No Offence SNP, but I Gotsta Get Oot o’ Here.
I love the expression “Fit of pique”. Originally translated from natural Doric as “vocal celebration of successful voyeuristic opportunism”, the cliché has developed over the centuries into two modern day meanings: Either the Mouther is defining an action delivered with the temporary mental imbalance of a stroppy rage, or they may be acknowledging the deftness of Catalan ball-thumping from towering central defence to find the very spot where a diminutive midfield General is poised to collect, and thenceforth tippy-tap the fitba’ onwards, at pace, to a diminutive marauding attacker.
Most of my life-changing events were created and managed in fits of pique: From leaving the family nest, to falling in and out of love and back in again, to forming and dismantling bands, to leaving the Music Industry completely, to selling my soul to Rod Petrie and The Hibernionians when the diamonds on the souls of every pair of football boots I have ever owned fell off into the liquidised abyss, to rediscovering the aural joy of united Airdrie ball-thumping from hopeful gangling central defence to within thirty yards of a midfielding gangrel critter who would’ve spilt the thing out for a shy anyhoo.
Recently I made another snap decision, and a big one. After over a quarter of a century I chucked my SNP membership oot with the brown-lidded bin for recycling.
I have a good reason behind ditching the card; there is sound personal wisdom in the dastardly deed. I joined up lang syne for three reasons: Firstly, a matter of a fit of pique with the brutally self-serving and omnipresent Red Millionaires’ party that once was a force for good; secondly, a new-found belief in the Scottish peoples’ collective smeddum, and thirdly, because the SNP gave me an opportunity to rid myself of the poisonous habit of nodding sagely to the bullshit politics of arrogant wankers in the united name of the cooperative weal.
Outwardly, I’ll conform to yer average angry Rock ‘n’ Roll rebel type and I’ll want to tear the dress from perceived authority wherever I find it. Inwardly, in dark lonely fits of pique, in cold damp lonely persevering despair, or in the contemplative tender warmth of the lonely fireside, I am my ain man again and my daft wee nut crafts unique un-crushable rebellion. Not the selfish insurgence of the cash-strapped Westminster backbencher, but true and honest anarchic plans of cataclysmic one-way Armageddon. In the company of turkeys I am all things to everyone – other opinions are tedious shite and completely unwelcome intruders into my truth – so I’ll nod, stuffed fu’ o’ sage, and gobble down their gibbering giblets agreeing, or false-musing at the very least, to solicit escape. But in the companionship of induced isolation the schizophrenia that is in all of us urges and quells the passions of internal debate. The rights and wrongs of rights and wrongs are mulled and then compressed into searing bolts of parked-up lightning, ready to be used as a parting zap of liquid electric fire straight through some argumentative tosser’s eyeballs and deep into his fragile brain, if I could ever be arsed.
The SNP Holyrood Government has been a shining red star compared to the stinking piles of stagnant dung that were the previous Lib/Lab bland coalitions. Since 2007 the SNP have made things better while playing it safe for very obvious reasons, popularising popular policies and showing the Scottish peoples that we aren’t better or worse than anyone else. This has been a great plan and hopefully the last hundred years of the People’s Party telling us that we are SE England’s gimp has been erased from the minds of those who can forget. I sense that Scots are no longer accepting the Union bombast that we’re not as good as England but quite within our North British rights to look down our Kintyre nose at Wales and Northern Ireland with the hubris of the wingman.
In the nation’s long lifetime there have always been melancholic Scots who weren’t happy being Scottish. In the Tranterish world of historical black and white there are the unyielding patriots amongst us who fight and gnash in maintenance of personal pride and national honour, and in the polarised-psyche opposition there are the silent creeping scumbags who’d sell Scotland by the pound for a groat and their countryfolk for a Pritt Stick. It’s a world that doesn’t exist outside Twitter bang-statements, least one that I don’t loaf about in.
I loaf about on Planet Me. It’s a nice wee place to be. In it I breathe my own air, I put on a differently coloured top every day, and I choose what to dwell on and what to bypass. I wasn’t bred for The Rule, and if I stuck to one I’d be the shittiest wayward monk the world has ever seen. I joined the SNP to fight for independence for Scotland; a nation who breathes her own air, who puts on a differently coloured top every day, and who chooses what to dwell on and what to bypass.
Being the cantankerous foul bawbag that I am, I struggle to simply nod with earnest gusto. I don’t like conforming to any stereotype and I hate agreeing with something I disagree with, regardless of how petty the issue seems to be. I’d not only be a god-awful monk, I’d be a shit politician.
Ultimately I’m not comfortable with the SNP in government, though it is not the fault of the SNP that they are. The incompetency throughout the history of the cheating, lying, warmongering, gerrymandering, money-fiddling, self-serving egotistical wankers of the main Westminster parties is to blame. In a fair and honest world the Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democratic parties would be unelectable. Their chameleonism is their saviour and yet their downfall. The more they bow to the insatiable will of the middle-English Daily Mail, the further northwards they must try to relocate the Scottish border. In the last hundred years the Labour Party has tried valiantly to blend the working peoples of Manchester, Liverpool and The North with those south of the Arran to Skatie Shore divide, using poverty as their emulsifier to attempt to recreate a new Cymric Arthurian Utopia of disease and death, prostituting the collective arse for the scraps and waste from the humungous London refuse trucks. The cause of the poor sells well to the minorities: the poor and those in the middle class with a liberal conscience, but then the Labour movement inevitably solicited majority and turned itself into the cashcow for Tory misfits it has become. The doyen of every Labour “progression” of my lifetime would be as out of his depth on early Labour picket lines as George Lansbury would be sipping Pimms at Henley. Labour’s modern purpose is not equality for all, it is winning elections and the opportunities for political largesse another five years brings with it. It sates its thirst for power and glory with South Coast seawater and pollutes the Clyde with its salty nuclear sewage piped straight from Millbank’s septic tanks, leaving its Scotch agents to disinfect the filth as best they can.
I fear that in Holyrood majority government the SNP will eventually mirror Labour’s calamitous plunge from worthy to worthless. There are some cabinet ministers who already reek with the stench of ego and privilege, and some recent faux pas highlight the overconfidence that leads to blasé that leads to Blair that leads to pure cash-nourished contempt for humanity and decent society. While the Sturgeons, Whites, McKelvies, Cunninghams and MacAskills speak their own mind I’m a-listening, but when NATO, currency, monarchy, and other currently irrelevant issues are deemed necessary I pathetically shut my eyes to stop the bleeding. I haven’t a strong enough neck to nod in mock support, and I reach the conclusion that my kidney must filter out the pish from the clean water and that feisty kidney cannot be bypassed by the will alone.
The collective responsibility of government is anti-human and thus carte-blanche support is impossible to earn and is never merited. An all-consuming end game like Independence requires specialised focus and it ain’t the place of a Government to be so philosophically narrow. I’ll buy all that for a dollar, but I don’t like it. I joined the SNP when it was a protest group hankering for political respectability, but now that it has earned that respectability it pisses me off. My priority is to help make Scotland a fair and generous welcoming green place where all social barriers are taboo (a place indeed the exact opposite of London) and not to have as a highlight the London press lauding Alex Salmond as the shrewdest political beastie on this island. The very thought of SNP inclusion into the poisonous UK political corps makes me ill.
Scotland needs to be independent to do what it should do for the people and to have even a modicum of international respect. Three hundred years of Union has made Scotland into one of the unhealthiest toothless places in Europe. The SNP needs to govern because the people have asked it to, and it’ll get my vote when there are no Greens about. I’ve discovered that I am not a government or government-in-waiting party political cratur, and I need to protest simply because protesting is what I do. I can’t fix things, but I can “HAW!” at injustice with the best of them from the sidelines. I hate supporting a government. It is horrible in its very nature. Sucking it in and smiling through angst is for professional party thespians alone in their specialist psychosis; collective responsibility is for those whose will can control their kidney, and control their fits of pique.