Try not to despair, remember we’re all a bunch of fibbers
NOW that the election is over it has fallen to me, as the voice of reason on this newspaper, to say a few ill-chosen words before moving on to more important topics.
My words are these: despair; hope; panic. They’re joined together by the word “don’t”. Don’t despair. If you were disappointed this time, you’ll get another chance in five years’ time (British time, that is), unless you die of poverty in the meanwhiles.
Don’t panic. Yes, by all means, stock up on tinned food and cancel your holidays. These are sensible, prudent measures. But don’t run around flapping your wings like a chicken and shouting “Doomed”.
No good ever came of that. It’s been my daily habit for nigh on 40 years, and look where it’s got me. (I remember well the wise words of my wonderful primary school teacher, Miss Mcdonald: “If you don’t apply yourself, Robert, you will end up as a newspaper columnist.”)
Above all, don’t get your hopes up. If you think all the shouting, acrimony and grievance are going away, you’re in for a big surprise, particularly if you’re unlucky enough to live in Scotland, as my researchers tell me many of you do.
There’s always a sense of otherness about being Scottish. We are not as other men. Always something not quite right about us. Too childish and dense to run our own affairs. Badly dressed. Bad diet. Bad luck. And that’s before we get to the politics, which I don’t intend discussing here, when I do not have strong drink before me.
It felt even more otherly where I live. I didn’t really want to vote but stoated doon the road dutifully, with snow-capped mountains in the distance and a right lively sea jitterbugging aboot nearby.
The internet news showed London polling stations with long queues, mainly of mushy-brained young people turning up to use their vote irresponsibly. But it was only me and one other middle-aged bloke at the village hall. For a while, they couldn’t find my name on the register, and I entertained the hope that I could get away with not voting. Alas, eventually, I remembered my name (“I’m sure it’s ‘Mc-something’”) and, to groans all round, they found it, so I waddled into the daft wee booth, took out my folding chair and proceeded to think for a couple of hours.
Thinking always depresses me, as it may do you too (hope you like all the one-syllable words here, spoiled only by “syllable”), so to cheer you up let me tell you some news, brought to you here, er, exclusively: Christmas is coming.
Yes, indeed. As I understand it, it’s a time to be merry, ken? That’s why it’s such a busy time for The Samaritans – nothing more disturbing than compulsory cheer, particularly if you’re on your tod or skint, as are many people in
Britain, the country to which some poor souls emigrate in search of a happy life. It’s the worst advice you ever hear: there are folk worse off elsewhere. Brilliant news!
Here’s some other news just in: we’re all liars. Yes, you thought it was just the politicians. But you’ve been at it all the time. I know I have, though I restrict it to avoiding social invitations: “I’m sorry but that’s the day I’m having my ingrowing eye removed.”
According to a survey of 12,000 bank customers across 13 countries, conducted by University College London and three other universities, more than a third of people in relationships lie to their partners about their finances, such as debt, loans and earnings.
It’s been branded “financial infidelity” and, if you add in the more normal infiddly ellity, or stuff you’ve made up about your background in the special forces, that’s just about everybody covered.
What a state of affairs. It’s getting to the stage where the only place you can go to for truth is newspapers, something I never expected to see in my lifetime. Accordingly, I leave you with some words of hope, panic and despair. Make a run for it it. Just run. Somebody will take you in. Even if, as Scots, we’re not easily taken in.