Scotland Before the Bomb
Page 10
[From The Official Tickertape Transcripts, Vol. 919, Tuesday April 9, 2047, 12.50-12.55pm. Accessed with permission from the Scottish History Section, Duke University Library.]
“I’m Still Sorry”
[SELKIRK]
Preface
BEFORE I BEGIN (a ridiculous phrase, since with these words I have in fact begun) I would like to apologise for this opening. As made clear in the parenthesis, the phrase “before I begin” as a beginning is redundant, as that is in itself a beginning. I would also like to apologise for the preceding sentence, which repeats what is stated in the parenthesis, with an appended apology. I would also like to apologise for the two (now three) apologies, which could have been made with greater economy, rather than spread out over three separate sentences. Having cleared up this matter, I would now like to “begin.”
I am Brian Lettsin. I am a 29-year-old man and I am the Prime Minister of Selkirk. I spoke to a friend of mine, Simon Drainage, the other week about introducing myself in the opening few pages of the book to establish a rapport with the reader. Simon was opposed. “No self-respecting autobiographies ever have the author introducing themselves in the opening pages!” Simon howled at me over a pint of lassi at the Selkirk Inn. Simon is an IT consultant who works for the firm George & Georgie in the Selkirk Business Park and knows an impressive amount about literature, reading up to five books a year, some in hardback. “I also have doubts about that opening section,” he said. “Your beginning consists of an apology for your book beginning.” I replied that such an apology was a sensible idea. In fact, I added, the whole book should contain an incalculable sum of apologies for all its errors and failures. If the book was unsuccessful in arriving at its intended narrative, at least the reader had the million or so sorries to console him or her across its sprawl. “Apologies are not literature,” he remarked. I learned later he was riffing on a remark from Gregory Stein.
So, “to begin” once more. As stated (and re-stating is important in case the reader forgets previous statements after several unrelated ones), I am the Prime Minister of Selkirk. I would like to explain how I arrived at this post in a short and undemanding series of connected sentences. After the liberation of Selkirk from the Border Empire, the inhabitants of Selkirk had elected and overthrown a succession of PMs for corruption, falsehoods, and political subterfuge. Among them: Callum Torque, who smuggled nine million krone into the country, pretending to have smuggled only six million; Francis Lumply, who told the public that he was not engaged in a sexual affair with a local newscaster while inside the newscaster’s vagina; Carol Pump-Moss, who promised to invest three million in schools, and was seen riding a wrecking ball into St. Anthony’s Primary; Ian Iain, who was filmed helping at a homeless shelter, then later caught on camera kicking six tramps in their faces and ankles; and Ross Watson, who pledged to say nothing at all across his election campaign, then stubbed his shin against a coffee table and howled “Bastard!” in front of six horrified fans.
I was known in Selkirk for being the most apologetic man in Selkirk. I was known for this. Some ministers, seeking a leader that people could trust, approached me one afternoon when I was varnishing a stool. I am referring to a chair, of course, and not a piece of excrement. I was varnishing this stool when some ministers approached me. The ministers approached me (when I was varnishing a non-excremental stool) to ask if I might be interested in running for office in Selkirk as the Prime Minister of Selkirk. I apologised for the sloppiness of my wardrobe. “I have been varnishing a stool,” I said. From their looks, these dignitaries seemed unaware that I was referring to a chair, and not a piece of excrement. “I’m referring to a chair, and not faeces,” I said, faeces being another word for excrement. I welcomed the ministers into my cottage to further explore the matter (not faecal matter, the matter of my potentially becoming the Prime Minister of Selkirk).
Simon Drainage, who read the above paragraph, informed me that I repeat things too often. I apologise if these repetitions are offensive (I insert them for the slower of my readers, not to patronise them), however, it is important that this volume contain the facts as accurately as I can transcribe them from my head to my fingertips, and from my keyboard keys to my laptop screen, and later, the laptop screen to print. The next in our series of facts that constitute the truth includes the following: the ministers sitting on the brown banquette I had imported from Bremen; the ministers accepting the four cups of herbal tea I offered each of them to sup; the period of my hosting coming to an end and the commencement of the conversation; the conversation commencing with my reclining in a winged chair opposite; the conversation continuing with my hearing the words emerging from their mouths and into my listening ears. Their words stretched into numerous clauses, and those in turn into numerous sentences, and those in turn into numerous paragraphs.
The essence of these words (I can’t recall verbatim) was that I should run for Prime Minister with their counsel and that the apologetic nature of my vocal emissions (i.e. speech) would serve me well on the prime ministerial stage. I pressed them for further facts, like the campaign slogan. The longest of them suggested: “He’s sorry in advance.” I tittered at this utterance and accepted their proposal. I asked them before we began if I was to be used to prop up corrupt ideologies and wrongfoot the electorate with a campaign of mock-truths and sham-facts in the form of my constantly apologising lips attached to my contrite and regretful face that had a frown attached. They looked at the floor.
Now, people often cite this moment as the most damning of my career. The fact is, when these four ministers looked at the floor, I assumed they were admiring the lemon and thyme pattern on the carpet. I was not ignoring what would prove to be a silent admission that their intentions were to use me to prop up their unkind ideologies with the omnipresent contrition on my hang-dog visage.
If you think otherwise, I apologise.
Now, to the meat of matter (see above) that followed following the foursome’s visit. The next week I was on billboards for what was the third election in three weeks (the prior PMs having been booted for laziness, haziness, and craziness), with the longest man’s slogan printed in Constantia, the sorriest of the fonts, beside the Lettsin mug. Their tactic was that regardless of the policy provocation being poked my way, I was to respond to all words with sincere apologies and promises to improve, and pre-apologies if these promises proved mere premises. I would stun people into silence with sincere and pained sorries for each and every breath I took in the world, consistent since my first apology, aged four. (I had punched my little sister in the kidneys following a dispute over toy truck ownership).
Thus the timbre:
Q: How will you improve the healthcare system?
A: I’m terribly sorry that the healthcare system is failing. I’m appalled. I can’t apologise enough. We hope to improve the system in some way, but if we can’t, then I express my deepest regret and apologise sincerely.
Q: How will you ensure the country is safe?
A: I’m sorry that part of Selkirk was invaded. I express infinite sorrow for those captured and sold for meat on the continent. I can only say that under us, fewer people will end up traded for pork rinds and beef olives. And if we fail, we apologise with infinite sorrow once again.
Q: How will you stop emigration?
A: I’m sorry that so many people want to leave Selkirk for a better life anywhere else. It pains me to see so many bright and brilliant people want to live in Northumberland. We will ask as many people as we can to stay, and if we lose them, we will apologise from the bottom of our hearts and beg your forgiveness.
Q: How will you prevent ecological disaster?
A: I’m sorry that we’re being scorched by our ancestors’ lethal carbon emissions. We loathe the thought of those without sun visors having red and flaky heads from standing in the sun. We will invest in as many sun visors as possible, and if we can’t afford them, we will apologise seriously, and provide up to one bottle of sun cream per ho
usehold. If we can’t, we’re sorry, and wish you the best.
In this manner, I became the 989th Prime Minister. My winning speech:
“I’m so sorry for becoming the Prime Minister by apologising for everything. I’m racked with nerves that I won’t be able to live up to your low expectations, and can’t apologise forcefully enough for whatever happens with me in charge. I’m terrified that I will execute the post with incompetence, which I probably will, having never even voted before in my life, let alone been a prime minister, so I can only apologise for the disappointment and rage you are about to experience with me as boss. My first act as Prime Minister will be to visit each and every household and beg for your forgiveness. I hope to see you soon, and hope you will consider accepting my apology for standing here now, and my apologies for whatever happens to your lives in the future thanks to my useless government.”
The crowd were silent. They realised too late that another lunatic had been elected, and that the campaign of contrition and honesty had concealed a man with absolutely no political acumen and scant personality. (Simon Drainage tells me that I have a comforting presence in certain situations. I take this to mean that I have nothing to offer accept the illusion of calmness in rooms that contain more interesting people). Over the course of this first volume, I will elucidate the events summarised above, and of course, I apologise in advance if these chapters and further words fail to satisfy your minds, which they won’t. For time being, thank you for reading these sentences in the intended order, and please feel free to continue or terminate your interaction with this book, as is your preference.
(I spoke to Simon Drainage, who suggested I remove the option to terminate reading and “enthuse” the reader into continuing. I replied that their response to the preceding words would have probably sealed their opinion, and any attempt to persuade them otherwise would be futile. He concurred, for once).
[From I’m Still Sorry: My Autobiography, Vol.1, Brian Lettsin, p.v.-x., Ebury Press, 2038.]
“The Cleft of Hate”
[ORKNEY]
[‘A Typographical Representation of What Happened’, Melanie Mackay, from The Orkney Organ, August 2058.]
“The Sport of Kickballs”
[LANARK]
IN 2023, THE SPORT OF KICKBALLS, known prior as football, propped up with the enthusiasms of millions, came to certain conclusions. The sport of kickballs noticed that the populace were spending over half their annual incomes on attending matches and purchasing merchandise such as T-shirts, action figures, and signed kickballs. The sport of kickballs concluded that since the populace showed such unbending devotion to its kicky ways, that it should expand its presence across the country, construct more stadiums, stage more matches, assemble more teams, and increase the reach of the sport of kickballs in general. The sport of kickballs then proceeded to build seventy-nine new stadiums, meaning that people could attend matches once every other day, then after work everyday, to indulge their booty pleasures. Two and a half days later, the sport of kickballs concluded that the country’s economy was essentially itself, and that the local infrastructure could easily be absolved into the sport of kickballs. So, the sport of kickballs replaced the houses, businesses, and other structures that make up towns and cities with super-stadiums, inside which the players lived in ruritanian splendour, and where each citizen was permitted to work to earn cash to attend kickballs matches. At first, the populace were moved into small apartments in each stadium, based on which kickballs team they supported, until the kickballsers made the decision that they wanted more space, so the sport of kickballs chose to kick the fans to camps outside, where they lived in tents around the kickballs stadiums. The people had to compete for work. It became apparent that the kickballsers hunger for money was ruining the notion of a self-sustaining world built around the sport of kickballs, and that the excesses of these players meant some people outside were not able to work or receive food, and conditions in these camps became complete kickballs.
In Camp Z-S, Nadine Horton returned from Stadium 44 with a bag of chocolate croissants. She presented one to her father, stoking the fire, his usual prebreakfast scowl present, and placed one atop her sleeping mother’s belly in the tent. Her thankless little brother, being such, took his without a word of thanks.
—It’ll be raining chocolate croissants for us soon, her father said. To what he was alluding she was well aware.
—I am helping out with the east wing cleaning op later, she said.
—Nice, her father said. —Remember to be back before midnight. You need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.
Upon turning sixteen, Nadine was to wed Kettle Buggs, a striker for the Cumbernauld Cottagers, and her family taken into the splendour of Stadium 44. Their future was secure, apart from one snag: she had been hanging out and loving Wilmot Brambles, a shaggy youth who preferred reading books to watching men kick the kickballs around the stadium. She met him later in a bog.
—As you can imagine, marrying that entitled kickballskicking son of a halfwit is not in my existential purview, she said.
—Excellent sentence, Wilmot praised.
—Thank you, Brambles. She squeezed his right hand. —Do you think life is worth us suffering this whiffy ordeal?
—Yes, for without love there is only kickballs.
—So true. Kiss me, Brambles Wilmot.
LATEST MATCH RESULTS, TUESDAY OCT 3, 3.01PM
WISHAW WANDERERS 4 CARFIN CRUISERS 9
HOLYTOWN HOTSPURS 1 CLELAND COXSWAIN 2
BELLSHILL BRUISERS 0 AIRDRIE ANAESTHETISTS 4
STEPPS SWINGERS 2 CROY INCORRIGIBLES 7
UPPERTON UPHOLSTERERS 5 LONGRIGGEND ENDRIGGERS 2
SHOTTS SHOOTERS 2 KIRK OF SHOTTS KIRKSHOOTERS 8
HARTWOOD HACKSAWS 1 TORBOTHIE TONGUEKISSERS 2
NEWMAINS NUTTERS 0 CARLUKE CUSTARDLOVERS 1
OVERTOWN UNDERACHIEVERS 12 BOGSIDE BOGTROTTERS -3
HARTWOOD HOTTIES 3 QUEENZIEBURN QUEENBURNERS 3
DULLATUR DULLARDS 2 GREENGAIRS GASBAGS 6
MATCH BETWEEN KILSYTH KNUCKLEHEADS & BANTON BONKERS CANCELLED DUE TO EXCESS SILT ON PITCH
We are the backbone of kickballs. We walk the kickballs stadiums, serving premiership kickballers wine, truffles, and caviar, making sure our bacteria never waft in their direction. We scrub the kickballs pitches, removing the mud and polishing the astroturf to a sparkling gleam. We check that each brick and tile is secure several hundred thousand times an hour, and amend accordingly. We praise and flatter the kickballsers after a sensational time running up and down the pitch kicking the kickballs. We ensure the bubbles in the post-match hottubs are at their bubbliest pinnacle, and that the homoerotic machismo therein does not descend into kissing or inappropriate rubbing. We lacquer the WAG faces with the finest nut-brown resin known to man and teach them to walk up stadium steps in high heels, handbags perched on their wrists, without losing their feminine grace. We ensure the kickballsers keep their minds focused on kickball and remove any literature, newspapers, or material that might stimulate thoughts. We sculpt miniatures and waxworks of the highest kickers, and erect statues to season record-breakers around the camps, so the people can show their respect for real kickballs talent. We counsel the stressed and depressed kickballsers with hugs and words of understanding and, when required, bracing penetrative intercourse. We are on hand outside their rooms, upright and alert, twenty-four hours a day, to ensure their every need is met. We are the backbone of kickballs.