by Greum M. Stevenson

Looking west from Maryhill, Glasgow, these days is like seeing the view for the first time. Or like seeing a high-resolution image instead of a faded photograph. You can see farther, and in more detail, and there are colours that were previously invisible.

It only took a couple weeks of reduced pollution because of the lockdown for us to be able to see — and breathe — so clearly. Of course, the polluters are receiving billions in financial bailouts. When the pandemic ends — which will not be soon, according to a professor of the evolution and epidemiology of infectious disease at Harvard — a more common sickness will likely return. Our view of the distance, near and far, will fade, and we will once again be breathing in the chemicals that blur our vision.

If we saw as clearly with our hearts and minds as we now get to see with our eyes, we would ban all private cars from our cities.

Also posted on Notes from the Northern Colony

by Johnny Shaw

by Lisa MoonCat Stormler

The 4th Industrial Revolution
will not be televised.
It will be archived.
Brought to life in a montage of snapshots
and 3 second videos.
We are suddenly aware of our numbers.
Aware of our unsustainable needs.
Nature dies off before it expands.
Growth is as inevitable as death.
Exponential increase eventually trips
and falls off a cliff.
Hard work gratifies with quality,
when quantity is no longer the goal.

by Greum M. Stevenson

As discussed here previously, Scottish mainstream media made no mention of Craig Murray’s being removed by police from the High Court in Edinburgh during Alex Salmond’s trial. Since then, Murray has published a J'accuse that, in forensic detail, makes a compelling case that there is a conspiracy against Salmond.

And apparently not just Salmond.

Paul Hutcheon, political editor at the Daily Record, has investigated Murray’s home and his personal finances and published a misleading article, without addressing any of his concerns. The paper also published a photo of Murray’s home.

In his article in response, Murray writes:

The key point is not one mainstream media journalist has even attempted to refute the facts of my article J’accuse. It is packed with facts. Might not the political editor of the Daily Record better spend his time researching the conspiracy against Alex Salmond, rather than threatening an independent journalist for the crime of doing journalism? ...What I am now waiting for is all these people to step in and condemn the publishing of my home and the subsequent risk to the security of my wife and family, with as much vigour as they today defended the privacy of the Edinburgh third house of the Head of MI6.

Also posted on Notes from the Northern Colony

Ho, the Quartermaster’s $hoppe is open. We fooled you and opened a day before April 1st!

Have you noticed the shopping cart sign at the top of the page? Maybe you’ve even clicked on it. If you did, nothing happened. But something will be happening soon — our online bookshop, selling DRM-free ebooks in every e-reader format, will be open on April 1. No fooling.

by Greum M. Stevenson

It didn’t take the jury long to decide whether Alex Salmond was guilty of rape, attempted rape, and the other sex crimes he was on trial for at Edinburgh High Court. Deliberations began last Friday, and on Monday Salmond was acquitted of all 13 charges.

Since then, there has been talk of a conspiracy against Salmond. But, in all the news reports and opinion pieces, one thing has been glaringly absent: any mention of Craig Murray, and his being removed from the courtroom the day before the trial ended.

Murray is a former British Ambassador to Uzbekistan, turned whistleblower and columnist. He is also a friend of Alex Salmond’s. While Murray is a fine journalist, he tends to embarrass himself when writing in defence of his friends. He covered Julian Assange’s recent extradition hearing, and his portrait of Assange was such cringe-inducing hagiography that anyone who had read Andrew O'Hagan's reporting on Assange’s incompetence, grandiosity and dishonesty would be inclined to question anything else Murray wrote.

It got worse when Murray wrote about Salmond’s trial. In his fervour to praise Salmond’s record as First Minister, and trash Nicola Sturgeon’s, he praised Huawei, and, without offering evidence, cast doubt on Russia’s poisoning a former spy and his daughter in the UK.

But he wrote respectfully about the judge, Lady Dorrian, and had to admit his friend was getting a fair trial.

And then, the day before the trial ended, police removed Murray from the courtroom and told him he was banned for the duration of the trial. The prosecution had asked the judge to remove him because of a “possible contempt of court.” No further explanation was given.

Murray wrote:

To be excluded from a public trial on the basis of something I have “possibly” done, when nobody will even specify what it is I have “possibly” done, seems to me a very strange proceeding. I can only assume that it is something I have written on this blog as there has been no incident or disturbance of any kind inside the courtroom. But if the judge is genuinely concerned that something I have written is so wrong as to necessitate my exclusion, you would expect there would be a real desire for the court to ask me to amend or remove that wrong thing. But as nobody will even tell me what that wrong thing might “possibly” be, it seems only reasonable to conclude that they are not genuinely concerned, in a legal sense, about something I have written.

It was clear from the start that someone wanted to keep Murray out of the courtroom. First, it was announced that only “accredited media” (i.e. corporate and state media) would be allowed in — no independent or “citizen” journalists. Even though Murray’s blog has a bigger readership than some newspapers, and he has been praised by such journalists as John Pilger and Guardian editor Alan Rusbridger, this criteria excluded him. When the prosecution had finished making its case and it was time for the defence to begin, the public gallery was opened, and Murray sat there.

Until the police came for him.

Sources say Murray was so depressed by his banning — and the threat of a charge of contempt of court, which can get you two years in prison — that, during the weekend Salmond spent waiting to find out his fate, he was so worried about Murray that he called him to see if he was all right.

When the verdicts came in, Murray was so happy he got too drunk to write about it in any depth. So… not an impartial reporter, and not pretending to be. But, whether you think he’s a truth-teller, a friend blinded by loyalty, or a conspiracy theorist, why has there been nothing about his banning in any mainstream media? Both The Herald and The National have given copious space to theories that there was an SNP conspiracy against Salmond, but Murray’s existence hasn’t been acknowledged.

It’s enough to make you wonder if there’s a conspiracy.


Also posted on Notes from the Northern Colony.

by Johnny Shaw

“Motherfucker coughed.”
“Which motherfucker?”
“That motherfucker right there.”
“He cover his mouth?”
“What do you think?”
“Motherfucker.”
“Does he look Chinese to you?”
“Are there blond Chinese?”
“He coughed though.”
“What should we do about it?”
“We should be heroes.”

“Did you get any on you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m clean.”
“Me, too.”
“That was messier than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah.”
“A stuck pig.”
“Was that the right thing to do?”
“You sure you didn’t get nothing on you. It was messy.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t matter. Clean up.”
“But.”
“Remember to wash your hands for twenty seconds.”
“I don’t think I got nothing on me.”
“Twenty seconds. Flirting With Disaster until ‘I choose my destiny’.”
“I know the song.”
“Just wash them. Better safe than sorry.”
“Okay.”
“Twenty seconds. Molly Hatchet.”
“I know.”

“I need to clear my throat.”
“The fuck do I care?”
“It’s going to sound like a cough.”
“You don’t think I can tell the difference?”
“I don’t know if you can. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Right. Why do you need to clear your throat?”
“I just do.”
“You getting sick?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t feel sick.”
“I don’t like it. Sounds fishy to me.”
“Fishy? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Don’t clear your throat until I’m in the next room.”

“Should we do a jigsaw puzzle?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“How we decided to ride this out together.”
“What about it?”
“It was a mistake.”
“But we bought all that beer.”
“That wasn’t a mistake.”
“We got all the TP before anyone else.”
“Essential, man. I need a thorough wipe.”
“We bought nineteen pounds of cheddar for nachos.”
“Obviously.”
“Then what was the mistake?”
“Not doing this alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“There ain’t enough for both of us.”
“Nineteen pounds is a lot of cheddar.”
“Yeah, but nineteen is better than nine and a half.”
“You know I suck at math.”
“Hey, what’s that over there?”
“Over wh—?”

As so many people are self-isolating, and are consequently short of cash, all Dockyard Press e-books will be free for a month. You can get them anywhere but Amazon, because seriously—and especially now that they’re running warehouse staff ragged without any meaningful additional support while we’re in the throes of a pandemic—the hell with Amazon. All of Barry Graham's  books, all of Bart Lessard's, and the latest from Tony Black, Icy Thug Nutz, and daishin stephenson. The entire list is here.

by Mickey Batts

I write this in Split, where I do not live. I’ve been here since the start of January and due to border closures I will stay well past the date I meant to leave. The Croatians will forgive this, given that the outside world has caught a bug. As of Thursday morning all nonessential businesses were closed. The only places open are grocery stores, bakery counters, pharmacies, and doctor’s offices. I won’t be seeing a cafe or a bar for a month at least.

One place that has remained open, and daily, is the fish market. I have never gone inside. The smell is, to my expat nose, strong, but everything for sale is fresh caught and put on ice. Also, aside from tuna I can’t cook fish worth a damn. Shrimp, though—shrimp I can manage. Garlic, olive oil, a dash of Old Bay, a jot of mustard, a baguette—one can do no wrong. Soon I may brave the stink: it is a pleasant place. The Croatians are only happy to be there. They greet each other, they laugh, they tell jokes, even through a paper mask and a pandemic.

Wintering in a milder climate like this is nice but was never my ambition. Glasgow and Scotland are what I call home—though the Home Office in the UK would disagree—and home is where I would rather be. Twice now, visa limbo has forced me out of Scotland. A stay in Croatia, among other places, was how I made the best of that pisspoor turn. Resources and flexibility like mine are rare. I could never gripe or gloat about that, nor the comforts here, the Croatian welcome.

A friend of mine has been forced to leave Scotland, too. But hers is another rabbit hole, and that one led back to the United States, where both of us were born. Her husband is editor-in chief at Dockyard Press, and marriage to a UK citizen is, in premise, a clear-cut chase. By the rules a spousal application can only be made abroad—whence you come—and it takes time. The US is a bad place for such a wait—far, far worse than where I find myself—and it would have been even before the illness struck.

Croatia was only a lucky choice. Here SARS-CoV-2 is not rampant. Present cases number 113, and 47 of those are in Zagreb, inland and far north. The number cured (5) beats the number dead, at the time of this writing a big beautiful zero. The European outbreak started in Italy, right across the Adriatic. There 33,190 people have caught the virus, 3,450 have died, and 4,440 have recovered. The Italian site lists the dead before the cured, unlike the site for Croatia. This might say something about the prospects, but not about the quality of the Italian response.

It gets luckier. The first cases sprang up in Lombardy and Veneto, and these were promptly closed. I avoid air travel, so bus, train, and ferry were what brought me to Croatia. Guess which way I came? While I bummed without cares in Turin, Milan, Venice, and Murano—sampling the cuisine, climbing the Duomo, drinking too much—the bug rose up in China. Soon people were dead. Less than a month after I had gone, the bug had made the long flight and the same rounds.

The sweep in Italy helped stem the spread elsewhere, particularly here in Croatia. I simply outran it—never knowing it was on the heel—and only just. The response here has been no less mindful, no less kind.

Scotland has that kindness, that capacity for reason, which is a good part of why I love it so. The United States does not. Neither does the class that holds power in the UK, a cadre of braggarts that drowns out the national conversation and sees all the turf as English.

American and English rule have a lot in common. Wane of empire; the rump-state mindset; fear, geopolitically speaking, of a shrinking dick—better commentators have gone there already. No less similar is the response to COVID-19; that is, criminally negligent on either part, though worse across the Atlantic. My friend’s dispatches evenly divide the picture between hoarders and truthers. Neither point of view is any less sick. Here in Croatia there has never been a crush for groceries, an empty shelf. There have been no fistfights at the pump or in the aisle at the megastore. Nor is there any downplay of the problem, much less a pundit’s denial that it exists at all, save as a fiction to make a spray-on president look dumb.

In the US, make-believe prevails. Fact cannot beat opinion, and the political culture is sectarian. It was why I left in 2016 and why, despite visa troubles, I am glad that I did. We have begun to hear stunning stories—stunning foremost in their inability to surprise. ProPublica and other sites will spell it all out, but I can touch on three.

Richard Burr represents the people of North Carolina, Kelly Loeffler those of Georgia; Burr is also chair of the Senate intelligence committee. From all appearances, these two senators used inside knowledge not to protect constituents but to dump stock and warn rich friends of the pandemic. A week earlier, news had come that a bloc led by Mitch McConnell tried to veto emergency aid—this because passage of the bill might, maybe, a little bit, thwart some small part of an anti-abortion agenda. McConnell, what a hero, also delayed passing the coronavirus aid bill by keeping the senate in recess. And for what?

Violence is underway. Such heads as these belong on pikes. This is where my friend is stuck, and where—to no credit of my own—I am not. I get to park an arse and drink Croatian beer, and she gets to search six grocery stores for an eight-ounce can of beans. One of these is a land of plenty.

Eat up, Americans. You voted them in, these blatant cunts. They have no agenda but to rob you. And you have kept them just where they are. You allow the evil, and now, since we’re talking about the spread of a disease, you do so even at risk of your own health and lives—and the health and lives of those nearest to you. A pandemic is beyond “individual choice,” which you tout so much and do not understand at all. National choice—world choice—is where the stakes are now. In due time, and that means soon, Scotland will go its own way, and my friend will come home, rid forever of your deny-or-hoard wasteland.

Some talking heads like to blame what has come on Chinese cookery. They cast it vividly, wet markets full of horseshoe bats on drippy hooks. What strange people those Chinese are. Since we’re talking about food, consider Hannibal Lecter. His cocky screws thought “some damn thing from a zoo” would follow the bribe paid out in the third act—lamb chops, extra rare. Say a bat went to slaughter all you like. Your own mouth is where you put the meat.