Soap Opera Scotland's Game of Gnomes - Series One
by Rab Christie
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: EPISODE ONE - Thane of Gnomes
_____________________________________________________________________
On the tarmac at BlastedHeathwick where we set our scene, Scott MacGnome got off the plane. He was still a bit shell shocked. He hadn’t expected to be here. He’d booked a holiday in Greece for after the elections, so sure was he that he wasn’t going to win. And here he was instead, on a plane with a load of other MacGnomes, on their way to the bowels of the centre of Gnomeland – the One Nation Parliament. He really wasn’t ready for the Game of Gnomes.
It was barely 24 hours since he’d won the historic victory – well, been part of #TeamMacGnome’s historic victory. The opposition/s had been all but obliterated. And so it was in high spirits (and with great media acclaim) that the MacGnomes boarded Mountain Air to head down to the River. Not I should point out the River City. That’s something entirely different.
Of course some said they were being sold down that very river they were headed for, but the euphoria of being on a winning team for once overshadowed most of the Nawbags. For one brief shining Camelotian moment everything seemed to be good. (I put that in for those who understand Camelot was once something other than a lottery provider, although it’s a clever name, isn’t it, because both versions of Camelot were something of a fantasist’s dream.)
I should remind you, though, we don’t do dreams in Gnomeland. We deal in reality. Albeit reality in fiction. You pays your money and you buys your ticket and you takes your choice. I digress. It’s my literary style (some say a lack of it). No apologies needed or given. On with the show.
Scott picked up his baggage from the Life is a Carousel and headed out with the rest of the #TeamMacGnome into the bright light, big city of the Southron capital. Their new place of work was set on the very river their detractors thought they were being sold down, and it was indeed a dirty old river, which kept rolling and flowing into the night. But Scott was with his friends and pretty quickly they’d scored a cheap (all things are relative in the Capital) hotel room. He agreed to share accommodation with Angus MacFetchum, because they hadn’t had their first pay cheque yet and the promise of riches beyond compare just for turning up still wasn’t something they really believed in.
To be quite frank, if life is a rollercoaster, Scott and Angus had to keep riding, they were more than prepared for the Black Gnome Rod to bar the door firmly against them and turn the tables, telling them tae gang back up North tae think again. It was a restless night. We’ve all had them, right, so I don’t need to tell you things you already know.
Scott knew that the next morning the fun would really begin. Well, the fun that didn’t involve trying to pay for anything in cash. Like a drink in the bar, or a taxi to work, or a tip for the waiter. Despite living in a One Gnome Nation (as they were constantly reminded) it seemed that money from the North was not welcomed down here in Das Capital. Not welcome at all. It was to be a life lived on credit. Which, Scott observed, seemed all too ironically appropriate for the situation they found themselves in.
The challenge was trying to cross Das Capital without cash. And remain honest in a nest of gnomes with little sense of decency who had not expected the influx any more than the influxees had expected to be influxing. It was new all round. And new, as we know, unless it’s new and improved, is simply different. And different is, quite frankly, just plain scary. And fear breeds hate. But you know all this. Don’t you?
In case you aren’t familiar with Gnome-ian politics, I should fill you in. In May of this year (yes, they do use the same calendar as we do) there was a general election in which the Independent MacGnome Party won a landslide victory ‘up north’. It followed a long and bitterly fought Independence Referendum (which is a polite way for saying war fought using money as the main weapon and no obvious bloodshed, but plenty of sweat and tears and not a few big fat lies thrown into the mix) and the result was that of the 59 elected members to Das Capital Mother of All Parliaments, 56 of them were Independents. The self-styled #TeamMacGnome. And Scott was one of them.
But Scott, like many of #TeamMacGnome were, was no more comfortable in the seat of parliament than on the footie pitch. They were used to sitting shouting from the sidelines (usually in despair – which actually was a skill that would come much in handy in the weeks and months to come) but they hadn’t ever expected to be a central part of the action. Scott only had one suit, for goodness sake. And his choice of ties left a lot to be desired. Fuck it, he thought, I’ll go casual. Angus had other plans. Angus said they had not just to take the thing seriously, but look like they were taking it seriously and that meant turning up spiffy as can be.
So the cab (which they had to pay for by credit card, of course, but don’t worry, they’ll take your swipecard as soon as look at you) diverted to the local branch of TyesRUs, where Angus advised Scott on what a really good tie for a man determined to be taken seriously for a politician should be wearing in this day and age.
Angus, you see, had political ambitions. Like Scott, he never expected to be at the Mother of All Parliaments this early in his career (he was a little over 30). He had been working his way up the ladder, or greasy pole if you are not one who considers politics a noble career progression. He’d stood against one of the Giant Gnomes and given him (well, his constituents through gnome power had given him) a richt guid bluidy nose. Stuck the heid on him, some said. In a metaphorical way, of course. Not a literal one. Gnomes are civilised beings after all.
All the same, Angus had won by a stonking majority and bought himself a buff new suit and tie to celebrate. After all, they were, as he kept reminding Scott, about to be paid more than handsomely for the sacrifice they were making. And it was a sacrifice. Even for Angus. Angus had hoped to get into Hillywood at the next MacElections.
The General Gnome Elections had only been a rehearsal for him. A staging post on the journey. But it all went so terribly right on the night and you can’t kick a gift horse in the mouth, especially if you’re a gnome; so here the boys were, standing on the doorstep of the Mother of All Parliaments, waiting for their photo-call of history. Which is where we’ll leave them till next week. That’s called a cliff-hanger. Which is a dodgy thing for writers and gnomes alike but quite the done thing in soap operas, so I believe.
And if you think this is all just so much silliness, you may be right. Time will tell. But there’s an old Gnome tradition of satire and sometimes the best of facts are laid bare within the guise of fiction. Like I said, it’s all a soap opera lottery. Read on or not. The Decision, as they say, is yours. Satire, I suspect, is a hit or miss affair. Much like a custard pie, if not well aimed. And this is my first foray into literary pie-throwing.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: EPISODE ONE - Thane of Gnomes
_____________________________________________________________________
On the tarmac at BlastedHeathwick where we set our scene, Scott MacGnome got off the plane. He was still a bit shell shocked. He hadn’t expected to be here. He’d booked a holiday in Greece for after the elections, so sure was he that he wasn’t going to win. And here he was instead, on a plane with a load of other MacGnomes, on their way to the bowels of the centre of Gnomeland – the One Nation Parliament. He really wasn’t ready for the Game of Gnomes.
It was barely 24 hours since he’d won the historic victory – well, been part of #TeamMacGnome’s historic victory. The opposition/s had been all but obliterated. And so it was in high spirits (and with great media acclaim) that the MacGnomes boarded Mountain Air to head down to the River. Not I should point out the River City. That’s something entirely different.
Of course some said they were being sold down that very river they were headed for, but the euphoria of being on a winning team for once overshadowed most of the Nawbags. For one brief shining Camelotian moment everything seemed to be good. (I put that in for those who understand Camelot was once something other than a lottery provider, although it’s a clever name, isn’t it, because both versions of Camelot were something of a fantasist’s dream.)
I should remind you, though, we don’t do dreams in Gnomeland. We deal in reality. Albeit reality in fiction. You pays your money and you buys your ticket and you takes your choice. I digress. It’s my literary style (some say a lack of it). No apologies needed or given. On with the show.
Scott picked up his baggage from the Life is a Carousel and headed out with the rest of the #TeamMacGnome into the bright light, big city of the Southron capital. Their new place of work was set on the very river their detractors thought they were being sold down, and it was indeed a dirty old river, which kept rolling and flowing into the night. But Scott was with his friends and pretty quickly they’d scored a cheap (all things are relative in the Capital) hotel room. He agreed to share accommodation with Angus MacFetchum, because they hadn’t had their first pay cheque yet and the promise of riches beyond compare just for turning up still wasn’t something they really believed in.
To be quite frank, if life is a rollercoaster, Scott and Angus had to keep riding, they were more than prepared for the Black Gnome Rod to bar the door firmly against them and turn the tables, telling them tae gang back up North tae think again. It was a restless night. We’ve all had them, right, so I don’t need to tell you things you already know.
Scott knew that the next morning the fun would really begin. Well, the fun that didn’t involve trying to pay for anything in cash. Like a drink in the bar, or a taxi to work, or a tip for the waiter. Despite living in a One Gnome Nation (as they were constantly reminded) it seemed that money from the North was not welcomed down here in Das Capital. Not welcome at all. It was to be a life lived on credit. Which, Scott observed, seemed all too ironically appropriate for the situation they found themselves in.
The challenge was trying to cross Das Capital without cash. And remain honest in a nest of gnomes with little sense of decency who had not expected the influx any more than the influxees had expected to be influxing. It was new all round. And new, as we know, unless it’s new and improved, is simply different. And different is, quite frankly, just plain scary. And fear breeds hate. But you know all this. Don’t you?
In case you aren’t familiar with Gnome-ian politics, I should fill you in. In May of this year (yes, they do use the same calendar as we do) there was a general election in which the Independent MacGnome Party won a landslide victory ‘up north’. It followed a long and bitterly fought Independence Referendum (which is a polite way for saying war fought using money as the main weapon and no obvious bloodshed, but plenty of sweat and tears and not a few big fat lies thrown into the mix) and the result was that of the 59 elected members to Das Capital Mother of All Parliaments, 56 of them were Independents. The self-styled #TeamMacGnome. And Scott was one of them.
But Scott, like many of #TeamMacGnome were, was no more comfortable in the seat of parliament than on the footie pitch. They were used to sitting shouting from the sidelines (usually in despair – which actually was a skill that would come much in handy in the weeks and months to come) but they hadn’t ever expected to be a central part of the action. Scott only had one suit, for goodness sake. And his choice of ties left a lot to be desired. Fuck it, he thought, I’ll go casual. Angus had other plans. Angus said they had not just to take the thing seriously, but look like they were taking it seriously and that meant turning up spiffy as can be.
So the cab (which they had to pay for by credit card, of course, but don’t worry, they’ll take your swipecard as soon as look at you) diverted to the local branch of TyesRUs, where Angus advised Scott on what a really good tie for a man determined to be taken seriously for a politician should be wearing in this day and age.
Angus, you see, had political ambitions. Like Scott, he never expected to be at the Mother of All Parliaments this early in his career (he was a little over 30). He had been working his way up the ladder, or greasy pole if you are not one who considers politics a noble career progression. He’d stood against one of the Giant Gnomes and given him (well, his constituents through gnome power had given him) a richt guid bluidy nose. Stuck the heid on him, some said. In a metaphorical way, of course. Not a literal one. Gnomes are civilised beings after all.
All the same, Angus had won by a stonking majority and bought himself a buff new suit and tie to celebrate. After all, they were, as he kept reminding Scott, about to be paid more than handsomely for the sacrifice they were making. And it was a sacrifice. Even for Angus. Angus had hoped to get into Hillywood at the next MacElections.
The General Gnome Elections had only been a rehearsal for him. A staging post on the journey. But it all went so terribly right on the night and you can’t kick a gift horse in the mouth, especially if you’re a gnome; so here the boys were, standing on the doorstep of the Mother of All Parliaments, waiting for their photo-call of history. Which is where we’ll leave them till next week. That’s called a cliff-hanger. Which is a dodgy thing for writers and gnomes alike but quite the done thing in soap operas, so I believe.
And if you think this is all just so much silliness, you may be right. Time will tell. But there’s an old Gnome tradition of satire and sometimes the best of facts are laid bare within the guise of fiction. Like I said, it’s all a soap opera lottery. Read on or not. The Decision, as they say, is yours. Satire, I suspect, is a hit or miss affair. Much like a custard pie, if not well aimed. And this is my first foray into literary pie-throwing.
About the Author
G. R. Christie (Rab) is from a farming background. His political awakening started in 1996 with the BSE crisis and matured in 2001 with Foot and Mouth. He then studied journalism and politics and he now combines the pitchfork with the pen – or the crap with the computer!
Rab is familiar to many from his political/cultural commentary/rants on McRenegades and is editor in waiting at Deveron Press – launching in December 2015. He’s having a go at satire with the latest McStorytellers McSerial, Soap Opera Scotland’s Game of Gnomes – Series One.
Rab is familiar to many from his political/cultural commentary/rants on McRenegades and is editor in waiting at Deveron Press – launching in December 2015. He’s having a go at satire with the latest McStorytellers McSerial, Soap Opera Scotland’s Game of Gnomes – Series One.