Crotch Deep Trash

This past year has been quite an odd one for me and my family. It's quite a strange sensation to wake up one day and find your own little world has a range of differing reactions to you. Meeting people in town is often awkward for those that only know me from the periphery, there's an almost hesitant approach to asking what I've been up to. It's almost as if they see me as the ten year old bad boy who got caught peeing in the headmasters kettle (Sorry Mr Hunter it was only the two times). Most of the last year I've been fairly relaxed about my life. I get involved in things I'm interested in or passionate about, I do a bit of meddling, endeavours continue and we, like most other people, just pootle on. 

However, the last couple of weeks have found me ever so slightly on edge, as an anniversary approached and passed. January 21st 2010 was the day that Lothian & Borders finest, DS Willie Falconer and DC Lynsay Thomson braved the frozen climes of rural Dumfriesshire to invite me to Dumfries Police station for an interview regarding possible charges of 'blackmail'. The end result was a charge of Breach of the Peace. At the time I said something along the lines of, 'it's a non charge, the PF will probably wait a year and drop it.' Periodically through the year I've asked chums of a constabular and legal bent as to the best approach. They considered that I was best off delaying any enquiry, lest I piss off the powers that really be. I opted to let it run as long as possible, the assumption being that there was some sort of statute of limitations, as we see all too often on American crime dramas. Seems not.

Last Wednesday, watching the Scottish media and the twitteratti whip themselves into writhing orgiastic fervour over the fact that a bloke who lied about shagging was going to jail for three years. I decided to bite the bullet, to avoid the possibility of biting the pillow. I contacted the Procurator Fiscal to determine whether I was to be prosecuted and faced the possibility of meeting Thomas Sheridan. esq in the pokey. Armed with my very own special crime number, I called the PF's telephone number. Going by the diction of the call operators I'd surmise that the PF's call centre is located in Drumchapel, Govan or Easterhouse, probably quite sensible really given the number of cases that emanate from those burbs. That'll be the flip side of job creation...

Anyhoo, after several attempts I got through to the pleasant and ever so slightly gruff Maggie, (I'm guessing three packs of Capstan full strength a day) who after a couple of minutes battering a keyboard told me, that the PF had decided not to proceed. Whoo agus hoo, Marky boy is not going to the pokey anytime soon. Elated at this news, I asked Maggie, when the decision not to proceed had been taken. Several seconds of keyboard bashing later and she informed me the decision was taken on August 10th 2010. That would be five and half months ago. It transpires that the the PF do not bother to contact you, they just let you sit in a fetid puddle of your own wee till you can't take it any longer and break for cover.


Genuine friends and family were delighted to hear this, there's been a sort of resigned sigh that life can go on and any memories I have of working in Scottish political life can now be consigned to the file marked, 'Wish I Hadn't Fucking Bothered'.


Saying that, I was a wee bit miffed last night after meeting a chum and was in the process of giving him the latest update, only for him to interrupt me and tell me the conclusion of my tale. "For why do you know that?" I enquired. "Oh", he replied, "Madame Beachball told me about it, not that long ago." Now due to legal codicils that allowed me to receive a dod of largesse, I'm not allowed to mention the identity of Madame Beachball. Suffice it to say I'm somewhat peeved that someone who has nothing to do with this case knows about the outcome before I do. I may have to do an FOI of the PF's office to discover why they felt they could hand that information out so freely...possibly even to people in the Scottish Parliament...


Regular visitors will have noticed my need to blawg has become much less frequent of late. Truth be told it's getting to the stage where it's as rare as Jackie Bird lifting up the Nation with a good news story on Reporting Scotland. My reasons for this are manifest, but mainly boil down to the school of I can't be arsed, and if I'm brutally honest, there's not a hell of a lot to write about that hasn't got a hundred other folks shouting 'Me Me Me, read what I've got to say about the latest intracies of the implications of...' etcetera. So in the run up to the much anticipated AV referendum oh and that wee election, the cheesey blog will probably be making like a Sloth on a spacehopper and bouncing slowly off in another direction...

In the meantime here's a little ditty from the Jaques Brel's of Bellshill, the Soup Dragons that sums up how I now feel.