Saturday, 19 September 2015


I caught a delayed flight from Orkney to Aberdeen, last Monday morning. 
 In front of me sat  Big Al Carmichael, 

currently the local MP, now facing a legal challenge to his election  in May last. 
 Carmichael, by his own admission, lied when he insisted that he had not leaked  misleading information about Nicola Sturgeon, MSP,  but maintains, lamely, that this was a political lie, not a real one and so he should not be unseated; 


 a crowd-funded campaign, however, supported by many of his constituents - although not by myself - has taken the matter to an Edinburgh court.

A couple of rows behind me sat Lord Jim Wallace, 


formerly LibDem holder of the seat which Carmichael now considers his own property.  

As an MSP and deputy leader of the Labour-LibDem Holyrood Coalition, Wallace was a disastrous justice minister, memorably, for her hurt feelings, paying a Scottish police sergeant three-quarters of a million pounds of my money. Wallace had presided over a bungled forensic criminal investigation which attempted to rewrite the laws of science, implicating the officer in wrongdoing of which she was entirely innocent, as well as subjecting Scottish criminal justice to worldwide derision.  (see Shirley McKie, wikipedia) 

When his  Holyrood coalition fell to the Tribesmen, Wallace's brain-numbing, grinning incompetence saw him rewarded with a seat in the Lords 

and yet another paid ministerial position, this time  in  the Clegg-Cameron axis. By local standards, indeed by any standards, Wallace is fabulously wealthy, grandly enriched by the taxpayer.  Now that he has helped put LibDemmery  in the political swillbin, along with the NF and the BNP,  Wallace only manages to claim from us three hundred pounds a day, for showing-up at the Lords, and then doing as he pleases.  With his fees in mind, Wallace was obviously anxious not to be delayed on his Monday flight-to-work.

And so, too, was Carmichael, for no sooner was  he aboard than he was reminding the  stewardess of his importance, 

of how he had to make his connection, it was vitally important that he get off first, as befitted his stature as a disgraced politician.  Catching himself in full arrogant flow Al added that it wasn't just him,  there were other passengers, too, with connections to make;  he meant his mate, Lord Wallace.
 Carmichael continued  throughout the flight to remind the stewardess of his personal eminence.

 I couldn't quite hear all of it, so I don't know if he asked her to kick the pilot's arse but I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that he had.

Now, it is well known locally that many of the morning flights from Orkney to Aberdeen carry NHS patients, bound for the city's Royal Infirmary and given the size of the tiny aircraft that is clearly visisble;  some appointments are routine, some, like mine, are for specialist treatment and some are for those clearly, visibly  in serious distress and discomfort; all, given the stresses on NHS Grampian and Scottish NHS generally, are time-dependent, at least as important, anyone would think, as the diary appointments of a non-ministerial, disgraced MP,

 or a superannuated parasite. 


Some of the passengers looked as if  their lives could depend upon their appointments;  they were the sort of people to whom anyone, absolutely anyone,  would say, No, please, you go first. 
 Not our democratic representatives, 
not Carmichael and Wallace.

We must ask you to remain seated, squeaked the stewardess over the speaker, while we help other passengers make their connections.  Thank you for your patience. 

Wallace came barging down the aisle, eyes fixed on his feet, brushing past the inconvenient sick and the impudent lame - his neighbours and former constituents -  as though they didn't exist;  Carmichael, at the front,
 lumbered off the plane without a sideways glance at his seriously ill constituemts.   I felt lucky that neither had felt the need to horsewhip us.

A few minutes elapsed while calls were made from the cockpit and the cabin to check on the progress of our statesmen and then the paying passengers and the sick patients  were allowed to alight.

I missed my appointment by just five minutes and I don't know what happened to everyone else, maybe their clinicians juggled things a bit, just as long as it didn't impede Wallace's progress towards his money or Carmichael's  urgent attendance at whatever it is which his party of eight MPs  finds urgent.
We few, we precious few, we band of brothers-in-bumming...

During round one of the Neverendum, Carmichael's inept handling of his role as Scottish Secretary resulted in the demise of his party in the following General Election. Campaigning for the Union, Carmichael proved to be a Scottish Tory lawyer revealing his true colours.  North of the border, his shaky and deeply unsettled constituency - his majority was almost eliminated -  is now  the only Scottish seat in LibDem hands, so he is probably as welcome among LibDem Westminster survivors as is Ed Miliband at Labour HQ. 

Maybe I misjudge them both, maybe theirs is not the insolence of office but the ardour of late middle-aged men, running  late for a tryst with boyfriend or girlfriend, in some second home, provided and furnished by we, their lessers.  
Whichever is the case I shall not easily forget the naked, brutal self-interest of this pair of political cocksuckers and I cordially invite Brother Corbyn to add them to his growing list of candidates for the Big Shiny Guillotine of State. 
The people of Orkney, of course,  should pelt them with rotting turnips.


Caratacus said...

As always I am lost in my admiration of your self-restraint, Mr. I. I would have been hard put not to bellow quietly in their right earole that perhaps they ought to shut up and sit the fuck down until their employers had made their way from the plane. Which is why, perhaps, the Memsahib always keeps such a close eye on me when out and about ... Sad that you missed your appointment. Were allowances made? Did you manage to see the saw-bones on the day?

And still the silly fat bastards wonder why they are universally loathed from arsehole to breakfast time ...

call me ishmael said...

I did ask the stewardess or whatever they are called, cabin crew members, if I could get off before Mr Carmichael, as I had a medical appointment and I was as delayed as he was; she just laughed, as though I was joking; I believe that the New Serviles are trained to react thus to any citizen-suspect who opens his gob. I felt that if I remonstrated further I would be met at Aberdeen by minimum-wage security-serviles who might easily and joyfully kill me.

Yes, thanks, the hyperbaric tank team were able to run an afternoon session, just for me, although I do not know if others were so fortunate. Flight delays are a fact of life, here, and many disciplines can juggle things, although others cannot, surgeons, for instance, may have disappeared into theatre by the time some patients arrive and may not be available for consultation for weeks or months. But all of that is beside the point, the crux of my complaint is that even if everybody else on the plane had been in need of immediate, life-saving surgery, Carmichael and Wallace would still have asserted their imagined primacy and everybody would've gone along with it.

I will be on the same flight this coming Monday, every Monday until November and will try to be equipped to record things should there be a repeat performance.

Bungalow Bill said...

It's the close up nastiness of these people, as you describe it, that is telling. The instinctive bad manners and lack of grace. Thanks for relaying this, it does indeed matter to record these twats in action. I encountered a newish Tory MP not so long ago and it was the same thing: effortless rudeness, not to me but to a person whom she could most easily dismiss. That's the thing about Cameron and Osborne too, contempt for the people who don't, so they think, matter.

SG said...

I always defer to the observations of an old friend when confronted by 'do you know who I am?' types:

"They lie. They lie, and we have to be merciful, for those who lie. Those nabobs. I hate them. I do hate them".
Colonel Walter E. Kurtz

Fuck them, fuck them all Mr I!

Caratacus said...

SG - I was once fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time ... I was working as a nightclub doorman and had to refuse entry to a young gentleman who thought that the quite reasonable dress code did not apply to him. He told me he was a solicitor, knew his rights and insisted that I allow him in. I replied that I was grateful that he had vouchsafed the nature of his employment to me as I was able to deduce from this that he was able to read and referred him to the written terms and conditions displayed on a notice board on the wall. He squinted at it and quoted, " ... 'the Management reserve the right to refuse entry' ... Ha! doesn't apply in English Law". My patience had worn thin by this point and I told him to bugger off (yes, I know - breeding will out). He flounced away with his chum and by way of a parting shot sneered, "Do you know who my father is?". I couldn't help it ... I shot back, "Can't help you there, old son - have you tried asking your mother?" My oppo slid down the wall laughing and I felt fleetingly guilty that I had fallen from the Eightfold Noble Path.

call me ishmael said...

You are a lucky man, life denies most of us such opportunities.

yardarm said...

I`m thankful I`ve never encountered any politician at close quarters, Mr Ishmael and your tale reinforces that. You could have engaged one of their nobilities in conversation as to why the Liberals vanished so convincingly down the toilet this May but your impertinence would ,as you suggest have led to your detention by goons at your destination.

call me ishmael said...

Yes, I felt the threat of that most keenly and could visualize myself being seriously hurt. I dunno where else to go with this, no point complaining to anyone, maybe I will approach the Scottish Sun.

mongoose said...

I think that in the new spirit of citizen involvement in the holding to account of our representatives, it would be quite proper to email him, describing his vile behaviour, and ask ing"Just what is it that makes you feel entitled to preferential treatment ahead of the sick and lame, you useless fucker? (NB the incident, this enquiry and your response to it will be emailed to all of the national dailies."

SG said...

Ha! Thank You Mr C - I enjoyed that one! Strangely it reminded me of a time, many years ago now, when I worked with someone 'high born' - short of royalty but not far short. He was young graduate trainee, working for one of the 'top' management consultancy outfits (thieving fucking bandits the lot of them, of course, though as a younger man I was impressed at the time). I dunno what he's like now but then he cut a hard working, self effacing and humble figure who did his bit, mucked in, shared the Viz jokes and never said who he was though did not conceal it either as he used his common name (they all have one...). There are decent people in all strata of society just as there are cunts, which is partly why I reject class based analyses of history and politics...

call me ishmael said...

Not one for etiquette, mr sg, but caratacus was a British king, cruelly used by the Romans, Highness might be better than Mr, or perhaps Majesty.

As for your point, I cannot but resent the idea of aristocracy and nobility even while acknowledging your observation that some of them are better than most of them. It would indeed be unfortunate for your former colleague to be swept into the Tumbrils of Cleansing but, like unemployment, it would be a price worth him paying.

call me ishmael said...

I am on the same flight tomorrow, mr mongoose, and will see what transpires, Big Al, I suspect has meatier matters on his mind and my complaint would be sent to the Recycle Bin of Irritation.

Caratacus said...

Thank you most graciously for your concern, Mr. I ... but old slobbery Clavdius did grant me a rather decent pension and I found that Roman weather was a bit of an improvement on that which currently prevails between the A12 and the A13. And I'm not a stickler for social niceties, I'll make a brew for any man who can stand my company for any length of time. Nato standard, milk and two sugars ...

SG said...

Thanks for the protocol corrective Mr I & humble apologies to His Majesty! NATO standard tea requirement noted for future reference. I'm glad there was a positive outcome from the RSI programme if you remember that Majesty.