Those of you with somewhat memorable memories may well recall a recollection about a short story I published entitled ‘The Non-stop Dancer’. It was originally written during the time of the great referendum and left in a dusty drawer to rot and hopefully be forgotten. When the last general election rolled around I decided to publish it in the faint hope that the allegory would serve as a warning and would not be missed. Sadly for the Disunited Kingdom, the stark warning that appeared in its pages has come true.
The ludicrous idea of a man continually dancing for no other reason than a whim before upping and walking away from the monster that he had created, seemed perfectly apt. When I wrote about a populist MP who was prepared to abandon all beliefs in the face of popular opinion, I was convinced that he would one day be Prime Minister. Yesterday, I was proven right.
The notion that drove me to write the story was the realisation that populism creates beasts that opportunists look to harness. In some cases, the beasts grow bigger and stronger. In others, the beasts eventually crush those that try to ride them. The danger we are faced with now is the fact that we are in the hands of an opportunist, in an age where we disregard information that does not appeal to our beliefs. Truth is dead. Long live the truth.
They were no longer individuals. United in dance, joined in the ecstasy of becoming one, they were a new species, a new organism, a dangerous warning from the power of unity. They danced atop mountains, they danced into a new dimension, they were the heralds of a new dawn, they were the new crusaders, singularly, via the medium of dance, they had created an entirely new reality, a new beginning, it was as if the future had been laid at their feet.
Scott Andrews, The Non-stop Dancer
You can read ‘The Non-stop Dancer’ right here
After a year disqualified from driving on account of my habitual falling unconscious and weeing myself, a year spent only being able to buy the amount of shopping I could carry, only being able to walk the dog from my doorstep, only being able to visit people when I was rich enough to be able to afford a train, a year spent spending three times as much time as I needed to travel on a sweaty, pissy, pukey bus, I was delighted to find a letter from the DVLA. There is nothing quite like feeling as if you are getting the keys to your freedom and opening the letter and holding the driving licence in your hands, only to find that it’s not in your name. Thank you, DVLA. Really. Thank you.
Merry Christmas and that kind of thing. I hate the end of every year. The falsified happiness, the expectation that we celebrate the fact that we are all one year closer to death. It is collective insanity. A gazelle never turns around to a chasing tiger and offers it a drink so why should we?
The worst thing about Christmas is the music. The same songs in every shopping centre, supermarket, taxi, television advert and radio station. The same sentiments, the same words, the same ideas, the same tunes. Nothing ever changes at Christmas. It is a tinselled up groundhog day of misery, eating bad food, showing gratitude for things we do not want and being forced to interact with people we do not actually like.
Therefore I would like to propose to you not to partake in the annual misery competition. Instead, read something awesome. The kind folks at Amazon are giving away Mourning Morning eBooks from the 25th of December to the 29th. Set yourself a reminder. Get yourself a copy.
Thus all that is left for me to say is Jingle Balls and may the Jesus be with you all.
P.S. There is one Christmas song that is worth listening to. You can find it below.
It was the year 2345. #Brexit still has not been agreed. In the Peoples Democratic Republic of #Corbyn the people are starving and wandering the streets aimlessly, wondering if we are racist, xenophobic or anti-semitic?
The national GDP has shrunk to size 8 trousers. Medication no longer exists. The path to Dover is littered with the cobwebbed corpses of HGVs, their drivers’ mere skeletons. All food apart from the humble lettuce has disappeared from supermarket aisles.
We are both in and out and in and out of the #EU which now encompasses three-fifths of the Earth. The #EU parliament is now located in 365 cities. Relocating every day. Straight bananas are now legal. Bent bananas are now contraband.
The ghostly corpse of Boris Johnson haunts the corridors of Westminster, howling I told you so. The NHS no longer operational, now treats every disease with a cup of tea, made from the skin of untreated eczema patients.
Super Gonorrhoea has trebled in strength. It is now Spectacular Gonorrhoea. The constant stream of immigrants long dried up as poverty takes hold across the land. The legal tender, Adidas clothing, replaced the crippled pound over two hundred years prior.
Nigel Farage is alive and well and spends each day in speakers corner, gibbering about foreigners and dribbling on his own shoes.
As we face the end of what we once knew it suddenly dawns on all of us. They were all right. We are richer and poorer. Sicker and healthier. We are in and out. We are #Brexit, we chant in unison, as we follow the guidance of our leaders and begin eating each other’s brains.