Postcard From North East Fife

by Dean Fraser

You could almost have been forgiven for thinking we weren’t living in a dystopian nightmare up here in the Kingdom of Fife. Because back in April and May this year you could not have witnessed anything more spectacularly bucolic. The picturesque, almost leafy country lanes. The tractors, ever so gently meandering and bobbing through partially ploughed fields. Hares darting, for what seemed like their lives, from still motionless ‘lies’ on the brown earth, or females fending off randy jacks (“not at the moment mate, thanks”). The birds, squirting into hedge rows, and then into trees – beaks full. And let’s not forget the farmhouses and cottages, releasing small wisps of smoke via the chimneys up into the blue still skies. My God, like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (the weather, all over the UK, was glorious, then).

We cycled along main roads, with virtually no traffic, having to pinch ourselves to properly recall what kind of hell this was. Myself and my partner – who believed everything that both Governments were telling her (Ouch!)

So, as you can imagine, I have my work cut out for me up in the Frozen North. More kinds of hell to negotiate in the form of Kim Jong Krankie – and all her sycophants – briefing us with televised missives, on the unfurling mass of deaths that we, the public at large are causing, simply by living and breathing, during this stupendous revisitation of the Black Death. Stay in. Save the NHS. Kill your wife and children! Remember the posters some of us may have had back in the day by Roy Lichtenstein (sardonic and humorously existential, to the point of vacuity). I now imagine our dearly beloved politicians expressing themselves through uncle Roy’s medium. So, Devi Sridhar, looking deep and meaningful in her poster and asking: “Do you think they’ll buy this shit, Nicola?” (Devi’s got a degree in woke totalitarianism from WH Smiths, and is advising the Scottish government on how exactly to break peoples balls.) Herr Krankie also features in a killer poster, too. She’s sitting across from a certain Mr. Alex Salmond, looking despondently at him, she says: “Do you know what, big guy, I can’t remember a thing you said to me, forgotten everything!” Don’t forget to resign, Nicola, hmm?

I believe, here in the central republic, we’re on Lockdown 2.5, level 42, stage five, Tier 9, Jiminy Cricket XYZ. And being told not to travel: especially not south of the Bohrr-durr, because there’s more Covo there, and of course the English are tainted anyway. The Krankster doesn’t pay for these shenanigans (England foots most of the bill for all devolved nations). Her Royal Krankiness and the other ingrates are quite happy to bite repeatedly at the hand that feeds – in the most vituperative of manners. Hey ho! The bigger picture would dictate that we all are being held hostage at the moment (not just central Scotland) by a bigger and more sinister hegemony. A serious reduction in our personal liberties and a monster authoritarian crackdown on how we go about our business, or used to. I’m reminded, almost immediately as I write this, of The Prisoner with Patrick McGoohan: “I am not a number, I am a free man,” he used to wail at the beginning of each episode. Oh really, number six! Alas, not just the nest of vipers known as the SNP to contend with here. But a host of snakes in the grass. A rancorous litany of big moneyed globalist institutions and financial houses, perfectly willing to ‘Flatten our Souls’ everywhere.

DEMOCRACY: I’m getting nostalgic now. The powers that be have taken down ‘The Donald‘’! We now see the democrats’ muzzles start to slip. And (who knew) there’s a magic bullet on the way, hurrah! The mainstream media are positively wetting themselves. In fact we’re all dancing in the streets. I can safely assume Sir Kneel Starmer and the crew are very happy with these results. Ditto, Dan Andrews, of the socialist republic of Victoria; likewise, Saint Jacinda of New Zealots; Justin Trudeau (he may already be in make-up), keen to join the celebrations; Chairman Mark Drakeford gets a shout out; Anthony Fauci, George Soros, et al. The Carnival (New Grand Guignol) to be held at the World Economic Forum’s next “bring and buy sale”. Or, is it the over-80s Bingo Night? Anyone see a pattern emerging here? This, my old fellow lockdown sceptics, is not just a grievance (a lament, if you will) from North East Fife. But – a postcard from what used to be THE FREE WORLD. Oops, must dash, got to report a neighbour.