Missive 1: The Glaswegian Candidate
As 24-hour news cycles through my iPhone Vintage with the joyless intensity of a juiced-up Lance Armstrong; I watch the leaders of our new multi-platform democratic process bitch about un-costed spending pledges and the future of HS2, and muse darkly on the rising radiation levels along Canada’s Pacific coast, caused by the still bleeding Fukushima nuclear power plant. The tedious parade of retrograde poster unveilings (whither the Pinterest party pin-boards people?) and photo missed opportunities rumbles on, as bodies of migrants wash up on the shores of the Med and Islamic State nut-jobs behead Christians and journalists on YouTube. While apocalypse looms – in a trifecta of Eurozone meltdown, geopolitical instability and climate change – seven great clans and their hordes of faceless banner-men slug it out for the Iron Throne of the four kingdoms of (not so) Great Britain. Yes, if you want to know which way the wind is blowing this General Election look no further than the lands of Westeros – if you’re not getting these Game of Thrones references join the message-boards or download the pirated episodes this is the 21st century guys!
So which of these bald men fighting over a comb have impressed me the most? Well the wildlings from beyond the wall in the North are clearly playing three dimensional chess while their opponents are playing KerPlunk. Many pundits have put this down to the seeming basic-level competence of Nicola ‘Surgin’ Sturgeon, who amazed everyone down south with her ability to think and chew gum at the same time. Though however much I liked the Krankees, her tribute act with Alex Salmond isn’t exactly fandabbydozy. No, for me the star player for the SNP this election has been the Glaswegian Candidate – step forward David Cameron.
Many will have noticed, during his recent interview with Paxman, the faraway, disassociated look in the PM’s eyes – not unlike that of Laurence Harvey in John Frankenheimer’s 1962 classic The Manchurian Candidate (available via Netflix, you’ll thank me afterward). Few could appreciate that the entire time, Cameron thought he was sat in a rain-soaked gazebo, surrounded by a host of knitting Scottish Supergrans listening to a history of tartan-weaving while another public schoolboy was garrotted with his school tie. During the late 70s a gang of marauding Scottish footy fans had abducted the young Cameron while he was still a wee laddie. During one long hot summer he was forced to listen to nothing but the poetry of Hugh MacDiarmid and albums by The Corries, until he was returned, brainwashed, to Eton – a sleeper agent within the English establishment unwittingly awaiting the day he would be activated.
Hey, maybe I dreamt all that up? The story seems as unlikely as Ed Miliband turning up as a last-minute replacement as stripper for a hen party, or indeed as implausible as Rhod Beard being an avatar for Grant Shapps. But let’s look at the evidence. Only hours after Scotland rejected full independence by a margin of 55-45, Cameron started bleating on about English votes for English matters in a move precision-designed to fuck the Scots right off. Now, after pleading with Scotland for most of 2014 to stay within the union, the puffy-faced PM appears set on demonising the Scots for wanting to use their pernicious influence on the rest of (not so) Great Britain. It’s called imperialism England, and like the other sports you’ve exported globally you should gamely applaud when other nations do it better than you.
It’s tempting to wonder if Cameron’s ‘strategy’ is the brainchild of Conservative election disastermind Lynton Crosby – who knew that an Australian could be so gruff and charmless? But the truth is out there people. The Glaswegian Candidate is acting on pre-programmed commands from the SNP leadership to destroy the (dis)United Kingdom from within. Just like the film, which has clearly become my paranoid reality, Cameron will finally act as a lone assassin, putting one bullet each through the heads of Boris Johnson and Theresa May. This final act of insanity will herald the rise of New England, detached from its Celtic neighbours and soon to withdraw from Europe, so that it can play out its post-imperial national delusions of Anglo-Saxon purity and greatness.
Meanwhile, winter is coming.
Rhod’s Election Winners:
- Ed #Milifandom. Legions of online girl-fans can’t be wrong. If the Labour Leader doesn’t make it to No.10 he could always replace Zayn in One Direction.
- Misogynists. Three creditable women party leaders will continue to fuel your misplaced anxiety about your place in the world.
- Pollsters. Getting paid lots of dosh to announce that the election is ‘too close to call’ is what I want to do when I grow up.
- Jeremy Paxman. A misanthropic sneer masquerading as a human being. Who knew he still had it in him to be so cunty?
- Bankers. Because no one’s talking about you.
Rhod’s Election Losers:
- The Electorate. Why can I order my coffee in 3674 combinations from my local Java Grindhouse, but for Prime Minister the British public only get to choose between one Oxbridge-educated PR gobshite and another Oxbridge-educated former policy wonk who’s only somewhat less of a prick than his rival?
- BBC Journalists. Stop asking me for questions that I want the politicians to answer, last time I looked that was your job.
- The SNP. Without having the English around to blame, how will you explain the sorry mess your country is in?
- Nigel Farage. Oswald Mosley minus the cool dress sense.
- The Greens. Melting polar ice, rising sea levels and extreme weather and still all the media ask is do your sums truly add up.
