Fake it till ye break it: how politics is killin us inside

Man, thon wis the days when ye had REAL moral panics. The green rooms at the BBC were stowed oot wi aw the xenophobes an registered heid-the-baws o the day, queuin rings roond theirsels tae proclaim that thon Portuguese laddie wis a menace an a disgrace. The suiner we got shot o aw the Ronaldos fae oor gemme, the better for England, the better for awbody. T-E-L-T.

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Aw, an dae ye mind when Theresa May wisnae the greatest prime minister the UK’d ever had, but an amoral wind-spinnle wi mair faces than the toon clock? An hou the BBC mobilised aw their tap politicos tae get oot an say, och, wisnae Theresa May daein an awfy guid job unner gey difficult circumstances, an shouldnae we aw feel richt sorry for her?

See, when a fitba player kids on tae be injured, we cry it simulation, an the pundits gang their dingers; whit an example tae set oor bairns, an him on a king’s ransom an aw, hingin’s no guid eneuch, etc. Yet when a politician simulates – maks oot tae be ill-treatit, lats on ootrage, sends #thochtsanprayers tae victims o their ain sleekit ploys – naebody on Question Time is roarin for them tae be sine died an slung oot o toon in disgrace. Insteid, the maist ye can howp for is a wry wee smile fae a Dimbleby or a Robinson, like they’d jist watched a video o a baby panda sneezin.

Atweel, atweel! That we haud oor fitba players an oor politicians up tae awfy different standarts is nae surprise tae onybody, an it should mak smaw odds tae me whether it’s Ryan Fraser or Ruth Davidson that’s been bustit for makkin mane o an honest challenge … An yet, somethin happens tae the warld, an aw o us wha are ettlin tae live honourably ’ithin it, when a Boris Johnson or a David Mundell says a thing, then gangs back an says they never said it. For a fraction o a hertbeat, oor lives mak a wee bit less sense tae us. Supporters caw it repositionin; talkin heids wink at a flip-flop; but the best wird’s wan the psychologists uise. Gaslightin.

We tell oorsels stories in order tae live. We’ve got tae. The anely thing that sets us frae the coos in the lea is oor determination tae shape the hap-nap onfaw o oor midden-ish lives intae somethin like a coherent narrative. This happened acause o that, an that happened acause o this, an at the end o it aw, here ah’m ur. We can begrudge fowk the richt tae their ain life stories – especially when we’re sat next tae them on the X95 – but the lenth an breidth o it is that, wioot sic narratives, we’d aw jist be bidin in a David Lynch film, an no wan o the guid yins either. It’s why we cannae thole hearin ither fowk’s dreams; the idea o a story wi nae logic tae it threitens the fabric o oor ain tentily cultivatit narratives, an pits holes in the notion that oor life – or ony life – can ever mak ony sense at aw.

Noo, there’s fowk wha arenae bathered whit happens tae them, or whit it micht mean, an the psychologists are haundy wi a wird for thae chiels as weel; psychopaths. Thae loons are gonnae get oot there an fling some elbaes, an they’re no fashed whether ony o it maks ony sense in the end or no. An when they’re the yins in chairge – as they hae been for sae lang – ye can feel the tapestry o oor lives comin loose fae the loom, like meat bein scraped aff a bane.

Ruth Davidson says wan thing in front o a podium, an anither ahint it

Sae it should be a pickle mair than a “Gotcha!” moment when Ruth Davidson says wan thing in front o a podium, an anither ahint it; it should mak us dae mair than roll oor een when Theresa May cuts that mony U-turns she’s meetin hersel comin oot the door; an it should wirry us deeply when politicians o ilka stripe ettle at keepin their pasts – OOR pasts – a doutsome an featureless thing, an infinitely reframeable daud o putty shaped anely tae the expediency o the political moment.

Because for noo, the ootlook is awfy ominous. The psychopaths are up tae their oxters in it like a flee in clairt, pannin every shop windae on the high street while the rest o us hide ben oor hooses, terrified o bein cancelled. An the bigots are gawin like gangbusters an aw; it disnae tak a HND in empathy tae unnerstaun hou an authentic racist wi a simple story aboot hou yer life winded up the wey it did wipes the electoral flair wi a wumman that’s feart tae admit she taks jam on her pieces… In the short term, this: the gradual invalidation o lived experience; the inadmissibility o history as exculpatory fact. Seiven seasons o character arc cowped in the midden for a badge readin “crazy ex-girlfriend”. An the langer view… Weel, ah dinnae ken. But ah ken a chiel wha daes.

See, thon’s the pairt o 1984 that ah aye fund it hairdest tae swallae – this notion that if a politician tells us onythin for lang eneuch, we’ll finally get tae believin it. Ah mean, nae pouer on Earth can compel me tae think that Boris Johnson can fly, or that David Mundell’s twas an twas will ever mak a five.

READ MORE: Andrew Tickell: Political ambition of Boris Johnson says it all

But thon’s the rub. This slew o constant, totey lies that passes for oor politics isnae meant tae mak converts o us. It’s meant tae weir us aw doon, tae destabilise the verra notion o truth until, like a shoogly tooth, we simply cannae uise it ony mair. This is a process that’s happenin everywhaur, an if we’re no helpin, we’re hurtin.

Hurtin. Oh, God aye, we’re hurtin. The truth aboot yersel, that precious an irreplicable burden, is a heavy thing tae cairry; it’s nae wunner sae mony o us are skailin it awa, like a haunfu o bawbees. On Twitter, in tabloids, on Jeremy Kyle, a hale warld is conspirin tae tell us that oor herts are a bustit flush, wirth naethin. An here ah’m ur, a thoosand wirds in, windin ma wey taewarts ma pithy wee solution, when in aw honesty, ah hivnae got wan. That’s ma truth.

Sae tell us yours.