As one newspaper pundit, who hit the nail bang on its head said, and I will paraphrase, this is Scotland’s very own, real life, consequence ridden Rorschach test – Aditya Chakrabortty for the Guardian – you really got the gist of this one. Well done mate.
Scotland for the Scots… the question is: should there be question mark after that statement or an exclamation mark?
That’s what is on everyone’s lips these days. The papers are full of it, what I mean to say is that papers are full of it anyway, but these days they are full of advice on how to vote. Imagine taking advice from the likes of Rupert Murdoch – but that’s another discussion for another time. Newspapers, pundits, reporters (biased or not), media moguls, your next door neighbour and the chap on the bus, everybody is going on about how the economy will fall down the tube after the break-up of the Union etc etc. Haven’t you just had it up to the gills with all this? It seems they have all lost sight of the wood for the trees and partaken of a wee dram too many.
The question seems quite simple to me… for 300 years or so, I have been living with my mum. Okay, I contribute a lot to that household and Mum gives me a lot. She looks after me when I am ill, she helps pay for things and protects me; but at the end of the day, she makes all the decisions and some of them are for my good and others, you get my drift right? So, back to the question, do I still want to live with my mum? I mean I love her and all that and we are family after all, but I have to grow up and make my own decisions sometime and this seems like as good a time as any – time for a change?
So listen to the voice of change, not the voice of Mark Carney, the idiotic “headmaster-like” figure who actually sounds like an Old Lady now, and not just the Old Lady (of Threadneedle Street) he represents.
Don’t listen to Salmond, Cameron, Miliband; listen to Sean Connery (who, by the way has been campaigning for this as long as I can remember and that’s a pretty longtime). Campaigning for Scotland, not for his relatives across the border nor for hundreds of years of loving union nor for the Queen and the aristocrats who have bled you dry time and time again.
For Scotland! Land of Scots.
Right now Scotland is what I call a “Senior Colony.” probably the only one left as the rest of them voted to get rid of Westminster rule a long time ago. Come on Scotland, take control of your life and live like a man. Be responsible for who you are, isn’t that what all parents try and teach you? Isn’t that what we are supposed to learn through school and university and life in general? So, why after hundreds of years have you not learned it? Take control! Be responsible for your own actions, not subservient to some puerile, whining whelps from Westminster born with silver shovels in their cavernous, vacuous mouths.
See that blot and make it what YOU want it to be and if it doesn’t work, then start again and make it work – lesser countries have done it. With independence comes a price that you have to be willing to pay. The naysayers are just too cosy and unwilling to pay that price (the living at home analogy again). The yea-sayers… they’re probably not aware of that price but want to change something anyway and are willing to go into the big bad world and make their own decisions and good for them.
I say to the yea-sayers… look to your elders, your friends and family, ask them what it means to be Scottish and then make your own decision – don’t listen to politicians but look inside yourself. Can you take the pain of self-governance, the pain of looking at all your own shortcomings, carbuncles and all? If you can, then vote yes, because that’s all that you will have to look forward to. With freedom comes responsibility… I am sure someone or the other has said that before, but with it also comes great sacrifice. You are held up in front of a glaring white light and asked to choose. Choose what and where you will be when your grandchildren have grown up.
It’s not a hard choice and people make it every day, when they wake up in the morning and decide to go to work instead of lying in bed and taking a sickie. It’s called life people. Live it… but live it for the right reasons or else let someone else live it for you.
This is your own personal Rorschach test. And only you know how you should answer…
It’s been a while hasn’t it?
It sure has been a long time since I actually put pen to paper, figuratively, to write something meaningful. The reason, oh well, there are many, but the main one is that I have been writing, but not anything I would deem fit for publishing on my own blog.
Since I posted about my writing venture, The Write Writing (shameless self promotion now: – do go and check it out if you have time) I have been writing articles, company newsletters and all manner of (some) interesting, and other, (completely) soulless pieces for (equally) soulless and (verging on) undead, companies. There seems to be no end of clients looking to put things on their blogs or websites and equally no end of useless crap on the internet (I should know, I have written some of it while sitting on public transport looking out of the window and dreaming of writing something meaningful).
But there is one client who comes to mind that I have to tell you about (the name has been changed to protect my writing contract because what I am about to say about them is not in the least bit glorifying – but they are just another of many out there and who knows, you may even work for one such company).
This client, we will call them Devil InCarnate Kompany Limited (“Dick”) is a global enterprise with tens of thousands of employees. I am sure many of them, the majority of them probably, are being squeezed for every drop of their blood at work. You know what I mean, cost cutting drives, fears of redundancies even though Dick seems to be doing well – no payment for overtime, perks and benefits being cut while Dick’s investors are sitting somewhere exotic sunning themselves with their courtesans while their children are credit carding their lives away in Gucci buying another jockstrap they don’t need (or know what it is for that matter – if you are curious then do click here for a jockstrap of a description – yes, I did intent to say that rather than, a description of a jockstrap).
Where was I? Yes, the employees of Dick.
So there they are, sweat pouring from every pore from overwork, in constant fear of that letter and an escort out of the building by company security, are also the (proud??) recipients of a newsletter every month written by yours truly which I am sure cheers them no end. Actually, I am not sure of that at all. In fact, if I were them, I would mark it spam so there is no extra effort required in clicking a couple of extra times to get said email into the nearest bin.
The “Why?” thingy is now going through your mind… I can see it quite clearly. Good question. Now, every writer knows that his work will be subject to an Editor’s beady eye and common sense. This sense can be extraordinarily common or just plain common. I have yet to come across a mediocre common and never have I, until now, come across a positively boorish and pedantic common sense.
So, the process goes something like this:
7 easy steps to writing success!
1. Yours truly gets given a topic which Dick’s management committee thinks is a great thing for their serfs, oops, I mean employees to read to make them realise how lovely Dick is and how Dick really has their interests at heart – so much so that they have hired a writer to pen said newsletter instead of just getting any other old idiot to write it.
2. Yours truly then proceeds to write a few bullet points on the back of an envelope while sitting having a beer and thinking about something completely different.
3. Dick’s Editorial Committee (on which sit three normal people and one Editor sans any sense whatsoever) then sends it back with comments.
4. Yours T shuffles around, opens another drink and proceeds to finds yet another envelope whose back has a couple of postage stamps worth of space and rewrites the same bullet points in a different order and emails it back to DEC (Dick’s Editorial Committee). Whereupon (shock, horror and utter disbelief) it is immediately approved and onwards and upwards the process now enters the (dreaded) writing phase.
5. The clock begins to tick as there is a 48 hour deadline for submission. Yours T is now in full procrastination gear… tick… tock… tick… tock… This gear function, only engaged when something for Dick needs to be written, sees Yours T do almost anything except think of the pending article needing, nay, begging to be written.
(An aside here – Yours T has made procrastination an art, in fact, since I got this contract, my procrastination has had a bit of a Medici-esque Renaissance. It has come into its own. It has blossomed into something much more than just plain procrastination. It has had its cocoon phase and now is no longer the mere caterpillar of procrastination, but the butterfly soaring on the wings of procrastination.)
6. Cut to 47 hours and 15 minutes or so into the deadline and worry starts to take hold – a niggling, annoying scratch in a place that you just cannot reach. Suddenly, more out of guilt than anything else, aforementioned bullet points on the back of second envelope are elaborated into a verbose offering (sacrifice?) to Mammon. Lo and behold, hey presto, abracadabra and anything else magical you can think of, the butterfly of procrastination is, temporarily, grounded and aforementioned deadline is met by the closest of shaves that even the mighty safety razors advertised everywhere these days wouldn’t be able to match.
7. The click of the mouse to send it to Dick is followed by a sigh of relief and the opening of a bottle of wine to celebrate the writing of it and to wait for the (impending) reply from aforementioned idiotic Editor whose comments range from banal (“there is a comma out of place..” A comma, one single flaming comma in a 1000 word piece to “GPs can be General Physicians, General Practitioners and Doctors too” which is common sense, given that the readers are mainly medical professionals of one sort or another, nurses and the like).
This, in an oversize, genetically modified, Brazil nutshell is how I have sold my soul to companies like Dick – what a writer in this day and age has to do to be able to pay for a glass of plonk – I tell you – and therein lies the answer to your earlier question, “Why?”
PS. If you work for (a) Dick and are reading this: someone has hacked my blog and any opinions expressed above constitute those of a mean and naughty hacker and have nothing whatsoever to do with me, cross my heart, promise and signed in blood.