An All Out Everything Election Happens
Apr 24, 2020 18:25:48 GMT
Harry Hayfield, No Offence Alan, and 3 more like this
Post by Deleted on Apr 24, 2020 18:25:48 GMT
With reference to Harry Hayfield 's post here:
I have been inspired to play my first visit to this subforum.
*cracks fingers*
He taps away at his smartphone. News happens fast. Headlines, comment sections, replies, responses, denials: the tickertape of panic scrolling across his vision in double-quick time. How could all this have been allowed to happen? Unconstitutional, indeed. We don't have a sodding constitution.
Lady Qahishi had already made her mark in history, the first British Asian to be President of the UK Supreme Court. This had been her defining moment. Successive renewals of the Coronavirus Act by the 'virtual' Westminster carried on for years. The news cycle had circled its own drain for too long. The general public had lost interest in the daily updates and press conferences, such as they were, and the younger population barely noticed when the updates stopped. After all, who reads newspapers? Who even noticed when the newspapers vanished alongside fresh bread, fish, lentils, yeast? Lady Qahishi had noticed. She took hold of the diffuse threads of panic, indifference and politics, and prepared to unleash hell. Traitors, she muttered on the day of her judgement. I'll show them traitors.
He calls for the head of the Civil Service. The call rings out. Try the other bloody number. Unconstitutional. It was a cruel echo from a distant past. We've all had enough of experts. Somebody had noticed how the British experience had not been as fluid, as well rehearsed, as the American version. There was no freedom and the American way when their Constitution was suspended. Coronavirus had swept through all 50 states in harsh, cruel waves. Tens of thousands of citizens attempted to flee for Mexico, for Canada, for somewhere with a British flag in the top left corner. Unconstitutional. The first bombings at American airports, by American forces on their own people, began within days. In the UK, the bombings were not necessary, the warnings were enough. We've been here before, went the general attitude. We've defeated warnings, warnings can't hurt us.
The judgement rang across Westminster, London, the country. Paragraphs of a coup, line after line, sharp as a knife. Other countries had experienced the water-canon, the guns, the fire fights. Britain had an Indian judge and 34-pages of two-spaced legalese. Each full stop a grenade. I'll show them traitors.
The Prime Minister had been forewarned. And yet...All of them? All of us? All 650, in one go? All other parliaments too? Bloody hell. Bloody lawyers. The legislation had had to be extended, there was a virus, there had been 4 million deaths worldwide. Fucking lawyers. Sharp intake of breath, a panicked show runner. Oh who cares, the Prime Minister said, speaking straight into the camera lens, red light still on. I'm swearing because we're in a fucking crisis. Andrew Marr turned on his heels. End of career stuff, this. Unconstitutional. Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, all mandated to hold elections on the same day. I thought we'd abolished fucking Northern Ireland.
He tries the Red Number for Mr C. It had been his idea to extend the Act for another year. Nobody cares about elections, PM, trust me. Councils? We scrapped them in '21, who noticed? Bores, tedious letter writers, red nosed country folk who care about dog-shit and buses. Buses, PM, chortled Mr C. We're beyond buses. We're beyond bloody elections. They don't want elections. They want you. You are popular. You lead the polls. Thanks to me, Prime MInister. Of course. But of course. We got the Isle of Man to ourselves without anybody noticing. The digital radio channels, the bloody webcam shit you didn't think would catch on. We managed everything. He taps away at his phone. No need to panic. Killing time, he says out loud, to nobody in particular.
All of them. A writ would be sent by the Lord Chancellor, the next-in-line according to the judgement under the circumstances. This had tickled Mr C. He was the circumstances. Pull more strings than a professional kite flyer. The TV studio audience cracked up. Classic. A swearing Prime MInister, of course that had been the next natural development. Who wants to oppose me in these troubled times for our brave nation, with our angels in the beloved NHS? Andrew Marr turned purple. Mr C. had done it again. Cardiff, Edinburgh, Belfast, all of them. In one go. Who wants this much upheaval? I don't want holding to account.
From the eastern seaboard, footage too graphic to show on the news. The Interim National Governor had flown to Camp David to discuss matters with the Council of International Matters. No minutes, no press conference. The new normal. All of them? By a judge? Really? The United States had no judges, not after the worst wave of the virus, not after the Constitution fell. Not so Supreme now, chuckled the Interim National Governor. British eyes looked from afar, shielded from the worst consequences of the fall of the US by their own crumbling not so much of a constitution.
In Ceredigion, the Quiet Man considers what this might mean for his Community Council. All but one co-opted member had died during the Third Wave. His interest in politics went back years. This would look good on a spreadsheet, a coloured in map. Not that coloured felt-tipped pens were easy to come by, these days. The Essential Items Ration Book was still in print. Twelfth edition. Keep it with you at all times. Oh I do, says the Quiet Man in Ceredigion. But who will see your spreadsheet, your coloured in maps?
The writs fell onto doormats and into letterboxes ten days after the judgement. Safe seats. All to play for. 50/50. Could go either way! A light rain falls overhead. No need to panic, he says. Too right, he replies. We've got this under control, he confirms. The newspapers will print that an election had been held, with results, and graphs, and tables and statistics. ParliNet will show the same staged performances, with new actors in place. Ballot papers would be incinerated. There are no sad-sacks left in this country who would go about checking that the election had been actually held, Prime Minister. Mr C. assures him. Nobody will even notice. None of them even know what an election truly is. Who's that sad anyway?
The Quiet Man in Ceredigion has been looking forward to this. A general election, yes, but unlike any other. Mandated by the President of the Supreme Court, no less. He will need to collate all the statistics he possibly can. This will be easy. He checks every constituency return, after all. Always has. I'll be the man with all the facts, he things. All of the facts right here.
Apr 24, 2020 17:13:40 GMT 1 Harry Hayfield said:
I do not know why I am thinking this, but when this pandemic is over I am convinced that less than six months later (even if it is in the dead of winter) we will have a UK general election, a Welsh Senedd election, a Scottish Parliament election, a Northern Ireland Assembly election, a London Assembly election, a London mayoral election, as well as an election for every single council in Britain because the people of people will say to the elected officials "You failed us when we needed you the most. GET OUT and STAY OUT!" and call for every elected official to be barred from political office for the rest of their lives to bring in the biggest new broom in British politics since at least 1997, 1945 or even 1906.
I do not know why I am thinking this, but when this pandemic is over I am convinced that less than six months later (even if it is in the dead of winter) we will have a UK general election, a Welsh Senedd election, a Scottish Parliament election, a Northern Ireland Assembly election, a London Assembly election, a London mayoral election, as well as an election for every single council in Britain because the people of people will say to the elected officials "You failed us when we needed you the most. GET OUT and STAY OUT!" and call for every elected official to be barred from political office for the rest of their lives to bring in the biggest new broom in British politics since at least 1997, 1945 or even 1906.
I have been inspired to play my first visit to this subforum.
*cracks fingers*
He taps away at his smartphone. News happens fast. Headlines, comment sections, replies, responses, denials: the tickertape of panic scrolling across his vision in double-quick time. How could all this have been allowed to happen? Unconstitutional, indeed. We don't have a sodding constitution.
Lady Qahishi had already made her mark in history, the first British Asian to be President of the UK Supreme Court. This had been her defining moment. Successive renewals of the Coronavirus Act by the 'virtual' Westminster carried on for years. The news cycle had circled its own drain for too long. The general public had lost interest in the daily updates and press conferences, such as they were, and the younger population barely noticed when the updates stopped. After all, who reads newspapers? Who even noticed when the newspapers vanished alongside fresh bread, fish, lentils, yeast? Lady Qahishi had noticed. She took hold of the diffuse threads of panic, indifference and politics, and prepared to unleash hell. Traitors, she muttered on the day of her judgement. I'll show them traitors.
He calls for the head of the Civil Service. The call rings out. Try the other bloody number. Unconstitutional. It was a cruel echo from a distant past. We've all had enough of experts. Somebody had noticed how the British experience had not been as fluid, as well rehearsed, as the American version. There was no freedom and the American way when their Constitution was suspended. Coronavirus had swept through all 50 states in harsh, cruel waves. Tens of thousands of citizens attempted to flee for Mexico, for Canada, for somewhere with a British flag in the top left corner. Unconstitutional. The first bombings at American airports, by American forces on their own people, began within days. In the UK, the bombings were not necessary, the warnings were enough. We've been here before, went the general attitude. We've defeated warnings, warnings can't hurt us.
The judgement rang across Westminster, London, the country. Paragraphs of a coup, line after line, sharp as a knife. Other countries had experienced the water-canon, the guns, the fire fights. Britain had an Indian judge and 34-pages of two-spaced legalese. Each full stop a grenade. I'll show them traitors.
The Prime Minister had been forewarned. And yet...All of them? All of us? All 650, in one go? All other parliaments too? Bloody hell. Bloody lawyers. The legislation had had to be extended, there was a virus, there had been 4 million deaths worldwide. Fucking lawyers. Sharp intake of breath, a panicked show runner. Oh who cares, the Prime Minister said, speaking straight into the camera lens, red light still on. I'm swearing because we're in a fucking crisis. Andrew Marr turned on his heels. End of career stuff, this. Unconstitutional. Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, all mandated to hold elections on the same day. I thought we'd abolished fucking Northern Ireland.
He tries the Red Number for Mr C. It had been his idea to extend the Act for another year. Nobody cares about elections, PM, trust me. Councils? We scrapped them in '21, who noticed? Bores, tedious letter writers, red nosed country folk who care about dog-shit and buses. Buses, PM, chortled Mr C. We're beyond buses. We're beyond bloody elections. They don't want elections. They want you. You are popular. You lead the polls. Thanks to me, Prime MInister. Of course. But of course. We got the Isle of Man to ourselves without anybody noticing. The digital radio channels, the bloody webcam shit you didn't think would catch on. We managed everything. He taps away at his phone. No need to panic. Killing time, he says out loud, to nobody in particular.
All of them. A writ would be sent by the Lord Chancellor, the next-in-line according to the judgement under the circumstances. This had tickled Mr C. He was the circumstances. Pull more strings than a professional kite flyer. The TV studio audience cracked up. Classic. A swearing Prime MInister, of course that had been the next natural development. Who wants to oppose me in these troubled times for our brave nation, with our angels in the beloved NHS? Andrew Marr turned purple. Mr C. had done it again. Cardiff, Edinburgh, Belfast, all of them. In one go. Who wants this much upheaval? I don't want holding to account.
From the eastern seaboard, footage too graphic to show on the news. The Interim National Governor had flown to Camp David to discuss matters with the Council of International Matters. No minutes, no press conference. The new normal. All of them? By a judge? Really? The United States had no judges, not after the worst wave of the virus, not after the Constitution fell. Not so Supreme now, chuckled the Interim National Governor. British eyes looked from afar, shielded from the worst consequences of the fall of the US by their own crumbling not so much of a constitution.
In Ceredigion, the Quiet Man considers what this might mean for his Community Council. All but one co-opted member had died during the Third Wave. His interest in politics went back years. This would look good on a spreadsheet, a coloured in map. Not that coloured felt-tipped pens were easy to come by, these days. The Essential Items Ration Book was still in print. Twelfth edition. Keep it with you at all times. Oh I do, says the Quiet Man in Ceredigion. But who will see your spreadsheet, your coloured in maps?
The writs fell onto doormats and into letterboxes ten days after the judgement. Safe seats. All to play for. 50/50. Could go either way! A light rain falls overhead. No need to panic, he says. Too right, he replies. We've got this under control, he confirms. The newspapers will print that an election had been held, with results, and graphs, and tables and statistics. ParliNet will show the same staged performances, with new actors in place. Ballot papers would be incinerated. There are no sad-sacks left in this country who would go about checking that the election had been actually held, Prime Minister. Mr C. assures him. Nobody will even notice. None of them even know what an election truly is. Who's that sad anyway?
The Quiet Man in Ceredigion has been looking forward to this. A general election, yes, but unlike any other. Mandated by the President of the Supreme Court, no less. He will need to collate all the statistics he possibly can. This will be easy. He checks every constituency return, after all. Always has. I'll be the man with all the facts, he things. All of the facts right here.
