CONSPIRACIES. They’re everywhere. And during this time of calamitous contagion, there seem to be more around than is normal or, indeed, abnormal.

I do not intend to dwell on the 5G one currently doing the rounds. For the purposes of investigative satire, I decided to do some research into this and came away knowing less than when I started out.

The gist seems to be that the new 5G communications masts caused the coronavirus by sneezing on passers-by from a great height. The Chinese are also apparently involved, which wouldn’t surprise me, right enough (oh dear, a woke liberal at the back has just fainted), though I think in this instance they’re as clueless as the rest of us.

It’s cluelessness that causes conspiracy theories. That’s why openness is always the best policy. I was interested to see that a chap in America had been given permission to fly over Area 51 to take photies. And right dull the place was too. Just a bunch of sheds. Not one alien spacecraft in sight. Maybe now the conspiracy theories about the joint will tail off.

Once, in the early days of the internet, after I wrote a light-hearted story about RAF Machrihanish being Scotland’s equivalent of Area 51, it got spun around the world that a “respected Scottish newspaper” (well, that narrows it down) had lent credence to a theory about alien aircraft. I seem to remember that the piece began with an atmospheric portrait of sheep innocently nibbling grass on a verge beside the sinister base. In terms of facts, it was all downhill after that.

Indeed, since then, I’ve learned the hard way that newspapers are not the best places for irony, particularly since the internut opened the audience up to all and, in some cases, sundry.

The truth about working in newspapers, and checking this out and that out, is that you soon learn the world runs on the basis of cock-up rather than conspiracy.

Even folk whose job description might include “conspiring” never seem that bad when you confront them. I had to phone the CIA up once about a story, and they were perfectly pleasant and helpful. Same with the freemasons. Indeed, you could hardly blame the latter for thinking the world conspires against them.

The sad fact is the world is a lot less exciting than some folk think it is. It’s the same with ooter space. There’s nothing oot there. Just … space.

But a good conspiracy adds a frisson of drama to life. In billing yourself as the exposer of conspiracies, you become the hero, standing alone (apart from your mother) against sinister forces that are so clever they even plant articles in magazines claiming that there are no conspiracies. Uh-oh, irony again. There’s going to be trouble.

There’s nothing new in this either. I heard a rather sad radio programme recently about Marie Antoinette, who was a victim of conspiracy theories circulated in pamphlets written by nutters. Often, these contained lewd and libidinous allegations, which are always guaranteed to fire up the torch-bearing mob.

Apparently, while she did spend quite a few francs on frocks, Marie Antoinette never mentioned anything about eating bakery products and was, in reality, rather a tender-hearted person. It’s awful to think of folk going to the guillotine on the basis of a load of bilge.

Readers, at stress-filled times like these, with normal life on hold and confinement tempting us to go doolally, it’s important that we keep our heads. Take comfort, too, from the fact that everything that goes in the world is one great cock-up.

Keep it real

TALKING of cock-ups, it’s heartening to learn that the Westminster parliament could soon resume and make everything all right.

Under current conditions, proceedings will be conducted virtually, doubtless with MPs shown in their houses besides shelves of books that they’ve never read (just like mine). The Speaker of the House has said that, in future, votes might be held this way.

Indeed, like many aspects of life post-corona, this way of working might catch on. It’s always seemed unfair that MPs from all the airts and pairts, particularly the Scottish islands, have such long journeys to make to the Mother of Ps.

That said, working virtually, they won’t be able to use the Commons restaurants or bars. This week, we learned that, in the six months between October 2018 and March 2019, MPs got through nearly £1 million in booze and snacks.

To my mind, this was money well spent, unlike the nearly £800 wasted on alcohol-free beer.

So, savings will be made from operating virtually. However, you suspect that, working remotely, MPs wouldn’t really be in control of matters. And, crucially, for democracy, they wouldn’t be able to heckle.

So, abnormal service is bound to resume when this wretched viral business is over.

The “virtual reality” revolution hasn’t amounted to a hill of beans anyway. Remember these pictures of folk with big helmets on their heids, away in a world of their own?

I’d hoped to be able to escape to Middle Earth but, even if they create that, it’ll be all flat, two-dimensional landscapes, like in computer games, the popularity of which baffles me.

Nope, the sad fact is that reality is where it’s at, folks.

Born again budd

WITH all that’s going on in the world, you’ll want to know the latest about my buddleia.

Last week, you’ll recall, I castigated myself for being so bad at gardening. I will be quite candid with you here and confess that friends often give me a hard time generally for being so self-deprecating. That’s me: always boasting about how self-deprecating I am. Mind you, I’ve got a lot to be self-deprecating about.

But back to the buddleia. As reported here exclusively, it died when I transplanted it. Well, this news just in: it came back to life. And at Easter time too!

I don’t get it. I watered it heavily. No use. Then there was a heavy and sustained downpour of rain, and it revived. Does it need the pitter-patter to break up the soil or something?

Anyway, since then, it wilts and revives periodically, but I think it’ll make it.

There must be a moral in this tale somewhere. Never give up, or some bilge like that. Or perhaps: if you feel yourself starting to wilt, pour a bucket of water over your head.

Carry on hoping

IN these disturbing times, we look for comfort. I’ve been finding mine in the past. Not in my life, which is a timeline of tedium, with occasional disastrous interludes. But in books and films, where everything is better.

Seeking a time when life was simpler, I fetched down Saturday Night and Sunday Morning by Alan Sillitoe, and also watched the film, loving the scenes of hundreds of men running out of factories at the end of the day, just like children from school.

Like you, I watched Carry On At Your Convenience. This was after I couldn’t stomach any more Scandinavian sadism in Wallander, nor for that matter its sad portrait of a middle-aged man, lonely after a series of failed relationships, who drinks too much and has prostate problems. So unlikely.

At night in bed, I listen to 1950s radio sci-fi, preferably American. I like the optimism, the assumption that everything is going to get better.

The two decades after World War Two were great for that. Maybe we’ll have two decades like that when this frightful palaver is over.

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