twain

Life is never easy for Dr Bollocks. Having only yesterday returned from a fact-finding tour of Thai massage parlours, he finds himself tossed into the cacophony of contemporary Western issues. Tonight, he discusses with his growing audience the moral maze of nuclear annihilation, the legend of Brexit, and the plucky attempt by Scotland to snatch dependence from Independence.


My new assignment is the creation of a fourth leg to the Talent Show stool. Currently the genre has X-Factor, Great British Bake-off and Strictly Come Dancing holding it up, but my experience of stools is that they can quickly fall into the water below without a strong safety-net. Other competitors like Britain’s got Chlamydia having failed, a well-known Right-On channel is looking for the answer. I think I may have it.

The problem as I perceive it is that these shows are called Reality Television, but as yet there’s a dimension of reality missing. I chose to call this (in my controversial paper to the Royal Multicultural Society) ‘real reality’.

Singing badly, baking things that sell slimming books and offering oxygen to failed politicians are all part of life in the Sceptered Isles, and a jolly good thing too. But none of that is going to incinerate people or blow up planets. Only species survival on a knife-edge is going to capture the mass audience.

That’s why my new concept Strictly Nuclear Pancake Factor is a winner. The idea is devilishly simple: world leaders who between them have no experience of commerce, psychology, subtlety, security services, geopolitics or negotiation pit their wits against resident guru Boris Dimitry Vladimir Rasputumchev, Supreme Leader of the Russian Moderation. Rasputumchev faces the contestants with an avalanche of reasons why nibbling away at his homeland will end in tears, and then the panel of world leaders must give their various ripostes.

The final vote on who has won lies with the studio audience Рchosen to be entirely representative  of the 4,708,316,000,000,000 extant planets in our local galaxy.

The winner(s) get to launch a full-on nuclear attack on the losers, who are of course free to respond in whatever way they think fit.

While this is a no-brainer blockbuster, I do not see it is a series. It is very much a one-off.


For millennia and perhaps even milleniums, history scholars have been searching in vain for the lost Paradise of Brexit.

Settled scientific socialists and noalternative neoconservative economists are in total agreement about one thing: Brexit is a myth. The idea that a once imperial seagoing nation of the utterly butterly nature of Great Britain once ruled Brexit is, they say, ridiculous, risible, rong, rubbish and lots of other words beginning with r.

Equally, they are as one in their unquestioning acceptance of the danger to the global economy of tiny nations with tiny brains and tiny economies scrawling all over the big picture in a manner likely to encourage other vandals to do the same.

I embrace this analysis with all of my heart, most of my logic, and what’s left of my brain. There is no such thing as Brexit. I have delved at length into Assyrian, Greek, Roman and Belgian legends, and can confidently assert that Brexit is on the same latitude of platitude as the Loch Ness Monster and El Dorado, minus only the gratitude we should all humbly profess to the architects of the European Union and its wonders surely soon to be performed at some point if only we’re prepared to be patient.


Despite being a foreigner in Britain, there are parts of the England v Scotland thing I do grasp. Why the Brits themselves don’t get it is harder to solve, but I shall press on regardless of sensibilities, controversy and evidence.

Let us call a spade a pair of scissors, or perhaps even an egg cup. In the good old days when Scotland came to Wembley and beat England 7-3 (fully justifying a pitch invasion and the destruction of four goalposts and two crossbars) the situation was as clear as the rising form of a dinosaur from Loch Ness on a summer morning: the Scots hate the English with a loathing based on two lost Monarchs, Billy Connolly and a Bannockburn.

So it is that I suggest with the utmost confidence to English Sassenach heathens that Nicola Sturgeon would rather join a remake of the Soviet Union than stay in the United Kingdom. She has far more faith in the unavoidably sprained promises of the European Union than she could ever have in those of Westminster politicians who can’t even pronounce Invercochieleechie.

Just because a few German renegades have tampered (from the best of intentions) with the economies of obscure EU members like Greece, Italy, Portugal, Spain and London does not mean to say they wouldn’t welcome a well-balanced economy like that of Caledonia.

Scotland must of course – in what has to be a democratic process for EU States – first of all apply for membership. And while as things stand now there seems little enthusiasm for an independent Scotland in Brussels, a week is a long time in the European Union. I feel confident that the day will dawn before too long in which Monsieur Juncker will welcome the Philippines with open arms if only he can move it closer to North Africa.

Escape from a Great Britain that has offered little beyond Prime Ministers, Chancellors, Cabinet grandees and Burns suppers is a must for the Scots. We are all looking to Nicola Sturgeon to plunge her Salmon into the deeper rapids of Europe: all she requires now is the acquiescence of a stubborn Scottish majority against doing any such thing.

She is a game girl. I am sure she will prevail – and if she does, I for one will be right behind her.


Earlier at The Slog: Trump & Clinton neck & neck