If you’re a resident of Scotland, You’ll have voted by now. Finished your cereal and cast your X where you will, determined to either attain freedom and a science fiction future made of prosperity, universal happiness, silver foil suits and holidays on the moon, or in favour of more and better foodbanks for everyone and a tory/ukip coalition led by Boris Johnson and a particularly repellent smirking glove puppet. With a fag in its mouth.
The count will be kicking off at ten, with the first results due in around two. On my birthday. So, I’ll be up all night, wondering if the coming year consists of girls, farms, drugs and new blood every six months or whether it’ll be back to wanking off grumpy businessmen for soup.
In the tradition of Hunter S Thompson, trapped in a decompression chamber as Watergate unfolded and his dreams of Nixon roasted alive on a spit came true but outside where he couldn’t touch it, I’ll be in Liverpool when you read this. Either relaxing in a cosy L30 parlour with a nice malt or out in front of the house screaming at the drug dealers over the road to come out and fight – comma – space – you English bastards. We’ll know by daylight, anyway.
Several months ago, I booked this holiday, convinced that there was about as much chance of home rule for Scotland as one of our pandas giving birth to the baby Jesus. And it going on to win the X factor. With a medley of GG Allin songs. This was my ‘naw’ insurance. In the event of the foodbanks winning, anyone I could’ve been drinking with will probably suggest demolishing a public building. Or Jim Murphy, whichever was the closest. (Your own team might gently toss the occasional egg at you so that you can play the martyr in the union press. Ours might be travelling a bit faster and look a bit more like paving stones, bumface.)
So I figured I’d at least keep my job and avoid being smeared with pitch and set alight to brighten up the nawbags’ arrogant celebration.
The media have been pissing me off mightily throughout this campaign, spewing Better Together’s pathetic propaganda and alarming the very people most likely to benefit from Scotland’s oil by not freezing to death in the winter ahead. Nick Robinson’s blatant fib that Alex Salmond hadn’t replied to his question last week was the final straw. Or was it covering the Orange Order’s march to Easter Road when Hibernian FC were playing at home, but missing out the spitting on children in hibs tops? Or claiming only thirty-five people surrounded the BBC’s building in Glasgow on Sunday? Difficult to say. As Raymond Chandler almost said, above a certain point, all bullshit is equal.
Win or lose, who fancies boycotting the media for a bit? With the mainstream media content to lie to us (in clear contravention of the BBC’s charter – and your license fee) the real news in this campaign has come from social media. Why should I pay a quid for a newspaper when there’s more hard information floating around Facebook and Twitter? Mind you, the Herald on Sunday did actually support independence, so we can still do their crossword at the weekend.
So how about it? Let’s stop buying their papers, let’s stop watching their appalling programmes and punch them right in the money hole. Even if we do win, everybody will be falling over themselves to stress how much they wanted this, like all those South Africans who were ‘always’ in the ANC all along. And I for one, tend to respond to being patronised with a Vegas throat-stomp.