Think of a number

The 8,500 Tory Party members in Scotland stand at the top of the ‘you’re a pure riddy’ league

Graham Martin Posted by on November 11, 2011. Filed under Graham Martin,Opinion. Posted with the tags:, ,
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Think of a number

Count Von Count. Had a love of counting, arithmomania

Numbers, the little bastards, they’re everywhere.

Look at them, horrible jaggy things, devoid of grace. Grave markers and signifiers of decay.

(Dear Manic Street Preachers, there are at least two song titles in that last sentence – get busy).

I don’t get on well with numbers. I’ve never been able to count properly and they scare me. They’re basically shitty versions of words, except lovely words would never leave you stumped at stupid things like the seven times table.

But, like I say, they’re everywhere. On Radio 4, as I write this, they’re being used to illustrate the retreat of the flesh from capitalism’s screaming Death’s head.

They’re being wound like chains round the corpse of a country (Greece) which is about to be hung from the masts of the sinking ship as a warning to others.

(Dear desperate schoolboy poets, there are at least three tears and sperm-flecked goth ‘masterpieces’ in the above sentence. Get busy).

But, let’s engage. What have I learned from numbers this week?

I’ve discovered another way I can be quantified by them. A press release recently informed me that something like eight out of ten men are ‘secret’ hobbyists.

I, er, deleted it, so I’m unclear of the exact figures, which doesn’t matter because like all press release figures, they’re made up.

I’m not sure what the made up figures are for women, as the presser didn’t tell me that. Maybe they haven’t got round to making them up yet.

Anyway, I’m one of those eight in ten. Yeah, just like in the UB40 song. If it was about people who collect Victorian bottles.

Which it isn’t. But that’s one of mine. Collecting Victorian glass bottles. Sexy, eh? And note I said ‘one’ of them, because there are others and there have been more.

Books about birds, I collect them. Records as well. Loads of them. Doctor Who novels. I started that one again after donating, in what was frankly a fit of madness, my entire collection to a fund raising Anti-Poll Tax Federation stall in Motherwell in 1990. Got a fiver for them. I still can’t sleep sometimes because of this and I’m not entirely sure what my sacrifice actually did to bring down the tax. Stop laughing, this is painful stuff.

This is completely true – once, when I was about 10, I decided to collect shop price stickers. I started my collection on holiday in Arran. There aren’t that many shops in Arran, but there was a Spar. So at the end of it, I had half a page of an old school jotter filled with price tickets, but with DIFFERENT PRICES ON THEM. I kept the doublers in the insane hope I would meet another Spar price ticket collector and we could do swapsies.

On my phone there exists my collection of ‘amusing’ signs. If you see a speccy chap loitering around the fish counter in Asda surreptitiously taking pictures of the ‘boned kippers’, that’ll be me. Walk on and don’t look at me. DON’T LOOK AT ME. Should you find me in a greengrocers’ later getting a shot of the ‘dirty carrots’ sign, punch me. Drop me to the ground right there amongst the plums. Should you be driving by and see me eyeing the ‘hot pies’ sign in Aulds, run me over. Though if you have one of those cars that says ‘BUM’ or ‘FUD’ on the reggy I’ll probably pass out with mirth before you can connect.

So, we’ve established that I must wear the garb of that very 21st century pariah, the loser.

And we’ll move on for a bit, because there are more numbers to consider.

The Scottish Tories have new leader. Did you follow the election race? It was ever so exciting. There was him, Murdo Furdowurdoson, the one that looks like an angry bag of Be-ro and who wanted to rebrand them as more Scottish. The Braveheart Falange Party, that was his big thing, wasn’t it. But he lost. And there was thingy, Doris Highlandclearances, the one whose selling point was that she’s not been sexually aroused since Rhodesia was a thing. I’d have voted for her. And the dashing Dr Furgus Wurgusburgus, the one who ate a live Hen Harrier at a Countryside Alliance rally because the Politically Correct Fascists said he shouldn’t.

In the end, somehow, a small, glazed bread roll won it.

Anyway, it was dead exciting, but what interested me more was, yes, the numbers. Horrible as they are, they can be instructive.

Apparently, there are something like 8,500 Tory party members in Scotland. Now, for years I’ve been ashamed to be a ‘secret’ hobbyist. It’s always seemed much more socially acceptable to bore people about ‘playing fives’ or cars or whatever than to show them your hilarious snap of the defaced ‘Kirkintilloch – Canal Capital of Scotland’ sign, but no more, because for once, the Tories have given me hope.

These 8,500 really should be ashamed of themselves, and they can take our place at the top of the ‘you’re a pure riddy’ league

So, thanks Tories. For once, solace in numbers, tranquillity in the tables.

(Dear Coldplay, there are at least… nah, actually, you can just fuck off. Get busy.)