of my wheat field, ya wee bastard!’
Peed my pants that day, I can tell you. Gave a whole new meaning to crop spraying.

And that fellow was so out of order. It was, after all, a devil-may-care moment, shared, I’m sure, by all normal children from time to time.
Honestly, who hasn’t, in the flush of exuberant youth, cast off the yoke of obedience, thrown caution to the wind and trespassed on someone else’s property? I like to think of it as my ‘Buckfast in the park’ moment. Pissed, at least, in one sense of the word. Har, de, har, har!
Such japes.

I should, of course, have left those days behind for good and followed daddy’s advice. ‘Be a good girl.’
Such wise words.
He was quite the sage, you know. Well, you would know.
I learned so much from him.
Although he did have the unfortunate habit of speaking in cliches.
Ah, but he was so strong and stable.
And I did take his advice.
I was as good as good can be.
But, Jesus wept, (my bad), it was so boring.

People used to look at me like I was some sort of robot. Always doing as I was supposed to do. ‘Tess the Tame’, I once overheard someone whisper. Well that, and ‘Little Miss Pee-Your-Pants’.
Can’t trust anyone to keep a secret, I’ve found to my cost.

I suppose I just had to rebel at some point.
I’ve practised quietly for years.
Doing little things here and there, you know.
Never accept a court judgement.
Make stubbornness an art form.
Under no circumstances, give in. Except sometimes. Stamp a metaphorical foot in the recesses of your mind.
Curse them all. ‘Ya cunts, I’ll have you, one day!’
So liberating. In a mental, internalised, repressed sort of way.

And another wheat field day arrived.

How I longed to relive that glorious, carefree day. Without the final flood.

I felt sure, this time, that I would get away with it. I was sure I had the farmers and everyone else on side. I had practised speaking naturally till I had it almost off pat.

I had traipsed all over the country, talking to a few people in barns and the like. What is it with me with farms and isolation? Might need to work on that too.
I had even, as one does, practised, to the mirror, keeping my face composed at all times, so that no one, no, not even daddy, would know what I was thinking. All those, ‘fuck off ya trumpet’ thoughts were so well contained, apart from the odd twitch of my lips when I almost came right out and said it.
‘It’s my party now! I’m in charge! I’m head girl! Getyersel’ tae yer ain wheatfield!’
I had it all carefully organised.

And then I peed my pants again.

Thank god for Tena Lady.
I have shares in them, you know.
Always be prepared.

And now that corn-coloured, flop-haired saboteur is on his bike again, working up what passes for a sweat in the crack of his arse.
Waiting in the wings. Ready to steal my thunder. Undermining me at every turn. I don’t need his help for that. I can do things by myself. I have words. And stuff.

I’ve always been a loner, though.

Didn’t do naughty till that day, back then.
The shame of it haunts me still.

I’m not saying I’m going to flip. That would be so middle-class. And daddy wouldn’t have approved.

But, I swear to god, if I hear one mention of ‘pishing it’, I’ll sell my shares in Tena Lady and spray this country from Land’s End to John O’ Groats.

And, with the wind in the right direction, so, help me, Ireland will taste my piss.

I will be remembered as the biggest piss artist of all time.

Got to be remembered for something, after all.

Amen.

(source)

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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

The Illusion

Same song, different day
Carnival is still in play
Donald Trump and Theresa May
Shit and sawdust strewn our way

Ever apt it seems

scottishmomus

Below are the words I wrote to one of Johnny’s amazing tunes. It’s called, ‘The Illusion’.

It made me think of the circus (which I hate). And politics. And we, the people. This world of ours.

I hope you enjoy the results of this particular collaboration.

Some people may be offended by some of the images. What can I say? I’m offended by them too.

Here is the circus, here is the street,

Ringmaster has found the beat,

Try to keep up with his song,

Try to march in time along.

 

This is the game we all play,

Carnival is now the way,

Jugglers, clowns perform, we pay,

Sideshow stalls have won the day.

 

See, look, the Big Top, there go the lions,

Whipped to submit, they stride in time,

Prancing ponies do their thing,

All well-trained for circus ring.

 

Fire-eaters and trapeze acts,

Contortionists, acrobats,

Bearded lady…

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Fighting For

temper

(source)

Why are you fighting, why do you foam

What are you fighting for

Why petted pout and tetchy tantrum

The slamming of all open doors

Has someone pained you with their lying

Stolen your toys or treats

Why crocodile tears, the threat of more crying

The stamping of petulant feet

Who has affronted, who has offended

Sensibilities, pride or your dress

Or have you broken fences that cannot be mended

Grow up now and own up, confess

Have you hurt your friends, insulted their name

Been a bully, a braggart, a pest

Are you really culprit and won’t take the blame

Have you really tried what is best

Why are you fighting, what is your cause

And who are you hurting the most

Where common sense in all that is lost

Your brain in meaningless boasts

Time to reflect on the nature and meaning

Why no friends now come to your door

Why are you fighting, what are you fighting

Just who are you fighting for