The Next Big Thing

I can’t for the life of me figure when morale was deeper in the dumper at my place of work than it is right now. One dozen contestants are waiting for the big draw that will curtail this penance and alter their existence forever, quite possibly in a positive direction. T’is 368 days since the move from the original old Indian burial ground to this new one in the shadow of the Ochil hills. The “Factory of Death” is what locals apparently call the site. Mainly because it seems that recent tenants have not enjoyed much in the way of success here. Shit happens to be sure and as the very fabric of the country crumbles, the only trajectory from here is surely up. A wee siesmic shoogle could be on the cards and to be honest I’m a little tired of the ongoing bumpy ride. Clocking the Labour Party broadcast on TV the other night just fermented the old dry boke another couple of notches. Not given to outbursts of requests for religious intervention, seldom has the expression “Lord help us” reverberated around my noggin like a bagatelle. Like a terrible facsimilie of the Prime Minister sketches from the vastly overrated Little Britain show, the debacle spilled like topsy into the nation’s living rooms but what’s the alternative? I’ll be hornswaggled if I know…