CANDLE IN THE WINDS OF CHANGE

Madame Tussauds is more than just a world famous waxworks - it's a sniff-the-wind, finger-on-the-button indicator of what's in, what's out, who's coming, who's going.

I urge them to follow their initial instincts and ignore the obvious pressure exerted from Downing Street to produce a waxwork depicting the Laird of Westminster - it would be the equivalent of spending thousands of pounds, months of planning and hours of labour to produce a West Lothian fish supper - tomorrow it's candles for you my laddie.

And with the price of gas, electricity and petrol hitting an all time high, stocking a cupboard full of candles does not seem such a bad idea.

IT STARTED WITH A FISH - THE NEW SINS

The lights dim, the music begins - a spotlight falls on Errol Brown, the ageless vocalist of Hot Chocolate as he steps up to the microphone and begins to sing - "It started with a fish, I never thought it would come to this."
Okay, this maybe a verbal side-step into the world of fantasy, but the altered lyrics of the opening line are spot on. What do you see when the man in the mitre waves his shepherd's crook and tells you how to live your life? Personally, I see a fish.
A personification of the 10,000-year-old constellation of the Whale and Fishes (eventually Pisces) stands on a balcony dressed in a gold-flecked robe that, if converted to hard cash, would innoculate and feed thousands of his sheep-like followers. He waves a bent stick in their direction and tells them that if they use a condom they're going to burn in hell for eternity ... "You gotta listen to the man, he's dressed like a giant fish, so he knows what he's talking about, he talks for Cod!"
Let's face it, if this is not total insanity then what the hell is?
It's not even Christian - it goes back way further than that!
Personification, dressing up like the constellational characters in the sky, holds the key to power. It's an archaic remnant of the multi-god systems used by Sumarians, Phoenicians, Egyptians, Greeks and Romans - all of which are derivations from the earliest memories of mankind - the Malvern Zodiac.
Mere mortals dressed as fishes, birds, dogs, bulls, crocodiles, even the rear end of a horse - have all been used to confound, confuse and control the easily impressed masses - but only the fish remains.
When the Greeks decided that they required guidance in their lives, they climbed the hill to the the temple, handed over their hard-earned offerings and asked advice from the oracle at Delphi (Dolphin).
And here we are in the 21st century, not much has changed - apart from a couple of brand new sins that have been added to the list.
I'll skip the first one - advice about genetic manipulation from a giant cod doesn't warrant consideration, but the second new sin is downright hypocritical - Thou shalt not polute the earth. The sentiment is fine (if not a couple of hundred years too late), but I do object to being told what to do by a man who lives in a palace surrounded by overweight and overdressed sychophants, and who has the use of a fleet of bullet-proof gas-guzzlers (seems to me that the use of bullet-proof glass lacks a certain level of faith in his fellow man) ... and hey, you've been in control for the last 2000 years, this bloody mess is mostly your fault!
Whatever happened to leading by example? Whatever happened to humility? Whatever happened to the Widow's Mite? This Christianity game is beginning to smell decidedly fishy, in more ways than one.

DEMOCRACY - NORWEGIAN BLUE REWRITE

Mr. Fifties enters the shop carrying a Labour Manifesto: Ello, I wish to register a complaint.
Mr. McNoo (the shop owner) does not respond.
Mr. Fifties: Ello - Morag?
Mr. McNoo: What do you mean "Morag?"
Mr. Fifties: I'm sorry, I think I've caught a cold, I wish to make a complaint.
Mr. McNoo: We're closin' now for summer.
Mr. Fifties: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this manifesto what I voted for not two years ago in this very boutique.
Mr. McNoo: Och aye, the Norwegian Blue Manifesto ...What's wrong with it?
Mr. Fifties: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It’s dead, that's what's wrong with it!
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, it’s under review.
Mr. Fifties: Look, McMatey, I know a dead manifesto when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, it’s not dead, it’s restin'! Remarkable manifesto is the Norwegian Blue … beautiful plumage, talks it’s head off and says nothing of significance … wonderful way with words … eager to jump on the next perk, I mean perch … did I mention beautiful plumage?
Mr. Fifties: The plumage don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
Mr. McNoo: Noo noo noo, it’s under review!
Mr. Fifties: All right then, if it’s under review, when are we likely to get the results … don’t tell me, let me guess … 2010 by any chance?
(The owner of shop picks up the manifesto and sweeps away the dust from the title page)
Mr. McNoo: There, it’s as good as new.

Mr. Fifties: No it isn’t, you just cleaned the cover!
Mr. McNoo: I never!!
Mr. Fifties: Yes, you did!
Mr. McNoo: I never did anything...
Mr. Fifties: (yelling and hitting the manifesto repeatedly) 'ELLO DEMOCRACY!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
(Flicks through the pages and thumps it hard onto the counter, throws it in the air and watches it plummet to the floor).
Mr. Fifties: Now that's what I call a dead manifesto.
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, noo, it’s just a reaction to the financially volatile international climate and the seedy excesses of this shop’s previous owner – it’s stunned!
Mr. Fifties: STUNNED?!
Mr. McNoo: Aye! Your inability to counteract the autocratic undemocratic self-serving political shenanigans without being summarily added to a national data-base that will hold your DNA and fingerprints for the rest of your natural life so that we’ll always know where you are, what you’re up to and whether you’re a threat to national security, allowing us to pick you up for questioning and hold you in a cell indefinitely – I think “stunned” is a pretty good description.
Mr. Fifties: Um...now look...now look, McMatey, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That manifesto is definitely deceased, and when I voted for it not two years ago you assured me that “things could only get better.”
Mr. McNoo: Aye, aye I did that … but, and here’s the beauty of the English language … I never said for who … now you can go and stick a red line under that and sod off laddie!
Mr. Fifties: That’s Rubbish!
(At this point the doors of the shop burst open and four overweight thugs with the combined IQ of nineteen grab Mr. Fifties and throw him roughly through the rear doors of a black anti-terrorist van waiting on the double-yellow lines outside)
A muffled voice can be heard as it pulls away….
Mr. Fifties: I’m starting to pine for the Norwegian fjords … I bet they don’t have a Swede governing them … ouch!

Peterborough - Stop Wittering and Smile

My friend was telling me about his family. His cousins had arrived "unexpectedly" - a day trip around the shops of Peterborough seemed like a good idea, "And maybe we'll strike lucky if we call in at the passport office after lunch," he said. They wandered around the town for a couple of hours, but he sensed that the women were not enjoying themselves. There were mumbles, sighs and mutterings, but it was difficult to say who said what to whom. Eventually he'd had enough, it was beginning to get on his nerves.

"Stop with the Wittering!" he shouted - they immediately fell silent. "For goodness sake, what is your problem? This is a good place, a fine community, everything you could possibly want is here - okay, the football team is not as good as Norwich City - but apart from that ... why do you keep grumbling?"

One of them shuffled nervously, "It's the uniforms," she muttered, "We don't like uniforms, they make us nervous."

"What uniforms?" he asked, "This is a normal English town, you are bound to see the occasional off-duty soldier walking around ... this is where they live, it's their home, it's their country."

"We don't like the way they stare at us," said one of the women, "It's the look in their eyes, they act as though they own the place."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a camera, "Look, just stop moaning and stand still, I'll take a your photograph - it might save us some money at the passport office," he said.

The women gathered into a group and he crouched down on one knee to steady the camera. "Uniforms, pah!" one of them muttered.

As he looked through the viewfinder an airman in a smart uniform stood behind them in the distance, he thought it would be a good joke to include him in the photograph. "Besides," he said, "Like the soldier over there, they all have the freedom of the city, they can come and go as they please - they even have the right to fix bayonets or something like that."

Sadly, his photograph was very blurred - and they never made it to the passport office.

Referendum? Those in favour say Och-Aye-Dee.

I tuned my wireless to the Home Programme and listened to that wee lassie Jocki McMalvern, I think she was quoting from my favourite book "Och the noo Labour" on the subject of introducing Identity Cards - such an orator, so dependable - I canny understand why youz English folk are not battering down the doors of the local DSS offices demanding that you carry the wee insignificant biometric retina-scanned dna fingerprint thingy in each and every one of your sporrans - I mean, it sooo sensible.

I turned down the volume on the gramophone playing the medley of memories from "Andy McStewarts White Leather Club" and listened closely to her soft dulcid arguments - "If you wanted to open a bank account or buy a car" she said, or "open a bank account" or "buy a car" or "open a bank account" - aye, aye, it did get a little repetitive - but that's the way that youz folk will eventually give up your meaningless opposition ... did I mention "open a bank account?" - aye, aye, I think I did.

Thank goodness that other woman, I like to call her English Vicky, didn't ask any questions about the referendum debate ... Jocki McMalvern is good, but she canna hold too much in her pretty little head at one time. Did I mention Bank account, ID cards, Big Brother? Ooops, skip that last one.

I stopped listening, it became juss-a-wee monotonous, I dipped my silver spoon into the steaming bowl of porridge and opened the newspaper at the horoscopes ... I'm on the cusp, February 20th, Pisces with the earth in opposition and Jacobite rising .... it said "An old enemy is watching you, but as long as you use the whip the self-serving labouring animals around your feet will do your bidding." Now what on earth does that mean? But there was more: "You have been given a golden opportunity, a Supermarket Sweep - grab what you can in the next two years and don't worry about the mess, fill up your trolley and run like hell to the Hills in the North."

I smiled - you know the smile, the one that I've been practicing for those camera thingies. I finished my porridge, leaned over and picked up a dictionary. I wanted to find another word for "Treaty" just to confuse the hostile natives. I wandered over to the window, it was a bright blue sky - but I do miss those green hills of home. Never mind, only two years to go. I checked my wristwatch, I think it's time for another review.

A TIME FOR CHANGE (AGAIN)

My fellow Amalgamates .... it's a time for change. A time to sweep away the .... empty brown envelopes that have been pushed beneath the .... hand-woven carpets of .... those who believe that .... to serve their country is a private gateway to a better lifestyle.

It's a time to gather our strength .... to muster our resources .... to open our bulging wallets and invest in shares of companies that stand to benefit from our pseudo radical proposals.

It's a time for change .... loose change .... lots of loose change .... jingling like the jackpots flowing from the fruit machines in our .... brand new, highly rewarding, carefully placed casinos.
For me the world is a kitchen ... a zoo ... a playing field ... an expenses paid trip to Dubai ... a limo through an orchard ... gathering fruit ... gathering speed ... gathering autographs for my children so that ... god forbid ... when I'm gone ... these autographs will be another little nest egg.

It's a time for change ... for pausing before we act ... for pausing to enhance the effect of total sincerity ... for pausing before pressing the "transfer" button while online banking.

It's a time to gather all the like-minded self-serving cronies around me ... Scots, women ... more Scots, more women ... sod it ... Scottish women.
I ask for your vote, your X in the box, your fingerprint and DNA - I stand before you as a leader ... a fresh breeze and a faceful of hot air ... a blast from the past.

BBC FUTURE PROGRAMMING

Dear Old Auntie Beeb – I’ve got a great idea, how about sending me and the family on a round-the-world trip to check out the facilities in the best hotels in six or seven capital cities? Informative and educational, a fleeting glimpse of an unattainable lifestyle for the average licence payer – and think of all the future contacts that can be added to the executive phone book. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear Luvvy Central – I’ve got a great idea, how about letting me write the script for Eastenders one of these days? My knowledge of the interaction between people from many different backgrounds stems from personal experience and I used to read comics and play with puppets when I was young, so I’m more than qualified. A reality check for the average licence payer. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear BBC Commissioning Officer – I’ve got a great idea, how about turning me loose in the long frock cupboard to produce another helping of Dickensian drama? It’s my opinion that one more version of David Copperfield, Bleak House or Great Expectations would go down a storm with the average licence payer and bodice-ripping scenes are always a tremendous boost for the viewing figures. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear Beeb – I’ve got a great idea, how about a game show where z-list celebrities have to impersonate a well-known politician while cooking a meal on ice? Yes, I’m quite aware of the health and safety problems involved with using paraffin stoves on a slippery surface (didn’t I mention paraffin stoves?) – but these could easily be overcome with a three-month SAS training session for all the contestants. What a laugh it would be for the average licence payer, and think of all the free tabloid publicity when the sexy co-host is photographed holding a meat and two veg. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear BBC – I’ve got a great idea, how about sending me and the family on a sun-drenched cruise around the Aegian Sea retracing the route of Jason and his Argonauts on their mythical quest for the golden fleece? Historical, cultural, classical, a fleeting glimpse of life 2500 years ago for the average licence payer – and I promise to send you a few bottles of Ouzo. Great idea, don’t you think?

Oops! Skip that last one – it’s already been done by Michael Wood at Mentorn. Yes, I know it was rubbish, but at least I wasn’t paying for it!