Ii's Not Just You- Everything Really Is Batshit Crazy

Great Britain. Where the trans-rapist sleeps in the women's jail. Our battle-tanks are rolling east to help America shell Russia from a launching pad called Ukraine.  Smartphones ring to prove the government can frighten us. Some old duffer wants to be 'monarch' of a country that no longer exists; ruler of a hostel run by foreigners. Millions beg for the 'health' service they already paid for. Attention citizens! Eat insects because the earth is on fire! Nurses queue at food banks but 100,000 parasites live in hotels on three free meals a day. How? Why?

We've all seen it, heard it, done it. The despairing shake of the head, the rolling eyes, the hopeless shrug and the muttered cliche: "everything's insane" or just  "WTF?" Although we are (relatively) knee-deep in luxury and leisure, nobody's relaxing. Our societies are grown hideous, gone horribly wrong, tumbling out of control, and we know it. The gap is too big - the gulf between the lies we can tolerate and the agonising consequences of prolonged self-delusion. I know decent, well-meaning people who keep voting, and will most certainly vote in the next fake election. Not morons, not dolts, but adult humans terrified to admit that voting doesn't work.    

We didn't get here overnight; several generations of accelerating psychosis went into erecting a house of cards where civilisation once stood. The delusional majority are concentrated in the giant metropolitan ant-hills are where raving insanity is the new normal. As a (twenty-three years-out) urban refugee who now belongs to the countryside, I am certainly prejudiced, but certain of my judgement. 

In an echoing, deserted shopping mall, one of a dozen rainbow-coloured sheep stands invitingly, the perfect height and shape to delight any passing child who will -naturally- climb on board at once. PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON ME  reads the sign beneath its hooves.

 

I'm taking it all personally. I have watched -from a polite distance- the city of my childhood, Glasgow, being rapidly rebuilt to accomodate anything and everything. Everything, that is, except for  the real people of that fierce, muscular city, who inherited Glasgow from the families of civilisation-builders that made it a unique, very Scottish phenomenon. But locals, with their curious attachment to their own culture and history- are to be rooted out. We're neither celebrated nor wanted, on our own territory. Back off, bigot.

In remarkably few years Glasgow has been castrated, colonised, muzzled, poisoned, carved into pieces and sold to foreign interests, echoing the mutilations already inflicted on London, Birmingham and Manchester. In recent weeks I have walked once-familiar streets, now perfect replicas of the relentlessly expanding Asian/African ghettos that drove me out of London in the late 1990s. Just another city street, any old town, any old country in this enormous transient-campsite called Europe. 

A gross percentage of Brits live in a state of juvenile denial. A mass of neurotic adults, quite aware they are kidding themselves. Knowing they inhabit a false reality but pretending they haven't noticed yet. Heads filled with words they dare not speak. Maybe the madness will all blow over; dream on. The lights will never go out, will they? Walk swiftly past the signs of your neighbourhood turning batshit crazy too.  Do the high street shuffle: greengrocer...butcher...baker... Queer Yiddish Anarchist Pay-what-you-can Cafe & Info shop..? 

HIGH STREET CAFE, GLASGOW 2023

 

Entering a modern British city is a one-way plunge into confusion. Even the consumption looks half-hearted. Just to survive, city-dwellers are selectively deaf, blinkered, buckled into a suit of psychological armour-plating, embracing the ugly, desparate to ignore the evidence of generations of human brilliance being pulverised before their very eyes. On the south side of old Glasgow, paused at some traffic lights is a gleaming, black Rolls-Royce : immaculate, with all the clumsy glory of the brand spanking new. The Asian businessman at the wheel looks serene, embedded, immovable.

High, high above our pay grade, top-heavy with ill-gotten wealth, a guilty, paranoid elite of traitors and thieves preen in the shrinking city-centre posh-zones, dodging and weaving as beneath their feet, the animal-farms grind through another working day; the inmates gathering, worrying, dispersing. 

These miserable, indigenous urban drudges despoil the legacy of those who made this a country that lesser men would cross continents to gatecrash. The transformation didn't just happen -it is being done to us. 

CORNER SHOP IN GLASGOW

In times gone by a limited amount of psychopaths were tolerated within 'democracy' as it was believed their energy could be usefully channeled. But that energy -fuelled by intelligence and compulsion- could not be contained in a system where tolerance was perecieved as weakness.  Realising they could, the psychopaths took over by force of will. Zealous, ambitious and and ruthless, they chose to multiply, by infecting and converting their weaker colleagues. 

Over time they began prepping their own replacements, effectively running seminars for psychos to ensure their own barren replication. Control is the drug that drives them to pursue public approval, because followers are easier to assemble than a healthy, functional family. Followers, of course, are what psychopaths prioritise instead of families. That's why they become politicians.

It is hardly coincidental that in this 21st century, the political landscape featured a swarm of childless fanatics who were conspicously shameless in pursuit of power. Angela Merkel, Theresa May, Emmanuel Macron and Nicola Sturgeon spring immediately to mind. The list of recent childless Prime Ministers also includes Mark Rutte (Holland) Stefan Lofven (Sweden) Xavier Bettel (Luxembourg) Leo Varadkar (Ireland) and Shinzo Abe (Japan).

Yet this parade of non-parents are merely the most conspicuous among the tribe of monomaniacs whose very nature demanded they thrust themselves into power. Flagrant psychopaths like Justin Trudeau, Jacinta Adern, Boris Johnson and Joseph Biden will generate children without a second thought, as the lives of others mean nothing to them. For these creatures, kids are optional extras, like any eye-catching accessory which might be useful in a photo-op. None of the aforementioned 'chiefs'  demonstrate an honest enthusiasm for anything outside their own egocentric self-expression.

Their tunnel-vision me first attitude is, of course, contagious. The conspicuous success of greedy and voracious celebrities make greed and predation attractive; fashionable; cool. Doesn't matter how you 'make it' so long as you do -or seem to, even if only for thirty seconds on Tik-Tok. Images flash on screens; faces we know too well but never wished to see. The tiny Hindu chancer who says he's Prime Minister; the tatty old goat who says he's the King. Newspapers are stuffed with 'local election results' (didn't vote, don't care) and coronation fluff (too busy, not interested).

I live on an island off the coast of an island -the one some still call Britain. At four a.m. a couple of lumpen, rusty fishing boats -even older and creakier than me- pull out of the harbour into the waters of Argyll; lights flashing on the black, pre-dawn waves. Cold wind scoops thin white horses up onto the surface, a handful of gulls yelling in the wake, hopeful. There will be fresh fish in town tomorrow. Not mountains, but a couple of nets full. Sunrise will bring early dogwalkers onto the beach. God alone knows what the hell they are up to over there, on the mainland, a million miles away.     

            

Ian Andrew-Patrick

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